If Only 2/10?
Title: If Only (2/10?)
Media: Fic
Rating: I'm sticking with R because I swear a lot and who knows ratings anymore. (The whole fic will be NC-17)
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine, a blink and you miss it Blaine/Sebastian and Kurt/OMC. Others might appear but this is mostly about Kurt/Blaine
Spoilers (if any): Mentions of anything that happened to Klaine up until the present
Word Count: 5,361 (this part), 11k (so far)
Summary: "Have you ever done something so terrible that you'd give anything in the world to put it right?"Author's Notes: There's a little bit of religious weirdness in this chapter. It's all on purpose. If it squicks you, I'm sorry. I'm going for metaphors here.
I am completely aware that the tenses are fucked up in this story and I honestly don't know how to fix them because it's really, really weird to write. This story has a mind of its own and I'm kind of just letting it write itself.
Thank you for any and all comments. You have no idea how much it makes me want to write more so I can get more attention. *attention whore*
AAAH! Klaineaddict noticed I mentioned their story and totally commented on mine! *fangirlin'*
Chapter One
Chapter Two
The instrumental opening to a familiar song is the first thing Blaine's aware of the next day. It's sudden and loud enough that he sits straight up in bed, startled, and begins clutching at his scalp as the hangover headache that would make your Nana's migraine feel like a mild nuisance begins.
They say we're young and we don't know.
We won't find out until we grow.
Eventually, his eyes blink open and scan his bedroom for the source of the noise. He tries not to focus on what a dump he lives in. He sleeps on a bare mattress, wrapped up in an old sleeping bag with a zipper that doesn't work. The fitted sheet that used to cover it is staple-gun'd over the window to keep the sunlight out. There are boxes full of stuff (books, knick-knacks, various keepsakes that are meant to fill shelves and make the place seem like a human with a heart lives there) that haven't seen the light of day since he packed them.
In the corner is his guitar, a Casio keyboard that sits on the floor because stands and chairs are for people who aren't complete failures, and two stacks of pizza boxes that are always wobbling precariously. Each stack is at least 25 tall. He knows he should do something about them, but it's turned into a game of which will happen first: Blaine giving in and suffering the embarrassment of taking 10 trips down to the furnace only for pizza boxes, or the police finding his corpse when the towers collapse on him and he starves to death as he's trapped under the refuse. He wishes he had a cat that would eat his body should the second scenario arise.
They say our love won't pay the rent
Before it's earned, our money's all been spent
It takes a few moments for Blaine's brain to start waking up enough for him to realize that his phone's where he left it, in the pocket of his jeans. He barely remembers taking them off before crawling into bed the night before. He untangles himself from the sleeping bag and crawled on his hands and knees over to pull the phone out. He doesn't have to look at the caller ID. He knows who it is.
It's his mother's ringtone.
Babe.
I got you, babe.
I got you, babe.
I got you, babe.
Every time he hears that song, he remembers a simpler time in his life. When he was little, he would proudly declare himself a Mama's Boy before he knew it was a bad thing. His parents divorced when he was two years old and had completely different ways of dealing with him. His father put him through the ringer for twelve days straight, would treat him like an adult and criticized his every move. It was his way of making a man out of his son.
His mother, meanwhile, just treated him. They'd spend every other weekend together where she'd act as if he never grew a day older than two. She always had a freezer full of ice cream. She'd sit him in her lap and comb out his curls after his bath. She'd sing him to sleep every night without fail. The expensive games and toys she'd give him on holidays always overshadowed the clothes from his father. He still clings desperately onto that time with her, where he'd dance on her feet and she'd sing the Cher lines while he sang Sonny's. He never wanted to leave when the weekend ended.
Up until the breakup, it made him smile every time she called. He'd hear their song and imagine himself dancing with her to it at his and Kurt's wedding. The melody made him feel like the clouds were parting in the sky to let the sun shine down on him.
Now, he wants to reprogram the phone so that every single ringtone is Beck's 'Loser.'
"Hi, Mama."
"Sweetheart! It's so good to hear your voice!"
It's the same thing she said the day before. She means well, but Blaine hears what she's actually saying. 'I'm so glad you answered the phone and didn't kill yourself over the fact that Kurt's married now.'
"I know. I'm glad to hear you, too." He scratches his stomach absent-mindedly and pads through the apartment in his boxers and a pair of tube socks. The socks have dislodged in the night and there's extra material dangling off his toes. "How are you?"
He doesn't really care, but that should keep her busy for a while. Their conversations are always the same. Blaine talks about how sad he is and she pretends to listen. She talks about the same things she always does: her quirky friends who she knits with, her opinions on politics, her friends on Facebook, and he pretends to listen. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that no one uses Facebook anymore.
Blaine could have this conversation in his sleep. He wants coffee more than he wants air right now and that's what he focuses on instead of playing the usual game of, 'I'm waiting for you to stop talking so I can talk about myself.'
He's rinsing out the pot, sniffing it to make sure it doesn't smell like mold which is his benchmark for 'clean enough,' when his mind wanders to the dream he'd had the night before. It was strange. Blaine's never really been the type to invent surreal, magical scenarios, even in his most alcohol-fueled stupors. His dreams usually consisted of the events of the day being reshuffled, or a lot of running... Getting away from a serial-killing clown or breaking someone out of prison or just a sense of urgency. Needing to get somewhere or away from somewhere fast.
He pulls a bag of sugar packets from the cupboard and grins in success that there's two pink packets left of sweet 'n low when he was sure he finished them off the day before. He's patting them against his leg, gathering all the sugar into the end as he turns to the fridge for milk.
It's a sort of mythical journey for the carton. He has to dig past left-over take out that is far too old to eat, a few stray cans of beer and practically-empty bottles of wine that have just enough left in them to hold onto but not enough for a full glass. He knows he should throw it all away, but he keeps that stuff in there for the sake of the fridge. He doesn't want it to be that stereotypical refrigerator that only has a box of baking soda and a bottle of mustard in it. Then its mother would have to call it up every day to make sure its baby hasn't offed itself in a fit of self-hate.
He's sniffing the carton of milk- checking the expiration date and trying to remember what the scent of 'still okay to ingest' is- when it all tumbles from his fingers. The white liquid bubbles out of the carton, puddling out and onto the floor and immediately dampening the pink packets of not-quite-sugar. Blaine can't stop staring at the door of the fridge. There, completely pristine and mocking him, is the wedding invitation. Kurt's name is there in bold, hand-written calligraphy.
"Fuck a duck! Hold on, Blaine! I just burned the-"
He finishes the sentence for her. "Fudge."
Blaine's mind starts working on overdrive, pain pulsing through the back of his skull as he tries to figure out a sensible reason for this. He remembers clearly tearing it into pieces. He knows he threw it in a trashcan with a lit match as he and David polished off the first bottle of scotch yesterday.
He holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder and rips the invitation off of the door as he stares at it. He flips it over in his hand, looking for any sign of tears or fire damage. "Do you ever have déjà vu, Mama?" It's a whisper and his hand's shaking as he realizes that there's two options: either he had the most vivid dream of his life where he'd already lived through this day already.
Or he didn't dream last night.
On the other end of the line, his mother is running water and he can hear pots and pans bumping into each other as she tries to save her fudge. She's distracted and not quite listening to him as she answers, "I don't think so, but I'm sure Martha Stewart has a recipe for it on her website."
"What day is it?"
She sighs, a long and sympathetic cooing sort of noise, and the sounds of her cooking stop. "Baby, you know what day it is."
Saturday. January 18th, 2018. D-Day.
"I have to go."
"Blaine, don't-" For the second time, two days in a row, this warning falls on deaf ears.
"Bye, Mama! Love you!"
He's out the door minutes later and running for the underground parking garage in unlaced boots, his dark brown and dirty leather jacket over a white undershirt with mustard stains on it, jeans that should be washed but they're dark so he's got a few weeks left in them, and the same socks and underwear that he slept in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The church in Brooklyn has a lot of people outside of it, milling around in their nice suits and fancy dresses. Unlike yesterday, Blaine takes his time to cover his face as he pulls around the building and parks behind it. He's optimistic and practically bouncing with hope and positivity because now he knows what not to do- or at least thinks he does- and he thinks it will all work out this time. It won't be like yesterday or today or whatever. He's got the home field advantage.
The point is not getting caught. He knows where Puck and Finn will be playing cards, so he takes an alternate route up the back stairway, through the choir balcony, and down the other set of stairs. He waits before turning the corner and entering the alcove in front of the restroom where he knows Kurt's at. Peeking around the corner, he pulls his head back immediately when he sees Burt there, talking to the priest just like he remembers. This time, Blaine's not going to have to ask where Kurt is and have everything fall apart. He's aware that his role as honorary son-in-law has been filled by the new guy, this Erik Sonofabitch or whatever his name is.
It's kind of exciting and Blaine feels like a spy as he's holding his breath, staying completely silent as he waits for Kurt's dad and the priest to walk away just far enough so that he can make a run for it. His cheeks hurt and it's all he can do to keep from laughing. It's all going to go right this time.
The priest claps Burt on the shoulder and they head out of the small alcove towards the main hall and Blaine bolts out of his hiding spot. He throws himself in the bathroom and there's a chorus of gasps from the people inside: Mercedes, Rachel, the girl who works at Starbucks with Kurt whose name doesn't fucking mean shit right now, and from Kurt himself.
"Ohmygod, he's out of his gourd." They make a wall in front of Kurt and Blaine just doesn't care. He's too busy staring at the beautiful man in the white tuxedo shirt, his bowtie dangling from his long neck, his hair pulled back by a headband, suit and pants hanging from a mirror in the corner. Kurt's half-dressed and getting ready for his goddamn wedding and Blaine just doesn't care.
"Rach, I'd love to have a nice long talk with you about how insane I actually probably am... but I'm not going to." He grabs two of the women by the arm and pulls, maneuvers behind them to push them out the door, but it's surprisingly hard to budge three women who are protecting their friend.
Mercedes is putting up the biggest fight, wrestling herself out of Blaine's grip and turning his wrist around to hold it behind his back. She shoves him against the wall and hisses, "Oh, HELL to the no. Get the fuck OUT of here, Blaine! This is exactly the reason I told you not to include the 'or forever hold your peace' part of the vows, Kurt! I just knew he was gonna pull this shi-"
The plan's kind of falling apart and Blaine could almost cry. Instead of easily shuffling the girls out of the small room, Blaine's shoulder is about to pop out of his socket and he's got three women all working together to get him out. He twists his head to look behind him and begs to his ex-boyfriend, "Kurt, please! Just let me talk to you!"
Kurt's back is to the scene, clutching onto the sink so hard that his knuckles are turning white, but he looks up and their eyes meet in the mirror. Blaine honestly doesn't know what to do, what the right words would be that could get Kurt to give in and let him have a chance to explain. So he just looks at Kurt with the large, desperate, over-acted puppy eyes that usually get him what he wants and, thankfully, their magic works one last time.
"Just give us a minute alone, okay, guys?"
"I know you're not thinking about actually pulling a Runaway Bride with the guy who CHEATED on you, Kurt Elizabeth Hu-"
Kurt's eyes widen comically with exasperation and he crosses his arms, "We're just going to talk, Rachel. You guys can stay right outside the door." The girls look at each other and seem to consider denying him his request before Kurt lets out a huff of breath. He gestures with his arm angrily at the small window in the wall that looks like it was painted shut decades ago. "He could say anything he wants, I'm not going to scurry out of a damn bathroom window in BROOKLYN in my underwear. Go!"
They mumble amongst each other- swear words and indignation and exclamations of shock that Kurt's actually giving Blaine a second of his time- but obey his request, gather their skirts up and exit the bathroom. Blaine locks the door behind them as Kurt takes a seat on one of the folding chairs. He's digging through a small black bag for something- he finds it, a bottle of aspirin- as Blaine grandly falls to a kneel in front of him. "Please, Kurt. You can't get married today."
Kurt pops the pills back into his mouth, swallows them dry, and stares down at Blaine's fingers digging into his knees. "Come on, Blaine. Get on with it. What's your excuse this time? Yesterday, he was a terrorist. The day before, a drug dealer. What do you think you're going to accomplish here?"
Shaking his head fast, Blaine's full of energy and the truth and it all comes tumbling out of his mouth. "Magic happened, Kurt! Actual honest-to-god magic! I lived this day already! I didn't even make it past your dad yesterday but here I am! I'm actually in front of you! And you know why? Because there are some guardian angel garbage men who think I'm worth it enough to give a second chance to!"
Kurt's eyebrow raises so high up that Blaine suddenly realizes that explaining magic might not have been the best tactic. He rips Blaine's hands off his knees as if his touch was burning him and hisses in his face, "Are you drunk or something?"
Dejected, Blaine rolls back onto his feet and stands up, pacing as he runs a hand over his scalp. "I wish. Drunk's more fun. Alright, alright, forget all that. He's not a terrorist, he's not a drug dealer, but you still can't marry him."
"Give me one good reason."
"Because I love you!"
Blaine finds himself spinning once again, Kurt's hand on his shoulder turning him around so fast that he almost loses his balance.
The punch was a little bit of a surprise.
It shouldn't have been. It had been floating between them, waiting to be acted on since St. Patrick's Day. Really it was the force behind it that was the most shocking. Just below his eye, above his cheekbone, it aches so hard that he knows it's going to bruise.
Kurt followed it up with a shove to Blaine's shoulders that knocked him back a foot or so. "You don't love ME. You love the idiot who used to tidy up behind you," Another shove. "Who licked your boots since high school," Another shove. "Who stayed up half the night listening to your pathetic delusions of grandeur!" Another shove. "Who you dumped for Sebastian, remember?"
One last shove that Blaine expects to push him back against the door, but it wasn't there to stop him. He goes sprawling onto the floor in the alcove and, above him, the priest stood there next to a Janitor with a large ring of keys. Behind them were Kurt's father, stepmother, stepbrother, and the rest of the wedding party. Including Erik.
Kurt grabbed his robe off of the back of his chair and pulled it on quickly, his cheeks flushing with anger and embarrassment at everyone seeing him in this state of undress. Blaine just laid there on his elbows, staring up at all the eyes that looked at him in different mixtures of anger and pity.
"Blaine, I'm not that idiot anymore. Thank god." He looked away, unable to stand the sight of Blaine, and his nervous hands pulled the headband off of his head and ruffled it with his fingernails to try and bring some order to it. "Just... get out."
Puck and Finn pulled him up onto his feet, one arm underneath each of his armpits as they started to drag him away. Blaine wasn't ready to give up that easily, though, so he started digging his heels into the floor and struggling ineffectually to get out of their arms. "Kurt! That was a mistake! The worst mistake I ever made in my whole life! I didn't mean it! I was stupid. I was immature. I was-"
"You're a fucking asshole!" Puck interjected and Blaine's head snapped to him with a look that implied how completely unhelpful the other man was being. It only lasted a second before he threw himself out of their grip and ran towards Kurt, his hands clutched together and begging.
"Yeah, okay, absolutely! I was a fucking asshole! Please! Just don't DO this! Please, Kurt!"
Erik finally stepped forward, putting a hand on Blaine's shoulder and holding him back. Blaine turned on him, his mouth turning into a twisted sneer of anger at the man who wanted to be Kurt's. He was as tall as Finn and as thin as Kurt and Blaine hated him so much that he found it hard to think he was imagining that the man's touch was actually burning his skin through the layers of clothing. His hands balled into fists at his side and he wanted to hit Erik, but refrained only because he knew that certainly wasn't going to help the situation at all.
Kurt threw his fiancé a grateful look for the rescue before turning sad, serious, slightly angry eyes onto Blaine. "I'm only going to say this once, Blaine Anderson. I'm going to marry Erik here today. And there's absolutely NOTHING you can do or say to stop me."
There was a finality to his words that caused Blaine to imagine a camera zooming through his clothes, his skin, showing his beating heart in graphic detail as it cracked in half. There were only 2 or 3 threads of sinew that kept it together.
Puck and Finn grabbed him again, this time helped by a few of Eric's groomsmen and dragged him out of the alcove. The girls surrounded Kurt, wrapped their arms around him and Blaine kicked, screamed, wailed, "Kurt, I've changed! I promise you, I've changed!"
Kurt turned around and went back into the bathroom, followed by the girls who were already cooing words of reassurance and insults about Blaine. The door shut behind them and didn't open again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You can't let him get to you, Kurt. He was just putting on a show."
"I know, Rach." Kurt squirted a dollop of cream into his hands, rubbed them together a little before spreading it into his face and neck as he stared in the mirror.
The oldest but most recently acquired member of his group of friends stood behind him and ran her fingers through his hair. She looked at him in his reflection as she said, "Look, I'm going to tell you something. I didn't tell you before because I didn't want to hurt you, but Blaine is the worst thing that ever happened to you. He's a full-on Monet."
"Lisa, you're talking about the man I spent six years of my life with. We were happy together... most of the time. It was just-" He can't meet her eyes anymore, so he stares at his hands instead. "I loved him too much."
She backed up, holding her hands in retreat and Mercedes looked up from where she sat in the corner, filing her nails. "Remember, baby, he was the one that dumped you for another man."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blaine laid back on the couch that came with his apartment, dangled his legs over the armrest and pillowed his head on a pile of laundry that was never going to get washed. David stood over him and carefully applied an expensive cut of steak over his eye, having declared that the more expensive it was, the more likely it would be to work.
While the day hadn't worked out the way Blaine had wanted, the beating he'd received seemed like less than yesterday's. There was definitely less kicking. Maybe it was because he'd seemed more pathetic, or because Kurt had publicly turned him down, or because Puck and Finn had been there, instead of just Erik's goons.
"It was a terrible mistake."
David shoved Blaine's legs off of the arm rest, causing half of the couch to now be available for seating so he plopped down next to his friend. "I'm not saying getting involved with Sebastian was a terrible mistake. What was a 'terrible mistake' was telling Kurt."
"At least I was honest." Blaine sat up, holding the steak on his eye as he put his feet up on the coffee table (read: unpacked boxes that he now used as surfaces to throw shit on).
"He's gone, dude. He's not coming back." David leaned forward and poured them each a glass of scotch. Blaine owned shot glasses, but this was just easier in the long run. They needed to drink a lot and fast and didn't need the effort of refilling shots. He pressed the glass into Blaine's hand and threw an arm over his shoulders. "Listen, it's not the end of the world. There's plenty more fish in the sea. Diana could set you up with this friend of hers from school. He's huge, a fucking football player, complete opposite of Kurt. It's just what you need."
Blaine drank the glass in three swallows and grabbed the bottle to replace what he drank. This speech is exactly as shitty as it was when he heard it the day before.
"We all make mistakes, Blaine. But we learn from them and we get over them. You can't dwell on the past for the rest of your life. It'll all be better tomorrow."
"Well, what if there is no tomorrow? There wasn't one today."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While certain events of the day kept repeating themselves- little sentences that inspire that feeling of deja vu all over again, David's girlfriend calling exactly at the moment where the doves fly during Face/Off, David saying 'gonna get my dick wet' as he left to get laid- some things don't happen.
He doesn't go to the piano bar. He doesn't wind up sprawled in the trash around 4 am. Instead, Blaine stumbles out of his apartment just long enough to buy a bottle of something and a six-pack of something else and plays sad breakup songs on his guitar until he very literally passes out on his mattress.
His dream is fucking weird, but not that difficult for even a psychology student to dissect. He's crucified, hanging from two nails on a cross with bleeding hands. It doesn't hurt and it's not exactly blood. It's only red wine pouring out from the wounds. He's crying and his tongue licks his lips to taste the tears. They're not salty. They're wine as well.
From this world of worried flesh, eyes look your last.
Arms, take your last embrace.
And lips... Oh, you, the doors of breath.
Seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain.
Mercedes, Rachel, Puck, Finn, Burt, and Erik are dancing around him. He's the maypole and they're each holding a ribbon. His eyes try to follow them and he starts to get dizzy.
Kurt's there and he's wrapped in a blue robe. He looks all too much like the Virgin Mary from the nativity plays he saw when he was too young to know he didn't want to be there. He's kneeling on the ground, hands over his eyes, and crying. Blaine knows it's him and knows he's crying more than sees it, because the hood of Kurt's robe covers his face.
Blaine tries to speak but his mouth is so dry that his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. He licks a few more tears, rolls the moisture around in his mouth and tries to place what type of wine it is before attempting words again.
"I'm dying for my sins, aren't I?"
The priest stands there, his head tilted as if he's studying Blaine, before he speaks to the people who are dancing. He's suddenly dressed in a weird combination of the priest robes and the attire of a ringleader for a circus performance. Grandly, the man raises a hand to point to Blaine and says, "The wretch! Concentered all in self!"
Erik isn't dancing anymore. Instead, he's there at Kurt's side, lifting him up from the ground into a hug. He rubs Kurt's back soothingly, and Blaine struggles to try to get off the cross but he can't. He closes his eyes and tries not to watch someone be with Kurt who isn't him. Erik whispers soothingly to Kurt and Blaine shouldn't be able to hear it, but his words are as loud as if Blaine were the one saying them. "The wretch, living, shall forfeit fair renown. And, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung."
Blaine struggles again, tries to turn away from the words, but now he's physically unable to keep his eyes closed. He looks down and the dancers continue wrapping him in ribbon joyfully.
Mercedes shouts, "Unwept!"
Burt is light on his feet, spinning around like he's a professional ballerina as he passes into Blaine's sight. His voice is steady and accusatory as he says, "Unhonored!"
Rachel ducks under Finn's ribbon, jumps over Puck's and yells, "And unsung!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day, Blaine wakes up in sheets and the smell of clean is unfamiliar to him. Rotten pizza, spilled beer, sweaty clothes, musty air, that's what his apartment should smell like.
It's also the first morning in months that his head doesn't feel like his skull's ripping apart at the seams.
He rolls over, groping at the floor for his jeans and the phone inside that will tell him the time. Blaine doesn't have an alarm clock; it's in one of the unpacked boxes. He expects that the floor will be six inches away. When it's not, he loses his balance and tumbles off the bed, knocking his head on the nightstand.
"Shit! Fuck!"
His hand slaps against his forehead, his palm pressing into the area where the pain is irradiating from in waves. He rubs it, hoping to soothe the injury as his eyes squint against the light of morning. The bedroom's a little familiar, but nothing really lines up for Blaine until a figure appears in the doorway.
Sebastian's completely naked, shamelessly so, and rubbing his hair with a towel. "You okay over there? If you need ice or something, there's some in the freezer." Blaine thinks Kurt would have gotten him an ice pack, would've held it to his head and cared that he was hurt. He hates Sebastian and actively looks away from him as the other man goes back into the bathroom.
The night before, he'd given up the fantasy that he'd been able to relive a day. He pushed the idea of happy endings and magic as far back into his mind as he can. So the only thing Blaine allows himself to think and vocalize is "No. Nonononono." He curls up there, cornered between the bed and the nightstand with his knees touching his chest. Every single molecule in his body wishes that he didn't do something fucked up like wind up back in this fucking New York penthouse all over again. Sebastian isn't what he wants. How drunk could he have been to wind up here again?
He panics for a moment over it and lets him mind fall into the familiar patterns of self-hate before realizing that he wants to run away, fast and far. The water's running in the bathroom and the manners drilled into his brain want to say goodbye or leave a note. They're quickly outvoted by his emotions screaming, 'Get out, get out, get out!' Quickly, Blaine crawls across the floor, gathering up his clothes and pulling them on like he could win a prize for speed-dressing.
He's nearly to the bedroom door when the mirror on the vanity catches his eye and his escape is delayed by the man he sees there. There's only a day's worth of stubble instead of months' and his hair's long enough to be curling at the ends. He doesn't have dark circles under his eyes. He looks healthy, fit, and it's a drastically different man from the last time he looked at his reflection.
With trembling fingers, Blaine touches the mirror, touches his hair, and touches the mirror again. The pause he's taken to stare at himself in shock is long enough for Sebastian to re-enter the room and sidle up behind him. He wraps his arms around Blaine's waist and presses a kiss to his neck. "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"
Blaine's throat tightens, throbs, gags, and he pushes Sebastian away. It's only a few steps to the window, a moment to rip the vertical blinds open and he can see the parade happening on the street below. "It's St. Patrick's Day!"
Sebastian's amused, leaning his bare ass against the dresser with crossed arms. He stares at Blaine's body, never meets his eyes, but nods. "Yes, it is. Congratulations on mastering calendars. Quite a feat."
The words 'I have to go' are on Blaine's lips, but he doesn't even care enough to say them. Instead he runs out of the bedroom, grabs his jacket from the coatrack and slams the door behind him. They're on the 30th floor, something Blaine wouldn't even remember if it hadn't been marked on a sign next to the elevator. He pushes the button rapidly, begging for the elevator to come but it's too slow.
So Blaine decides, "Fuck it," and runs down the hall to the staircase. He takes them two at a time, slides on the landing and almost twists his ankle. Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades, so he quickly recovers and continues his run.
It's a do-over. A second chance. Or is it a third now? Doesn't matter. He won't fuck up this time. He'll get home to Kurt and it'll all be better. He'll be happy again.
To Be Continued...
Erik Sonofabitch played by Matthew Gray Gubler:
