If You Seek Amy Tonight [6/?]
Title: If You Seek Amy Tonight
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Blaine is eighteen and a virgin, only ever been kissed, but sex is always on his mind and with an exhibitionism streak a mile wide, he finds himself with a blog and a lot of admirers, one of which becomes less anonymous the more he sees - a GKM fill for this prompt.
Word Count: 2,888 (for this part)
Disclaimer: I own nada.
Warnings: Exhibitionism.
A/N: This chapter has been in my head since I first saw this prompt and it was always going to happen this way. It's just everything else around it I had to work out, and even that stuff is still changing.
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Blaine goes to the gym.
His mind’s a bit fuzzy and he hasn’t left the house all summer except to pick Cooper up from the airport and to sit out in the garden and read in the sun so he slings his backpack over his shoulder (filled with a change of clothes, a towel and his hair products) and throws a goodbye over his shoulder before stepping out into the morning warmth, the front door clicking shut behind him.
Starting in sophomore year, he would to go to the gym at school everyday (after hours of course - the emptier the place, the better) to dart around the punching bag and savour the feeling of anger trickling out through the sweat dampening his skin. It was a coping mechanism really. If he didn’t punch at the hard surface of the bag and shuffle his feet around the floor, legs in constant movement and breathing quick, harsh and rapid, he was certain his fist would collide with someone’s face, his feet and legs moving as they ran instead. No matter how much hitting one of the Neanderthal’s at school would’ve helped, just to see the shock on their face and to feel power for once, he thought it better to take everything out on the equipment which left no blood on his hands.
It worked for him too. He’d spend an hour or more (shorter if he was drained, longer if he was pissed off) after school punching out until his arms ached and he knew he’d be sore in the morning. He’d wake up and ignore that sensation though because despite the slow throb of his muscles throughout the day, he’d go again and keep himself from lashing out at a person and making his life more miserable than it was. If anything, he got fitter and the chubby faced gay freshman that was an easy target - so skinny, so small - was gone in place of muscles and compact definition which made a few back off a little and a couple leave him alone entirely after witnessing him throw punches one day, direct and brutal.
He didn’t become a threat to anyone, he was never going to have power or anything that looked remotely like respect, but the physical abuse stopped coming from those just following the lead. The jocks that were lower down the ladder kept to hurling verbal abuse instead of shoving because that privilege was left to the top dogs (and wild dogs they were in Blaine’s eyes - savages whose bark could be just as hard as their bite) and Blaine felt just a little smug because it meant he wasn’t as weak as they or he first thought.
For three years he kept going to the gym, keeping himself in shape and spending extra long on the weights (when he got to using them junior year) if he missed a day. He suspects his Mom knows why he’s gone today or at least has some idea he’s feeling out of sorts and needs fresh air and to blow off steam because she never questioned his daily use of the gym, only smiled and offered him a drink or a quick snack when he got home. She knew he had a hard time at school, she tried to help more than once by asking if she could do anything or talk to the faculty but Blaine turned her down knowing it was a useless battle they’d never win, and by now Blaine knows she must understand what the gym is to him - an escape, a reprieve and sometimes anger management.
It’s a long but nice walk to the gym he uses over summer and the holidays. It’s still in Lima, but quite a way across town, past his school and past another (which his Mom offered to transfer him to end of sophomore year) and he likes the time to himself to either plug in his iPod or to walk in silence, smiling and watching the kids that are out playing, remembering when he was young and nothing mattered except colouring inside the lines (although he had a habit of flouting that rule - even as a child he didn’t see the adventure in being normal).
He discovered the gym start of the Christmas holidays his junior year. He was still irate over the end of term ‘wreak havoc on the weak kids’ school tradition and his parents were busy fussing over the annual Christmas party and Cooper was away, not due to fly in until early morning on Christmas Eve, so he’d gone for a run, braving the December air in tracksuits and a t-shirt, and gone a little too far only to find himself outside a tire shop he’d used once or twice when his car was playing up.
The owner had seen him outside, hunched over and catching his breath, puffs of white air coming from his mouth, and eyed his hard set jaw and red face and asked if he’d wanted a drink or to take a seat. He did so with a grateful smile and a large swig of the offered bottle of water and left ten minutes later with the information that the man ran a small but clean and modern gym above the shop and he was welcome to use it for a cheap fee if he needed to.
He’d gone back three days later, bag slung over his shoulder much like it is now, and handed over a wad of money, enough to pay for two years of usage, and never looked back. The man hadn’t been quite right when he’d said small - there was plenty of space between the equipment and a window that took up one wall (tinted so it can only be seen out of, not in) made it seem bigger - but he’d been spot on with the clean and modern. It was as good, if not better, than his school gym. Everything was state of the art and worked perfectly and every user was friendly and didn’t bat an eyelid if they found out he was gay - that was the modern part Blaine really liked.
He’s on first name terms and pretty friendly with most of the regulars now, even if he only sees them during holidays or the rare evenings he jogs over and it strikes him as he walks through the tire shop and waves to let someone know he’s here that they’re the only physical people he knows that he could class as friends. A lot of them are mid twenties or going on mid thirties so they’re more casual acquaintances then friends and he may be closer and know more about the people on his blog than he does them. But he forgets the nuances and strange quirks of his life as he slips into the changing room (light with power showers and perfectly clean facilities) and puts his shorts and faded Beatles t-shirt on. When he comes back out, rolls his shoulders and sets to work on the punch bag in the far corner by the window, summer sun hitting the side of his face as he goes, he listens to the rhythmic thud of his fists and thinks.
He thinks about his blog and how it started, how different he is and how things have changed since two months ago. He thinks about Cooper and everything he’s said, especially concerning his infatuation with ‘highinthemiddle.’
Once Cooper had left his room three days ago he’d felt fine and had messaged the boy back, the conversation continuing over the next couple of days. They’d discussed the intricacies of relationships, the balance of love against lust and how much you can know or want to know a person. Every word the boy had said had simply drawn Blaine deeper and left him floating in a happy haze (something he hadn’t experienced for a while, so he savored it).
As he punches out - right, left, double right - he considers Cooper’s concerns again. He never wants to dismiss anything Cooper says, he trusts his brother implicitly, so he runs over their conversation, remembers the sound of Cooper’s voice, worried and defeated, and the deep knit of his brow. He knows what Cooper’s scared of and it crosses his own mind every now and then that he’s clinging too hard to this… thing he has with this boy and soon it could all crumble and become nothing, leaving him down by one person who understands him, another person who’s let him down and doesn’t wish to know him.
But he feels safe when he speaks to the boy. He’s told him his fantasies and some secrets, they’ve seen each other’s bodies at their most vulnerable (albeit through a computer screen) and there’s so much common ground between them over being gay teenagers, romantics, exhibitionists and lonely but for one or two they let in that he can’t feel anything other than sure and himself when they speak.
He hasn’t brought up how he feels with the boy yet, though he suspects he knows. Blaine’s never been one for subtlety and while it’s been a weakness in the past (his sense of fashion and love of musicals outed him at school) it’s not done any harm here. If the boy does know how deep into this Blaine is, how much he just wants, then he’s said nothing and when Blaine gets a hint of returned affections, he does the same - says nothing.
Their silent understanding works for them and while Blaine is itching to say meet me, give me your number, tell me your name, just give me something, he doesn’t want to shatter the wall of their computer screens that sits between them and break the peace and good thing they have. He wants to know the boys name and know everything about him but he still worries that going from nameless and faceless to no anonymity at all will ruin everything, make it all the more real and little more scary. He likes the mystery they have and they way they seem to dance around each other and put it off - it’s like something fun in the mix of everything serious they discuss and Blaine doesn’t know if taking the secret away would be a relief or make everything plain boring.
He keeps punching.
The ache in his arms seems to dull that headache that is yet again pressing in from all sides. He’s starting to tire of the constant tension in his head but he knows if he doesn’t think about all of this - the blog, the boy, Cooper’s impending New York talk which is yet to happen or be mentioned - he’ll have a full blown migraine and a very much less than sunny disposition for the following few days.
He keeps punching. For at least an hour, maybe more. No one bothers him as he goes and if anyone does say a quick hello or pat him on the shoulder as they pass, he grunts a reply or flashes them a quick grin (that he hopes doesn’t look menacing or more like grimace). He’s glad he found this place because it’s like a haven for him during the holidays if he’s stressed and as he finishes up and lifts the bottom of his vest up to wipe at the sweat on his forehead, swatting out when Jay (another regular user he’s come to know quite well) slaps at his stomach on his way by, he has to smile at how much lighter he feels. He misses that surge of accomplishment when he can’t work out everyday so he lets it run through him and settle deep as he slips back into the changing room and flops down on a bench to catch his breath.
He stares at the ceiling for a good five minutes, his head tilted back and blinking slow and steady until his hearts stopped pounding and his sweats cooled to a damp moisture. He blindly grabs for his towel and swipes it over his face, rubbing extra hard at his temples where he’s aching and dropping his head back forward when he takes the towel away.
His breath catches in his throat as the towel drops and he actually chokes on air, muffling the sound in his towel and staring wide-eyed across the room in a panic.
He’s pretty sure he’s actually stuck to the bench with fear and confusion and couldn’t move if he wanted to. He’s not sure if he does want to move and he’s not sure of anything as he barely blinks as he watches the boy across the room in jeans and nothing else roll his neck and rummage through his bag, his back to Blaine but oh God Blaine knows who it is from just the small, pale pink scar about two inches long running diagonally down left from the middle of his spine.
He’s seen that scar in black and white and sepia and colour, enlarged and bright on his computer screen while he shamelessly adores every muscle and curve of the boy it belongs to. He’s imagined running his tongue over it to see if it’s flat to the skin or forms a ridge, to see if it tastes different to the other skin, to see if it would make it’s owner squirm and before he can even stop himself or pretend to entertain the idea that that isn’t who he thinks it is, he blurts, “Highinthemiddle,” in a rush of air, then claps a hand over his mouth and he thinks he might be hyperventilating.
It only gets worse when the boy freezes and straightens up and Blaine thinks that in another situation he might be getting hard watching the shift of muscles in his back and seeing in real life the delicate curve of his torso as it dips into a small waist but right now he’s too mortified and red in the face for any blood to disappear down south. He waits in horrified, anxious silence and squeaks quiet in his throat when the boy turns slowly and says, “Excuse me?” with an arch of his eyebrow and something like accusation and a little bewilderment in his voice.
And boy does he have a lovely voice. Blaine’s always suspected he’s had a lovely everything after poring over pictures of him for hours and it is definitely the same boy. He has the same broad shoulders and toned torso, barely there pecs and abdominals with just a little bit of soft around his belly button that Blaine wants to nuzzle and kiss at and lick over and now is not the time.
He doesn’t know what now is the time for because he can’t even find anything to say or do. He’s dropped his hand and is gaping ridiculously, trying so, so hard not to look away from the boys face. He’s seen it all before, seen below the waistband of those jeans, but now it’s here in front of him and he was so right to be frightened of breaking the barrier between the internet and real life because this is terrifying.
He wants to wreck the boy in front of him right now - curve his hands around that tiny waist and leave fingermarks, kiss across his collarbone and bite at his shoulders - and be wrecked by him. Having those thoughts in the privacy of his room and over the internet is entirely different from having them across from a boy he thinks he might be a little in love with, strange meeting aside.
Speaking of strange meeting, Blaine’s now dizzy with why here, why now in a gym above a tire shop in Ohio? He doesn’t understand how that can be a coincidence. It’s a one in a million chance the boy would be here, yet here he is and Blaine swears nothing has hinted that the boy lives nearby.
It’s there though, in the back of Blaine’s mind, nagging and biting at him until his breath picks up rapidly and he remembers the message that had Cooper worried. The one that didn’t really make much sense at the end but Blaine was too caught up and overwhelmed and busy explaining to pay attention. The one that said Does it matter which came first if I’m round at both ends and isn’t that how to throw Blaine off? Put something so important and breaking in a message where he’s bound to ignore it because everything before it is like Christmas come early.
He blinks up at the boy, swallows and tries to clear his throat but the lump is too big so that when he speaks he sounds cut off and far away. He says, “High in the middle, round at both ends,” and still manages to sound a little awed and the boy only frowns, says, “Excuse me?” again. Blaine somehow grits out the words again, says, “Ohio,” at the end and waits for recognition, some flash of something to let him know the boy sees him too.
Instead four simple words accompanied by a drawn brow and a tilt of a head (with such a pretty face on it) crash straight into Blaine’s chest with the force of a truck.
“Do I know you?”
Chapter Seven