Untitled Ficlet
A/N: So ... this is my little On My Way response ficlet. About a month too late, I know, I know. There may be more of this, but I'm not sure yet. Just FYI, this isn't really my Blaine headcannon. There was just that stupid shot of him rubbing his thumb over his wrist, and I know a lot of people jumped on it, and I fought it for a while because I took it more as a "wow, I can't imagine what that would feel like" than a "shit, can people see my scar" sort of deal. But then this ficlet kept going, "fuck you and your reasonable headcannon, you're going to give into your love of angst and broken blaine and write me anyway."
As soon as Mr. Shue uttered those words Blaine was struck overwhelmingly by one simple thought.
He had forgotten to wear his watch.
It seemed like such a silly, inconsequential thing. An accessory. And not even one that makes or breaks an outfit. Something unseen, unnoticed, unfelt, unless you needed the time.
Or unless the watch served another purpose. A barrier. A reminder. A way to hide.
All Blaine could hear were Mr. Shue’s words.
“I just kept picturing my dad, so disappointed in me.”
But that was thing. Blaine didn’t have to picture it. He knew that look all too well.
Blaine’s thumb ghosted over the scar that was no longer even there, a gut motor reaction that he didn’t even catch until he felt eyes on him. Blaine glanced up; expecting to find Kurt, but saw Quinn instead, eyes narrowed, face unreadable.
He quickly tightened his hand over his wrist, stilling the ache inside for the repetitive motion. It felt like a spotlight had been turned on, a giant fluorescent billboard above his head with the word CUTTER written in crass, harshly glowing letters.
He knew that he was overreacting. There was no way to tell. When he first transferred to Dalton, his watch had been his life jacket. Hiding the red swollen line on his wrist, the line that he would painstakingly reopen night after night, scraping with scissors until the blood just started to bead, enough to quiet the anxiety in his chest, enough to stave off the panic attacks, but never enough to be dangerous.
It wasn’t like he was suicidal. He wasn’t sick. He was just tired. He couldn’t take the panic attacks anymore. He hated the feeling on not being able to breathe more than anything. Broken ribs all over again.
And the watch didn’t just hide the truth from others. When he tightened the band as far as it would go, the rubber would rub deliciously across the raw skin, transforming the sharp but fading pain of the scrape to a dull ache that could surround him for hours just by adding slight pressure to the band. A reminder that he was there. That he could feel.
And then time went on. He found Kurt. He lost the need to cut. It was like he always thought, he wasn’t sick. He was just tired. And in Kurt he found the distraction he needed. The panic attacks faded into the distance.
But he didn’t lose the need to wear the watch. It wasn’t that he needed to hide anymore. The scar had faded over time, the cuts never being deep enough to really damage.
He wasn’t sick. He never wanted to die, never even considered it. It wasn’t like that.
But he still wore the watch. When it was off, he found himself staring at his wrist during class, mesmerized by the play of blue veins under the skin. He would flex his wrist and let the skin wrinkle, a deep crease where he knew the phantom line to be.
And then there was the scratching. Bare skin out of the corner of his eye itched, itched incessantly, like a healing wound, though the skin formed smooth and unblemished months ago the itch remained.
He was pretty sure Kurt had noticed the scratching. He had seen him without his watch, multiple times. Blaine had gotten complacent. Let his guard down.
But Kurt still wasn’t seeing him now. A giant sign screaming over his head, and still the only one who seemed to notice was Quinn.
Shue asked them what they’re looking forward to. Blaine answered. Kurt smiled. The show face. The other barrier.
Blaine forced himself to let go of his wrist.
He didn’t need to feel attacked. This wasn’t about him. He would never kill himself. Just the thought made him feel faintly sick.
Deep breaths. Finish the circle. Be there for Kurt. Show face. Game face. Put on the watch.
And it worked. For a little while anyway.
As soon as Mr. Shue uttered those words Blaine was struck overwhelmingly by one simple thought.
He had forgotten to wear his watch.
It seemed like such a silly, inconsequential thing. An accessory. And not even one that makes or breaks an outfit. Something unseen, unnoticed, unfelt, unless you needed the time.
Or unless the watch served another purpose. A barrier. A reminder. A way to hide.
All Blaine could hear were Mr. Shue’s words.
“I just kept picturing my dad, so disappointed in me.”
But that was thing. Blaine didn’t have to picture it. He knew that look all too well.
Blaine’s thumb ghosted over the scar that was no longer even there, a gut motor reaction that he didn’t even catch until he felt eyes on him. Blaine glanced up; expecting to find Kurt, but saw Quinn instead, eyes narrowed, face unreadable.
He quickly tightened his hand over his wrist, stilling the ache inside for the repetitive motion. It felt like a spotlight had been turned on, a giant fluorescent billboard above his head with the word CUTTER written in crass, harshly glowing letters.
He knew that he was overreacting. There was no way to tell. When he first transferred to Dalton, his watch had been his life jacket. Hiding the red swollen line on his wrist, the line that he would painstakingly reopen night after night, scraping with scissors until the blood just started to bead, enough to quiet the anxiety in his chest, enough to stave off the panic attacks, but never enough to be dangerous.
It wasn’t like he was suicidal. He wasn’t sick. He was just tired. He couldn’t take the panic attacks anymore. He hated the feeling on not being able to breathe more than anything. Broken ribs all over again.
And the watch didn’t just hide the truth from others. When he tightened the band as far as it would go, the rubber would rub deliciously across the raw skin, transforming the sharp but fading pain of the scrape to a dull ache that could surround him for hours just by adding slight pressure to the band. A reminder that he was there. That he could feel.
And then time went on. He found Kurt. He lost the need to cut. It was like he always thought, he wasn’t sick. He was just tired. And in Kurt he found the distraction he needed. The panic attacks faded into the distance.
But he didn’t lose the need to wear the watch. It wasn’t that he needed to hide anymore. The scar had faded over time, the cuts never being deep enough to really damage.
He wasn’t sick. He never wanted to die, never even considered it. It wasn’t like that.
But he still wore the watch. When it was off, he found himself staring at his wrist during class, mesmerized by the play of blue veins under the skin. He would flex his wrist and let the skin wrinkle, a deep crease where he knew the phantom line to be.
And then there was the scratching. Bare skin out of the corner of his eye itched, itched incessantly, like a healing wound, though the skin formed smooth and unblemished months ago the itch remained.
He was pretty sure Kurt had noticed the scratching. He had seen him without his watch, multiple times. Blaine had gotten complacent. Let his guard down.
But Kurt still wasn’t seeing him now. A giant sign screaming over his head, and still the only one who seemed to notice was Quinn.
Shue asked them what they’re looking forward to. Blaine answered. Kurt smiled. The show face. The other barrier.
Blaine forced himself to let go of his wrist.
He didn’t need to feel attacked. This wasn’t about him. He would never kill himself. Just the thought made him feel faintly sick.
Deep breaths. Finish the circle. Be there for Kurt. Show face. Game face. Put on the watch.
And it worked. For a little while anyway.