glee; white orchid, turned it blue
Title: White Orchid, Turned It Blue
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5000
Warnings: Sebastian not being the sweetest of petunias(? subjective tbh, I think he’s pretty S4-mellow), otherwise none
Characters/Pairings: Blaine + Sebastian main, ft. Tina and Blaine’s dad
Summary: Set after 'I Do' and before 'Girls (And Boys) On Film'. When you're feeling melancholic and like you want to sit and feel all sad coffee shop romcom montage, suddenly Sebastian Smythe is probably one of those life events you wish was just a montage, too.
Notes: This is basically the equivalent of dragging yourself over the finish line with two broken legs. After everyone's gone home. At four in the morning. I started this after 4x14 aired, but it should still be canon-compliant up to 4x17.
Title lifted from ‘Blue Orchid’ by The White Stripes.
All the graduates have packed up and left for their grander pastures already (with Coach Sylvester shouting something about eco-irresponsibility after them, no doubt), so Blaine has been left to mostly his own devices.
It's like crashing back to earth after spending a week floating among stars; it maybe feels strange to describe it that way, with Mr. Schuester moving between classes and glee with leaden paces, or with Finn having some other crisis that presses him back inside himself, but it's honest. Not sad, necessarily - he couldn't possibly be sad - but it doesn't quite feel right, all the same.
Tina's been sticking close to him all day as though she can feel it, too (and perhaps she can, although her and Mike had been politely distant at the reception and Blaine can't know for sure), distracting him from his wanderings in AP Psychology and telling him about the new game she's been playing at lunch when he spends too long unlocking and locking his phone again, squeezing his fingers around the cool metal edges. No new messages. No surprise.
“Thank you,” he tells her, pathetically, at the end of the day; she turns from her locker, a wrinkle of surprise crossing her expression. But he doesn't know what else to say, so he looks at the floor and back up again, thumb running paces over the worn leather strap of his satchel.
After a pause, she just laughs and shakes her head. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she says, her eyes glittering. She flicks his nose. “Text me later, okay? Save me from infinite boredom. My cousins are total monsters.”
“Of course.”
“Make it a promise, Mister Anderson,” Tina calls, laughing, already having closed her locker, and in a flash she's halfway down the hall and out the fire escape doors (which are open and used by all students in non-fire-escaping situations, apparently; public school, man).
The smile on Blaine's face fades a little as Tina's back disappears into the grey afternoon. She's out all weekend for some obligatory family event in Cincinatti, and usually Sam's attempts at cheering him up just make his chest twist all wrong, sharp against his ribs. It's just not - it doesn’t feel right. (Not now, anyway.) So he'll need to find a way to occupy himself.
That makes it sound a lot nicer than it should.
- - -
Blaine wakes up Saturday morning and nobody's home, the windows streaming pale sunlight into quiet corners. He sits up and it's easy to tell, even through the fuzz of ebbing sleep, that he's alone; there's no soft scratching or humming (if you believed - they put a man on the moon, man on the moon) from his father's office next door, and his bedroom door is ajar looking out onto the unlit hallway.
It is going to be a bright, frigid sort of Saturday. Guess he had better put some socks on before braving the bathroom tiles.
He left his cell in his coat, sick of looking at its silence, so it's only once he's dragged himself out of bed and slicked his hair into submission, first order of the day, that he works up the nerve to check.
No new messages, the screen tells him patiently. Blaine waits; he stares until the back light flicks off, and with a frown, puts it back in his coat pocket.
There is a note left for him though, post-it yellow on the kitchen table when Blaine pads his way downstairs, coffee on the brain: back by seven - dad. He's been taking to doing this, recently; leaving little reminders as to when he'll be home (I went to the store - out of milk. back soons and did you have a good night at your friend's? Your mom and I will be home late tonights), as though they're planning on doing something when they barely share more than pleasantries, these days.
Blaine finds himself staring at the stupid post-it for longer than is required at his father's cramped script, the feeling in his chest souring like old dessert. It's - he sets his jaw and brushes past the table, eyes fixating on the coffee machine (little gleaming-chrome saviour that it is), his forehead creasing into a frown.
God, he needs to get out of the house.
- - -
He puts the same coat on before leaving, still, his phone cold and quiet in the lining.
- - -
The Lima Bean is always on the uncomfortable side of warm; no matter how cold it may be outside, the cloying scent of burnt cookies and whatever coffee special it is today makes Blaine's eyes water as the glass door swings shut behind him. He smells gingerbread. He kind of hopes that's what it is, anyway; it's a gingerbread kind of day.
Gingerbread makes him think of Advent weekends spent constructing from-the-box gingerbread houses, his father hovering anxiously behind the breakfast bar and Cooper snaffling the candy cane decorations (architect fathers take your confectionery bricklaying skills very seriously; human trashcan big brothers less so). Blaine smiles at the memory, twisting the end of his scarf around his wrist as he waits for his name to be called, even though he's the only person waiting at the counter.
It's quiet here, too, but in the warm bubbling way that Blaine's house isn't.
There are a couple of other people sitting - two teenage girls in the squishy chairs at the back, having a very intense conversation that seems to constantly invoke the phrase 'two-faced', and a young man having a very serious staring contest with his latte - and the barista is drumming on the countertop with the tips of her nails, the apparently slow weekend showing in the glaze of her eyes. Blaine smiles to himself from his seat by the window, the soft hum of the coffee machine behind the counter and the flashes of people passing on the street keeping him in hushed company.
Really, as soon as he spotted that obnoxious quiff - he's had a haircut, Blaine thinks absently; good - sauntering up to the counter Blaine should have just gotten up and gone home again, differing quiets be damned, but that's hindsight for you.
“Sebastian,” Blaine greets, tipping his chin up at Sebastian as he moves to pass by. As much as he's not in the mood to deal with the Warblers and the whole sectionals debacle right now, it's only right to be courteous.
Not that Sebastian thinks so - he hisses a breath between his teeth at Blaine's half-pleasantry, his nose wrinkling mockingly as he pauses by Blaine's table. “That's cold, Anderson,” he says, his voice pressing back to that heavy arrogance he'd clutched at junior year. “Performance-enhancers aren't contagious, you know, even assuming I was stupid enough to let that block-headed needle fetishist stick me in the thigh. You're probably safe for a conversation.”
There's no navy-and-red in sight - Blaine supposes it's Saturday, but even so - and even though Sebastian's speaking to him in his usual heavy drawl, that familiar curl of his lip and tilt of his head still present, it feels a little different without the Dalton crest accompanying him. Jeans and a grey wool coat don't seem quite Sebastian enough for this conversation. (Maybe it's the lapels.)
They're getting strange looks from the barista. Blaine supposes he might look a little tense.
“What do you want me to say, exactly?” he asks. It takes a moment, but he meets Sebastian's level gaze, eyebrows raising.
“Hm, I don't know.” Sebastian frowns a little, touching a loose fist to his chin as though genuinely weighing the question. After a moment he plops himself on the seat across from Blaine, stretching himself out (too tall) so Blaine has to slide his own feet out of the way. “'How are you' might be a good start. Followed by 'are the Warblers still captained by a roid-raging sociopath' if you're feeling particularly curious today.”
Before Sebastian can open his mouth again to almost certainly answer the questions that nobody asked, Blaine interrupts. (Usually he wouldn’t, but -) “Can't say I'm really interested in the answers to either of those,” he says coolly, keeping Sebastian's even gaze, because he's not.
“Blaine -” there's a soft pause, and Sebastian breaks eye contact to glance at the table, inhaling before speaking. “Hear me out, okay?”
“What is it that's so important -” that - Blaine doesn't know. All he knows is that the knot in his chest is thicker, pressing against his ribs again, and he doesn't want to have this conversation or any kind of conversation, really, but there's not much of a choice in the matter. He presses his lips together and tips his head, motioning for Sebastian to continue.
Sebastian takes it, naturally, because God knows he would probably talk shit while lying on his deathbed. Through a vocoder if required. “Like I was saying,” he says pointedly, raising his eyebrows. (He looks ridiculous doing so.) “I - wanted to talk to you. Without any ulterior motives or Photoshopped pictures of your misfit glee club, pinky swear.”
Blaine bites the inside of his cheek, pulling back exactly what he shouldn't say. “Just talk?” he echoes instead, dragging the tips of his nails down the corrugated cardboard sheath over his coffee cup. They make faint indents on the white surface, and Blaine focuses on them until the lines start to blur. “What are you even doing here, anyway? Surely you'd rather be plotting to usurp the Warbler council throne, or something.”
“I like to ponder. Besides, the Warblers don't have a captain any more,” Sebastian replies, his grin making its wide, obnoxious appearance again. His words strike a familiar chord (and I'm tired of playing nice).
“Right.” Blaine rolls his eyes. He is at least four hundred percent certain that that is bullshit; if Hunter has been decommissioned or ritually sacrificed or whatever it is the Warblers do now, he would doubt that Sebastian wouldn't have been scrambling to assure his place again.
“Really. Not since the unspeakable Lance Armstrong incident. We're a total mess. Haven't side-stepped in time for weeks.”
“How awful.”
“Truly.”
Blaine finds himself smiling at the familiar curl of Sebastian's tone, against his better judgement. “So, you didn't -?”
“Obviously not,” Sebastian cuts in. He presses his hands into his pockets, shoulders seeming to shrink in on themselves, a little. “If I had, I'm pretty sure your prissy strop would have sent me into amphetamine homicidal mode already.”
“I think my move was justified, all things considered.”
Sebastian makes a noncommittal noise. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But like I said, new leaf.”
“You would have injected yourself with performance-enhancers before? Doesn't sound like the Sebastian I remember.”
“No, but trust me, if I had still been the Warbler overlord we would have crushed you sober,” Sebastian says, his mouth twitching before he continues. “Let's face facts, here. 'Gangnam Style'? Are you sure we were the only ones on drugs that week?”
“We were letting Finn take the lead on choosing the performances,” Blaine explains, trying to keep his expression neutral. Finn had meant well, and the performance had been really fun, but -
“Oh, Hudson? That sounds like a great tactic, letting the guy who can barely sing in key pick your setlist.”
Blaine raises his eyebrows. “Didn't you just say something about turning over a new leaf?”
“I'm still me, Blaine. I didn't have a lobotomy over the summer.”
That's a shame slips onto Blaine's tongue far quicker than it really should; he opens his mouth, but after a moment closes it again, pressing his lips into a flat line. Perhaps he needs to start forgiving people, too - it's the least that he can do, in this situation.
Sebastian is just looking at him, eyes darting between the floor and Blaine's face and anywhere else besides. His fingers are arched over the table, as though threatening to start drumming, halfway through the urge to fidget. They're really quite the pair.
“So, how are you, then?”
“Oh, we're being polite now?”
“You wanted to talk, so we're talking,” Blaine says, shrugging away the tightness in his shoulders. “... What happened to you guys, anyway? I haven't heard anything from Trent or anyone -”
“We sacrificed Hunter to Apollo in the hope that we'd be granted another soloist from the heavens,” Sebastian says, leaning back in his seat again. “Unfortunately none of the new transfers worked out. Scared off by all the backflipping and spontaneous neck growth, I imagine.”
“Sebastian.”
At that Sebastian just sighs and makes a face, like Blaine is being the obnoxious one here. “We're disqualified from competing next year, big deal,” he says, making a grand gesture with his hands to indicate that he really doesn't care, even with the disgruntled curl to his mouth. “Hardly the end of the world, since I'm not even going to be here.”
“I'd say I'm sorry to hear that, but...”
“I get it, Anderson, don't bother,” Sebastian shrugs, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table, crowding closer; Blaine pulls his cup back from where his hands have been curled around it, a little pressed for space all of a sudden. “But in all seriousness, what the hell's eating you?”
Blaine feels himself frowning. “What?”
“You're not pulling off the usual Snagglepuss haute couture today,” Sebastian makes a vague gesture towards Blaine's collar. “Clearly there's a disaster of Mount Saint Helen proportions erupting if you haven't co-ordinated your collar to your shoes.”
“Uh, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to co-ordinate handbags to your shoes.”
Sebastian looks at him, his eyes widening with the quirk of his eyebrows (yeah, whatever).
“We're not friends, Sebastian,” Blaine tries after a long moment, tugging his lower lip into his mouth and staring hard at the table, head tucking towards his body. “I don't really want to talk about this.”
“So it's to do with Kurt, right?” The inelegant snort that Sebastian makes surprises Blaine somewhat. “Don't pull your bemused woodland creature face, I saw the photo album on Facebook. Does your teacher have any adult friends?”
Blaine decides to not mention that that isn't even an original observation. “I don't have you added on Facebook.”
“I have some girls in your club on it. Kitty something?”
“Kitty -” Blaine presses his lips together. He's going to have to give her a pep talk about not engaging with the enemy or something. (It's probably listed in the Student Council President Handbook somewhere between 'what to do in the event of Nickelback being played over the PA system' and 'seven thousand reasons not to argue with Coach Sylvester'.) “Somehow, I'm not surprised.”
“Her Photoshop resumé is impressive.” Sebastian pauses; after a moment of odd pensivity, he wrinkles his nose and continues. “Regardless. Hummel. I've got to say, I didn't think rebound sex with your ex was really your style.”
Blaine corrects him without thinking - “It's not rebound sex,” and closes his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth. Too late. “It - it's not like that.”
“It's not like that,” Sebastian parrots back, and now the barista is giving them worried glances over the display case, Sebastian tipping his head back with an eyeroll so needlessly dramatic it could star in its own musical. “He still loves me, white picket fence, test tube babies. I don't remember the story going like that, you know -”
The tight flare in Blaine's chest knots up again, crawls along his ribs and into the pit of his stomach. “This is exactly why you'd be the last person I'd want to talk to about this.”
“Why? Because I'm actually likely to be honest with you?”
“No, it's because I don't need relationship advice from Sebastian Smythe,” Blaine sighs, wrinkling his nose. “If all you're going to do is - uh, actually, how do you even know?”
Sebastian looks at him incredulously. “We're in the oversharing information age, Blaine. Also, your cheerleading buddy clearly doesn't understand privacy settings.”
“I -” Blaine digs his fingers into his empty coffee cup, feels his jaw setting under his skin. “- So, what, is internet stalking me getting boring for you?”
“I just thought you should have a second opinion that's not from your creepy incestuous glee club,” Sebastian leans his forearms back on the table, shrugs his shoulders, but his posture only gets a little tighter for it. “Which is, I think you need to get the hell over it and start thinking for yourself.”
“I don't need to get over it.”
Sebastian appears to be resisting the urge to go cross-eyed. “Yeah, you do.”
“Oh, well, that's that then!” Blaine rolls his eyes in turn. “How could I have been so blind? You’ve shown me the light.”
“I'm being serious, here,” and Sebastian even makes the face to match, his head tipped forward, cool eyes regarding Blaine with something he can't help but return. “I'm not gonna lie and say 'personal experience', but I don't - playing booty call with your long-distance ex-boyfriend sounds like a scenario on a sex ed worksheet. How many Nicholas Sparks movie adaptations will Blaine have to sit through before he can leave his bedroom after his inevitable heartbreak? Explain in your own words.”
It's supposed to be funny, but Blaine just stares back, wary. When he speaks, his voice has crumpled somewhere in his throat, turned a little small. “I - I just don't understand why you seem to care so much. We haven't talked since you guys stole our Nationals trophy. We're not friends.”
“You've said.” Sebastian half-smiles, his expression softened and entirely foreign. He glances away, gives a quiet look to the floor before continuing. “I just feel obliged to -- tell you that you're too forgiving for your own good. And that you’re wasting your time with Kurt.”
“Why?”
“So I can call shotgun on the 'I told you so' conversation,” Sebastian says flippantly. “But also because indirectly ruining Hummel's sex life is such sweet satisfaction, of course.”
“You might want to rethink your 'new leaf' policy. It's clearly not going far enough.”
Sebastian laughs, the sound short and sharp. “My policy doesn't extend to lying about how your - shitty ex-boyfriend is probably fucking you over. In more ways than one, apparently.”
“Don't. He wouldn't do that, he's just -” Blaine pauses, pricklingly aware that Sebastian doesn't know the whole story and really doesn't need to. “- I know you think I'm being naïve, or stupid, but I know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t need your, uh, kind of offensive attempts at counselling, because this isn’t about you and whatever agenda you have. I - I’d just rather you let me handle myself.”
There's a long moment where Sebastian just looks at him looking back, his expression thoughtful; there's something there, something that makes Blaine break eye contact after a few seconds, but he isn't sure what.
“Alright. I get it, as much as I'm going to understand whatever goes on in that shiny little head of yours, but I'm just going to reiterate -” Sebastian draws a rectangle in the air with his fingers, which makes Blaine frown in bemusement, “- don't stick your dick in douchebag.”
Why is this Blaine's life. He sighs, heavily, leaning back in his seat to grasp at the strap of his satchel. “Wow, thank you so much for that, Sebastian. How about you start an agony aunt column to get out all that helpful advice you've clearly been - cultivating,” he says, standing up and putting his coat on with more force than is really required when buttoning outwear. “Because I'm not really interested, thank you.”
Sebastian's frown lines deepen, his lips pursing as though he's surprised. He opens his mouth to continue, but seems to think better of it. (Maybe Blaine looks imposing. It would be a second, for them.)
“I'll - I'll see you later, okay?”
It's not his best line. But he's set, his game face settling over his mouth and around his eyes like a pantomime mask, and all he feels is the hot whoosh of air up his back as the door to the Lima Bean swings shut behind him. He doesn't want to know if Sebastian is watching or not, and doesn't turn his head to look.
- - -
The time clicks past slowly, noisily; in the snappish reverb of the ornate analogue clock in the kitchen when Blaine dumps his keys in the salad bowl, or in the way his footsteps seem too large in the space, a rumble of thunder up the stairs and across the landing. It keeps a constant drumbeat in Blaine’s head, too, a nervous thrum in his skull somewhere as he sets his phone on his desk and does everything except look at it.
It’s still a quiet, useless thing, but Blaine doesn’t know what he’s even expecting any more. The coil in his chest that’s been icing over since a frigid night in New York City is still there, and sex and talking (soliloquising) and even all the illicitly gained wine coolers hadn’t thawed it out. (They had left the bottles under the bed, Kurt laughing in the way that makes his eyes crinkle up, and Blaine had suddenly remembered that it wasn’t really his laugh, not a secret shared between them any more. It had been sobering.)
He supposes that the situation is a little pathetic. He’d like to cradle his pride a little longer.
Once the sun has set there’s a rap on Blaine’s bedroom door as he pretends to be doing an AP Physics assignment. It clicks open only to have his father poke his head around the door, as he is wont to do. He always looks as though he’s interrupting something, even though Blaine is just sitting on the floor with his laptop and worksheets; he doesn’t come in, just hovers around the doorframe.
“The desk not working out for you?” his father says, a little wry smile appearing. He pushes the door open wider, fingers curled around the door knob. While he’s tall -- Cooper’s height having to come from somewhere -- he never quite seems to fill the spaces he occupies, any more. Blaine supposes that that’s what happens when you grow up.
“All my best ideas come to me on the floor,” Blaine shrugs, and leans back against the bed frame. “How was your day?”
“Fine, busy.” His father pauses to draw a glance around Blaine’s bedroom; his gaze lingers momentarily on the nightstand -- the one with the photo frames -- before he continues, expression setting into cautious neutral. “You have something to eat?”
He never asks the right questions. (But then, Blaine’s not always sure he wants him to.) “Yeah, I made stir fry. Nothing exciting.”
“... Good.”
They have the same kind of conversation most days. Blaine fidgets with his pen, rolling it between his fingers and ducking his head away from the heavy quiet that settles over them, because he’s never sure of what to say and never manages to get anything out.
On the desk, Blaine’s phone pulses into life, grating against the wood as it sidles towards the edge and drops unceremoniously to the floor. (He needs to quit putting it right at the edge, evidently.) Blaine doesn’t move to get it, instead glancing up at his father staring down in surprise, as though it’s interrupted some deep conversation.
“Ah, phone overboard,” his father’s mouth quirks up a little at his own joke, but he’s already pulling away from the door, turning his head to focus on other things. Easier, probably. “I’ll --”
“It’s -” Blaine starts, but his father has already waved his hand and has disappeared from the doorway, “- just a text, it’s fine,” he says to himself, raising his eyebrows. By this point, he’s sort of expecting it. He shuffles across the floor to pick his phone up, his stomach twisting at the unsaved number lighting the screen instead.
There hadn’t been any promises. He’s starting to get it, the prickling in his skin unpleasantly aware of his own lack of -- well, what?
It’s a hyperlink, postmarked with a rather curt: for your reluctant enlightenment.
If it is spam, it contains significantly less SEXY LADY HOT PUSSY XXX MOVIES buzzwords than usual. (According to Sam, Blaine is far too easily suckered in by shady internet schemes. He doesn’t even have AdBlocker installed, honestly!)
Blaine waits impatiently for his home wi-fi to kick up, and it’s just an Amazon listing for a book - It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken.
Blaine smiles though he doesn’t mean to, a disbelieving huff of a laugh escaping his mouth. Yes; he knows who that’s going to be, because God forbid Sebastian ever just give up on something once he’s set his stupid plans in motion. He pulls up the keyboard almost immediately, Physics sheets crumpling forgotten under the curl of his toes as he types: Your advice continues to be massively unhelpful, Sebastian. Thanks, but no thanks.
He’s not really expecting a response, maybe a link to an e-book titled ‘Your Ex-Boyfriend’s A Dick So Suck Mine Instead’ at best, but sure enough his phone buzzes again: You’re not asking me, you’re asking the book, Julia Roberts.
The odds of Sebastian having actually watched any Julia Roberts movies were already pretty low (if that was something you liked to think about, which Blaine did not), but that complete lack of rudimentary knowledge was kind of terrible. And hilarious, in the sort of way that you know isn’t even remotely funny but you find your smile coming out anyway.
I don’t think that’s how the plot of My Best Friend’s Wedding played out., Blaine sends back after a moment.
The response takes a couple of minutes: No. I mean Eat Pray Love. I’m Javier Bardem, naturally.
Blaine hasn’t actually seen Eat Pray Love, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t make sense either. Are you just googling Julia Roberts movies?
Ah, you’ve found me out. My intricate knowledge of Julia Roberts movies, all a tangled web of lies., he gets back, and Blaine laughs out loud. It’s a lot easier to deal with Sebastian’s flippance when he’s not physically there; he can mull the words over instead of feeling the pressure to react immediately, or without being looked at so strangely. It’s - easier.
He sends back That would explain your relationship advising skills. Take a romantic comedy with water three times daily. (I recommend Notting Hill to start.), putting his back against the end of the back and curling his knees to his chest, all pretenses of starting Physics work gone. (He’ll probably ask Tina if she has any better insight than he does on Monday, in their free. Teamwork!)
I think I’ll pass., Sebastian replies. I don’t take prescriptions from public school seniors who take Physics.
And I don’t take relationship advice from private school seniors who haven’t watched the entire romcom filmography of an Oscar-winning actress. We’re pretty similar in that way.
As he waits for a response, Blaine gives up on the floor and starts packing his Physics notes away to be puzzled over with a fresh mind later. He’s pulled out his laptop and is stretching out on his front on the bed as he waits for OS X to boot when his phone buzzes again: Ha. See, I prefer you single - your comebacks are almost witty enough to be considered ‘banter’.
Blaine raises his eyebrows. And to think that’s not even the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.
Sounds kind of sexy, Anderson. (And Blaine can almost feel Sebastian’s grin present in the words; slow and a little uncomfortable to look at, like a flickering light bulb.)
Not if you’ve actually met the cheerleading coach at McKinley, trust me.
I’ve made her acquaintance.
A match made in the darkest depths of Hell, probably. Blaine wrinkles his nose as he replies with: Let me guess, the trophy thing?
She was very... accommodating? Kept calling Hunter ‘Pussy Galore’.
Wow. That concerned question mark coming from Sebastian is kind of hilarious. (Clearly he’s not as smart as he thinks, if he was bested by Coach Sylvester.)
The keyboard pops up obediently on the screen as though impatient for his response, but Blaine's fingers pause over the letters. He can feel himself softening, the etch of a smile wearing into his face. He’s not sure about it, at all.
Instead he leaves it, closes the window and opens up his conversation with Tina instead. He really should have texted her this afternoon, Blaine realises, a little guiltily. But - well - clearly he had been somewhat preoccupied. And if she hasn’t texted him, then she probably hasn’t had as awful a day as she had feared.
Regardless, he sends her: Have you died yet? If so, call me.
Tina's response is almost immediate: if i had it would have been an improvement on the day!!, which means she’s probably going to send a longer message, because her family is kind of weird. (Almost as weird as Blaine’s, and that’s saying something. He has a brother who thinks credit rating commercials are ‘hitting the big time’, for God’s sake.)
As he’s waiting for that (or possibly a phone call) to appear so he can properly console Tina on her hatred of all of her similarly-aged relatives - he understands the well-meaning pain caused by ‘oh but you’re the same age, you’ll get on fine!’ all too well - his phone goes off with a text from Sebastian again.
You know we should really meet more often., it says, and Blaine raises his eyebrows. I haven’t had a conversation that doesn’t involve kitty kibble or amphetamine injection in months. It’s refreshing.
Well. There’s only really one answer Blaine can give for that.
I’ll think about it.
;) is all he gets back. (“I knew you’d say that.”)
(And if after he finishes his phone call with Tina, laughing over her colourful description, he re-saves Sebastian’s number, it’s got nothing to do with anyone else.)
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~5000
Warnings: Sebastian not being the sweetest of petunias(? subjective tbh, I think he’s pretty S4-mellow), otherwise none
Characters/Pairings: Blaine + Sebastian main, ft. Tina and Blaine’s dad
Summary: Set after 'I Do' and before 'Girls (And Boys) On Film'. When you're feeling melancholic and like you want to sit and feel all sad coffee shop romcom montage, suddenly Sebastian Smythe is probably one of those life events you wish was just a montage, too.
Notes: This is basically the equivalent of dragging yourself over the finish line with two broken legs. After everyone's gone home. At four in the morning. I started this after 4x14 aired, but it should still be canon-compliant up to 4x17.
Title lifted from ‘Blue Orchid’ by The White Stripes.
All the graduates have packed up and left for their grander pastures already (with Coach Sylvester shouting something about eco-irresponsibility after them, no doubt), so Blaine has been left to mostly his own devices.
It's like crashing back to earth after spending a week floating among stars; it maybe feels strange to describe it that way, with Mr. Schuester moving between classes and glee with leaden paces, or with Finn having some other crisis that presses him back inside himself, but it's honest. Not sad, necessarily - he couldn't possibly be sad - but it doesn't quite feel right, all the same.
Tina's been sticking close to him all day as though she can feel it, too (and perhaps she can, although her and Mike had been politely distant at the reception and Blaine can't know for sure), distracting him from his wanderings in AP Psychology and telling him about the new game she's been playing at lunch when he spends too long unlocking and locking his phone again, squeezing his fingers around the cool metal edges. No new messages. No surprise.
“Thank you,” he tells her, pathetically, at the end of the day; she turns from her locker, a wrinkle of surprise crossing her expression. But he doesn't know what else to say, so he looks at the floor and back up again, thumb running paces over the worn leather strap of his satchel.
After a pause, she just laughs and shakes her head. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she says, her eyes glittering. She flicks his nose. “Text me later, okay? Save me from infinite boredom. My cousins are total monsters.”
“Of course.”
“Make it a promise, Mister Anderson,” Tina calls, laughing, already having closed her locker, and in a flash she's halfway down the hall and out the fire escape doors (which are open and used by all students in non-fire-escaping situations, apparently; public school, man).
The smile on Blaine's face fades a little as Tina's back disappears into the grey afternoon. She's out all weekend for some obligatory family event in Cincinatti, and usually Sam's attempts at cheering him up just make his chest twist all wrong, sharp against his ribs. It's just not - it doesn’t feel right. (Not now, anyway.) So he'll need to find a way to occupy himself.
That makes it sound a lot nicer than it should.
- - -
Blaine wakes up Saturday morning and nobody's home, the windows streaming pale sunlight into quiet corners. He sits up and it's easy to tell, even through the fuzz of ebbing sleep, that he's alone; there's no soft scratching or humming (if you believed - they put a man on the moon, man on the moon) from his father's office next door, and his bedroom door is ajar looking out onto the unlit hallway.
It is going to be a bright, frigid sort of Saturday. Guess he had better put some socks on before braving the bathroom tiles.
He left his cell in his coat, sick of looking at its silence, so it's only once he's dragged himself out of bed and slicked his hair into submission, first order of the day, that he works up the nerve to check.
No new messages, the screen tells him patiently. Blaine waits; he stares until the back light flicks off, and with a frown, puts it back in his coat pocket.
There is a note left for him though, post-it yellow on the kitchen table when Blaine pads his way downstairs, coffee on the brain: back by seven - dad. He's been taking to doing this, recently; leaving little reminders as to when he'll be home (I went to the store - out of milk. back soons and did you have a good night at your friend's? Your mom and I will be home late tonights), as though they're planning on doing something when they barely share more than pleasantries, these days.
Blaine finds himself staring at the stupid post-it for longer than is required at his father's cramped script, the feeling in his chest souring like old dessert. It's - he sets his jaw and brushes past the table, eyes fixating on the coffee machine (little gleaming-chrome saviour that it is), his forehead creasing into a frown.
God, he needs to get out of the house.
- - -
He puts the same coat on before leaving, still, his phone cold and quiet in the lining.
- - -
The Lima Bean is always on the uncomfortable side of warm; no matter how cold it may be outside, the cloying scent of burnt cookies and whatever coffee special it is today makes Blaine's eyes water as the glass door swings shut behind him. He smells gingerbread. He kind of hopes that's what it is, anyway; it's a gingerbread kind of day.
Gingerbread makes him think of Advent weekends spent constructing from-the-box gingerbread houses, his father hovering anxiously behind the breakfast bar and Cooper snaffling the candy cane decorations (architect fathers take your confectionery bricklaying skills very seriously; human trashcan big brothers less so). Blaine smiles at the memory, twisting the end of his scarf around his wrist as he waits for his name to be called, even though he's the only person waiting at the counter.
It's quiet here, too, but in the warm bubbling way that Blaine's house isn't.
There are a couple of other people sitting - two teenage girls in the squishy chairs at the back, having a very intense conversation that seems to constantly invoke the phrase 'two-faced', and a young man having a very serious staring contest with his latte - and the barista is drumming on the countertop with the tips of her nails, the apparently slow weekend showing in the glaze of her eyes. Blaine smiles to himself from his seat by the window, the soft hum of the coffee machine behind the counter and the flashes of people passing on the street keeping him in hushed company.
Really, as soon as he spotted that obnoxious quiff - he's had a haircut, Blaine thinks absently; good - sauntering up to the counter Blaine should have just gotten up and gone home again, differing quiets be damned, but that's hindsight for you.
“Sebastian,” Blaine greets, tipping his chin up at Sebastian as he moves to pass by. As much as he's not in the mood to deal with the Warblers and the whole sectionals debacle right now, it's only right to be courteous.
Not that Sebastian thinks so - he hisses a breath between his teeth at Blaine's half-pleasantry, his nose wrinkling mockingly as he pauses by Blaine's table. “That's cold, Anderson,” he says, his voice pressing back to that heavy arrogance he'd clutched at junior year. “Performance-enhancers aren't contagious, you know, even assuming I was stupid enough to let that block-headed needle fetishist stick me in the thigh. You're probably safe for a conversation.”
There's no navy-and-red in sight - Blaine supposes it's Saturday, but even so - and even though Sebastian's speaking to him in his usual heavy drawl, that familiar curl of his lip and tilt of his head still present, it feels a little different without the Dalton crest accompanying him. Jeans and a grey wool coat don't seem quite Sebastian enough for this conversation. (Maybe it's the lapels.)
They're getting strange looks from the barista. Blaine supposes he might look a little tense.
“What do you want me to say, exactly?” he asks. It takes a moment, but he meets Sebastian's level gaze, eyebrows raising.
“Hm, I don't know.” Sebastian frowns a little, touching a loose fist to his chin as though genuinely weighing the question. After a moment he plops himself on the seat across from Blaine, stretching himself out (too tall) so Blaine has to slide his own feet out of the way. “'How are you' might be a good start. Followed by 'are the Warblers still captained by a roid-raging sociopath' if you're feeling particularly curious today.”
Before Sebastian can open his mouth again to almost certainly answer the questions that nobody asked, Blaine interrupts. (Usually he wouldn’t, but -) “Can't say I'm really interested in the answers to either of those,” he says coolly, keeping Sebastian's even gaze, because he's not.
“Blaine -” there's a soft pause, and Sebastian breaks eye contact to glance at the table, inhaling before speaking. “Hear me out, okay?”
“What is it that's so important -” that - Blaine doesn't know. All he knows is that the knot in his chest is thicker, pressing against his ribs again, and he doesn't want to have this conversation or any kind of conversation, really, but there's not much of a choice in the matter. He presses his lips together and tips his head, motioning for Sebastian to continue.
Sebastian takes it, naturally, because God knows he would probably talk shit while lying on his deathbed. Through a vocoder if required. “Like I was saying,” he says pointedly, raising his eyebrows. (He looks ridiculous doing so.) “I - wanted to talk to you. Without any ulterior motives or Photoshopped pictures of your misfit glee club, pinky swear.”
Blaine bites the inside of his cheek, pulling back exactly what he shouldn't say. “Just talk?” he echoes instead, dragging the tips of his nails down the corrugated cardboard sheath over his coffee cup. They make faint indents on the white surface, and Blaine focuses on them until the lines start to blur. “What are you even doing here, anyway? Surely you'd rather be plotting to usurp the Warbler council throne, or something.”
“I like to ponder. Besides, the Warblers don't have a captain any more,” Sebastian replies, his grin making its wide, obnoxious appearance again. His words strike a familiar chord (and I'm tired of playing nice).
“Right.” Blaine rolls his eyes. He is at least four hundred percent certain that that is bullshit; if Hunter has been decommissioned or ritually sacrificed or whatever it is the Warblers do now, he would doubt that Sebastian wouldn't have been scrambling to assure his place again.
“Really. Not since the unspeakable Lance Armstrong incident. We're a total mess. Haven't side-stepped in time for weeks.”
“How awful.”
“Truly.”
Blaine finds himself smiling at the familiar curl of Sebastian's tone, against his better judgement. “So, you didn't -?”
“Obviously not,” Sebastian cuts in. He presses his hands into his pockets, shoulders seeming to shrink in on themselves, a little. “If I had, I'm pretty sure your prissy strop would have sent me into amphetamine homicidal mode already.”
“I think my move was justified, all things considered.”
Sebastian makes a noncommittal noise. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But like I said, new leaf.”
“You would have injected yourself with performance-enhancers before? Doesn't sound like the Sebastian I remember.”
“No, but trust me, if I had still been the Warbler overlord we would have crushed you sober,” Sebastian says, his mouth twitching before he continues. “Let's face facts, here. 'Gangnam Style'? Are you sure we were the only ones on drugs that week?”
“We were letting Finn take the lead on choosing the performances,” Blaine explains, trying to keep his expression neutral. Finn had meant well, and the performance had been really fun, but -
“Oh, Hudson? That sounds like a great tactic, letting the guy who can barely sing in key pick your setlist.”
Blaine raises his eyebrows. “Didn't you just say something about turning over a new leaf?”
“I'm still me, Blaine. I didn't have a lobotomy over the summer.”
That's a shame slips onto Blaine's tongue far quicker than it really should; he opens his mouth, but after a moment closes it again, pressing his lips into a flat line. Perhaps he needs to start forgiving people, too - it's the least that he can do, in this situation.
Sebastian is just looking at him, eyes darting between the floor and Blaine's face and anywhere else besides. His fingers are arched over the table, as though threatening to start drumming, halfway through the urge to fidget. They're really quite the pair.
“So, how are you, then?”
“Oh, we're being polite now?”
“You wanted to talk, so we're talking,” Blaine says, shrugging away the tightness in his shoulders. “... What happened to you guys, anyway? I haven't heard anything from Trent or anyone -”
“We sacrificed Hunter to Apollo in the hope that we'd be granted another soloist from the heavens,” Sebastian says, leaning back in his seat again. “Unfortunately none of the new transfers worked out. Scared off by all the backflipping and spontaneous neck growth, I imagine.”
“Sebastian.”
At that Sebastian just sighs and makes a face, like Blaine is being the obnoxious one here. “We're disqualified from competing next year, big deal,” he says, making a grand gesture with his hands to indicate that he really doesn't care, even with the disgruntled curl to his mouth. “Hardly the end of the world, since I'm not even going to be here.”
“I'd say I'm sorry to hear that, but...”
“I get it, Anderson, don't bother,” Sebastian shrugs, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table, crowding closer; Blaine pulls his cup back from where his hands have been curled around it, a little pressed for space all of a sudden. “But in all seriousness, what the hell's eating you?”
Blaine feels himself frowning. “What?”
“You're not pulling off the usual Snagglepuss haute couture today,” Sebastian makes a vague gesture towards Blaine's collar. “Clearly there's a disaster of Mount Saint Helen proportions erupting if you haven't co-ordinated your collar to your shoes.”
“Uh, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to co-ordinate handbags to your shoes.”
Sebastian looks at him, his eyes widening with the quirk of his eyebrows (yeah, whatever).
“We're not friends, Sebastian,” Blaine tries after a long moment, tugging his lower lip into his mouth and staring hard at the table, head tucking towards his body. “I don't really want to talk about this.”
“So it's to do with Kurt, right?” The inelegant snort that Sebastian makes surprises Blaine somewhat. “Don't pull your bemused woodland creature face, I saw the photo album on Facebook. Does your teacher have any adult friends?”
Blaine decides to not mention that that isn't even an original observation. “I don't have you added on Facebook.”
“I have some girls in your club on it. Kitty something?”
“Kitty -” Blaine presses his lips together. He's going to have to give her a pep talk about not engaging with the enemy or something. (It's probably listed in the Student Council President Handbook somewhere between 'what to do in the event of Nickelback being played over the PA system' and 'seven thousand reasons not to argue with Coach Sylvester'.) “Somehow, I'm not surprised.”
“Her Photoshop resumé is impressive.” Sebastian pauses; after a moment of odd pensivity, he wrinkles his nose and continues. “Regardless. Hummel. I've got to say, I didn't think rebound sex with your ex was really your style.”
Blaine corrects him without thinking - “It's not rebound sex,” and closes his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth. Too late. “It - it's not like that.”
“It's not like that,” Sebastian parrots back, and now the barista is giving them worried glances over the display case, Sebastian tipping his head back with an eyeroll so needlessly dramatic it could star in its own musical. “He still loves me, white picket fence, test tube babies. I don't remember the story going like that, you know -”
The tight flare in Blaine's chest knots up again, crawls along his ribs and into the pit of his stomach. “This is exactly why you'd be the last person I'd want to talk to about this.”
“Why? Because I'm actually likely to be honest with you?”
“No, it's because I don't need relationship advice from Sebastian Smythe,” Blaine sighs, wrinkling his nose. “If all you're going to do is - uh, actually, how do you even know?”
Sebastian looks at him incredulously. “We're in the oversharing information age, Blaine. Also, your cheerleading buddy clearly doesn't understand privacy settings.”
“I -” Blaine digs his fingers into his empty coffee cup, feels his jaw setting under his skin. “- So, what, is internet stalking me getting boring for you?”
“I just thought you should have a second opinion that's not from your creepy incestuous glee club,” Sebastian leans his forearms back on the table, shrugs his shoulders, but his posture only gets a little tighter for it. “Which is, I think you need to get the hell over it and start thinking for yourself.”
“I don't need to get over it.”
Sebastian appears to be resisting the urge to go cross-eyed. “Yeah, you do.”
“Oh, well, that's that then!” Blaine rolls his eyes in turn. “How could I have been so blind? You’ve shown me the light.”
“I'm being serious, here,” and Sebastian even makes the face to match, his head tipped forward, cool eyes regarding Blaine with something he can't help but return. “I'm not gonna lie and say 'personal experience', but I don't - playing booty call with your long-distance ex-boyfriend sounds like a scenario on a sex ed worksheet. How many Nicholas Sparks movie adaptations will Blaine have to sit through before he can leave his bedroom after his inevitable heartbreak? Explain in your own words.”
It's supposed to be funny, but Blaine just stares back, wary. When he speaks, his voice has crumpled somewhere in his throat, turned a little small. “I - I just don't understand why you seem to care so much. We haven't talked since you guys stole our Nationals trophy. We're not friends.”
“You've said.” Sebastian half-smiles, his expression softened and entirely foreign. He glances away, gives a quiet look to the floor before continuing. “I just feel obliged to -- tell you that you're too forgiving for your own good. And that you’re wasting your time with Kurt.”
“Why?”
“So I can call shotgun on the 'I told you so' conversation,” Sebastian says flippantly. “But also because indirectly ruining Hummel's sex life is such sweet satisfaction, of course.”
“You might want to rethink your 'new leaf' policy. It's clearly not going far enough.”
Sebastian laughs, the sound short and sharp. “My policy doesn't extend to lying about how your - shitty ex-boyfriend is probably fucking you over. In more ways than one, apparently.”
“Don't. He wouldn't do that, he's just -” Blaine pauses, pricklingly aware that Sebastian doesn't know the whole story and really doesn't need to. “- I know you think I'm being naïve, or stupid, but I know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t need your, uh, kind of offensive attempts at counselling, because this isn’t about you and whatever agenda you have. I - I’d just rather you let me handle myself.”
There's a long moment where Sebastian just looks at him looking back, his expression thoughtful; there's something there, something that makes Blaine break eye contact after a few seconds, but he isn't sure what.
“Alright. I get it, as much as I'm going to understand whatever goes on in that shiny little head of yours, but I'm just going to reiterate -” Sebastian draws a rectangle in the air with his fingers, which makes Blaine frown in bemusement, “- don't stick your dick in douchebag.”
Why is this Blaine's life. He sighs, heavily, leaning back in his seat to grasp at the strap of his satchel. “Wow, thank you so much for that, Sebastian. How about you start an agony aunt column to get out all that helpful advice you've clearly been - cultivating,” he says, standing up and putting his coat on with more force than is really required when buttoning outwear. “Because I'm not really interested, thank you.”
Sebastian's frown lines deepen, his lips pursing as though he's surprised. He opens his mouth to continue, but seems to think better of it. (Maybe Blaine looks imposing. It would be a second, for them.)
“I'll - I'll see you later, okay?”
It's not his best line. But he's set, his game face settling over his mouth and around his eyes like a pantomime mask, and all he feels is the hot whoosh of air up his back as the door to the Lima Bean swings shut behind him. He doesn't want to know if Sebastian is watching or not, and doesn't turn his head to look.
- - -
The time clicks past slowly, noisily; in the snappish reverb of the ornate analogue clock in the kitchen when Blaine dumps his keys in the salad bowl, or in the way his footsteps seem too large in the space, a rumble of thunder up the stairs and across the landing. It keeps a constant drumbeat in Blaine’s head, too, a nervous thrum in his skull somewhere as he sets his phone on his desk and does everything except look at it.
It’s still a quiet, useless thing, but Blaine doesn’t know what he’s even expecting any more. The coil in his chest that’s been icing over since a frigid night in New York City is still there, and sex and talking (soliloquising) and even all the illicitly gained wine coolers hadn’t thawed it out. (They had left the bottles under the bed, Kurt laughing in the way that makes his eyes crinkle up, and Blaine had suddenly remembered that it wasn’t really his laugh, not a secret shared between them any more. It had been sobering.)
He supposes that the situation is a little pathetic. He’d like to cradle his pride a little longer.
Once the sun has set there’s a rap on Blaine’s bedroom door as he pretends to be doing an AP Physics assignment. It clicks open only to have his father poke his head around the door, as he is wont to do. He always looks as though he’s interrupting something, even though Blaine is just sitting on the floor with his laptop and worksheets; he doesn’t come in, just hovers around the doorframe.
“The desk not working out for you?” his father says, a little wry smile appearing. He pushes the door open wider, fingers curled around the door knob. While he’s tall -- Cooper’s height having to come from somewhere -- he never quite seems to fill the spaces he occupies, any more. Blaine supposes that that’s what happens when you grow up.
“All my best ideas come to me on the floor,” Blaine shrugs, and leans back against the bed frame. “How was your day?”
“Fine, busy.” His father pauses to draw a glance around Blaine’s bedroom; his gaze lingers momentarily on the nightstand -- the one with the photo frames -- before he continues, expression setting into cautious neutral. “You have something to eat?”
He never asks the right questions. (But then, Blaine’s not always sure he wants him to.) “Yeah, I made stir fry. Nothing exciting.”
“... Good.”
They have the same kind of conversation most days. Blaine fidgets with his pen, rolling it between his fingers and ducking his head away from the heavy quiet that settles over them, because he’s never sure of what to say and never manages to get anything out.
On the desk, Blaine’s phone pulses into life, grating against the wood as it sidles towards the edge and drops unceremoniously to the floor. (He needs to quit putting it right at the edge, evidently.) Blaine doesn’t move to get it, instead glancing up at his father staring down in surprise, as though it’s interrupted some deep conversation.
“Ah, phone overboard,” his father’s mouth quirks up a little at his own joke, but he’s already pulling away from the door, turning his head to focus on other things. Easier, probably. “I’ll --”
“It’s -” Blaine starts, but his father has already waved his hand and has disappeared from the doorway, “- just a text, it’s fine,” he says to himself, raising his eyebrows. By this point, he’s sort of expecting it. He shuffles across the floor to pick his phone up, his stomach twisting at the unsaved number lighting the screen instead.
There hadn’t been any promises. He’s starting to get it, the prickling in his skin unpleasantly aware of his own lack of -- well, what?
It’s a hyperlink, postmarked with a rather curt: for your reluctant enlightenment.
If it is spam, it contains significantly less SEXY LADY HOT PUSSY XXX MOVIES buzzwords than usual. (According to Sam, Blaine is far too easily suckered in by shady internet schemes. He doesn’t even have AdBlocker installed, honestly!)
Blaine waits impatiently for his home wi-fi to kick up, and it’s just an Amazon listing for a book - It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken.
Blaine smiles though he doesn’t mean to, a disbelieving huff of a laugh escaping his mouth. Yes; he knows who that’s going to be, because God forbid Sebastian ever just give up on something once he’s set his stupid plans in motion. He pulls up the keyboard almost immediately, Physics sheets crumpling forgotten under the curl of his toes as he types: Your advice continues to be massively unhelpful, Sebastian. Thanks, but no thanks.
He’s not really expecting a response, maybe a link to an e-book titled ‘Your Ex-Boyfriend’s A Dick So Suck Mine Instead’ at best, but sure enough his phone buzzes again: You’re not asking me, you’re asking the book, Julia Roberts.
The odds of Sebastian having actually watched any Julia Roberts movies were already pretty low (if that was something you liked to think about, which Blaine did not), but that complete lack of rudimentary knowledge was kind of terrible. And hilarious, in the sort of way that you know isn’t even remotely funny but you find your smile coming out anyway.
I don’t think that’s how the plot of My Best Friend’s Wedding played out., Blaine sends back after a moment.
The response takes a couple of minutes: No. I mean Eat Pray Love. I’m Javier Bardem, naturally.
Blaine hasn’t actually seen Eat Pray Love, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t make sense either. Are you just googling Julia Roberts movies?
Ah, you’ve found me out. My intricate knowledge of Julia Roberts movies, all a tangled web of lies., he gets back, and Blaine laughs out loud. It’s a lot easier to deal with Sebastian’s flippance when he’s not physically there; he can mull the words over instead of feeling the pressure to react immediately, or without being looked at so strangely. It’s - easier.
He sends back That would explain your relationship advising skills. Take a romantic comedy with water three times daily. (I recommend Notting Hill to start.), putting his back against the end of the back and curling his knees to his chest, all pretenses of starting Physics work gone. (He’ll probably ask Tina if she has any better insight than he does on Monday, in their free. Teamwork!)
I think I’ll pass., Sebastian replies. I don’t take prescriptions from public school seniors who take Physics.
And I don’t take relationship advice from private school seniors who haven’t watched the entire romcom filmography of an Oscar-winning actress. We’re pretty similar in that way.
As he waits for a response, Blaine gives up on the floor and starts packing his Physics notes away to be puzzled over with a fresh mind later. He’s pulled out his laptop and is stretching out on his front on the bed as he waits for OS X to boot when his phone buzzes again: Ha. See, I prefer you single - your comebacks are almost witty enough to be considered ‘banter’.
Blaine raises his eyebrows. And to think that’s not even the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.
Sounds kind of sexy, Anderson. (And Blaine can almost feel Sebastian’s grin present in the words; slow and a little uncomfortable to look at, like a flickering light bulb.)
Not if you’ve actually met the cheerleading coach at McKinley, trust me.
I’ve made her acquaintance.
A match made in the darkest depths of Hell, probably. Blaine wrinkles his nose as he replies with: Let me guess, the trophy thing?
She was very... accommodating? Kept calling Hunter ‘Pussy Galore’.
Wow. That concerned question mark coming from Sebastian is kind of hilarious. (Clearly he’s not as smart as he thinks, if he was bested by Coach Sylvester.)
The keyboard pops up obediently on the screen as though impatient for his response, but Blaine's fingers pause over the letters. He can feel himself softening, the etch of a smile wearing into his face. He’s not sure about it, at all.
Instead he leaves it, closes the window and opens up his conversation with Tina instead. He really should have texted her this afternoon, Blaine realises, a little guiltily. But - well - clearly he had been somewhat preoccupied. And if she hasn’t texted him, then she probably hasn’t had as awful a day as she had feared.
Regardless, he sends her: Have you died yet? If so, call me.
Tina's response is almost immediate: if i had it would have been an improvement on the day!!, which means she’s probably going to send a longer message, because her family is kind of weird. (Almost as weird as Blaine’s, and that’s saying something. He has a brother who thinks credit rating commercials are ‘hitting the big time’, for God’s sake.)
As he’s waiting for that (or possibly a phone call) to appear so he can properly console Tina on her hatred of all of her similarly-aged relatives - he understands the well-meaning pain caused by ‘oh but you’re the same age, you’ll get on fine!’ all too well - his phone goes off with a text from Sebastian again.
You know we should really meet more often., it says, and Blaine raises his eyebrows. I haven’t had a conversation that doesn’t involve kitty kibble or amphetamine injection in months. It’s refreshing.
Well. There’s only really one answer Blaine can give for that.
I’ll think about it.
;) is all he gets back. (“I knew you’d say that.”)
(And if after he finishes his phone call with Tina, laughing over her colourful description, he re-saves Sebastian’s number, it’s got nothing to do with anyone else.)