She appreciated that he didn’t waste her time with feeble excuses but he sure as hell didn’t look ready to get it together. This one needed a healthy dose of tough love, and she believed in him enough to give it to him herself.
“Aw,” she said, lips gathering into a pout, mocking pity. “The novelty of the big city wearing off? You lonely? Homesick?“
It was tough on kids—she remembered her first months in New York, living off dreams, ramen noodles and weekly calls home. She’d pushed through it, throwing herself so deeply into her work that she couldn’t think about anything else. The sooner he learned to do the same, the better off he’d be.
Probably wrong of him to assume that an apology and a promise to not make excuses was going to get things back on track and let her give the students (all of them) her attention. Didn’t stop his heart from falling to the floor and taking his stomach along with it on the way down when she kept her focus right on him. So much for assuming. Everyone knows what ‘assume’ means in the first place. Right?
He could feel what guts he had left twist when she started to mock him. Deep down past the nerves he felt were sandpapering themselves against their own edges as they became undone, frustration and anger began to simmer. Hot, hotter… The back of his mouth tasted awful.
Blaine swallowed the flavor of adrenaline and bitterness that tone drug out from where it’d been buried deep. His hands swung behind his back and clasped together to keep themselves from fidgeting. “No. Nothing like that. As I said. Excuses. That’s all it’d be. Thank you for asking.”
Blaine bit his lip as he stared at his phone. Was Enzo, a guy he’d talked to a few times after finishing up playing for the night, downstairs? How did he know where he lived? He pinched the corner of his bottom lip tighter between his teeth debating what to do. Wanting answers more than anything else was what won out in the end and lead him downstairs. To the door. And coming face to face with a very confusing, and unnerving, puzzle thrown into his lap.
“Enzo? Hey! Hi. Um? Come in,” Blaine stepped back into the entrance of the apartment building. Befuddlement clearly written on his face and how he just sort of thumbed over his shoulder towards the staircase. “I live upstairs and the lady in number three hates it when people talk down here at night. Follow me?” Turning, he lead the singer towards the stairs making sure to keep only a step ahead. “Sorry. I didn’t expect company. How are you..?”
Christian couldn’t help the small rise of color in his cheeks when Blaine said this, cracking a small smile as he looked away bashfully. He then sighed and lowered his arms so he was looking at the mirror once more. He supposed he did look… rather pleasant on the eyes. The red of the vest mixed with the simple black and white of the rest of his ensemble stood out quite nicely. It had a bit of a poetic touch, he had to admit.
He stood slowly, looking around for his hat and placing it precariously on his head, pursing his lips as a determined little frown creased his brows.
“Well, I did promise you all I would help. I don’t go back on my promises.” Christian turned to look at Blaine and the rest of the Bohemians, smiling wide now as an air of confidence made him stand a little straighter. “Let’s go, shall we?”
“You are a good person. Thank you. For everything.” Reaching his hand up to palm over his smile, Blaine watched the boost of confidence blanket itself over Christian’s nerves and silently praised whoever was listening that their only hope felt better about the situation. Not that there wasn’t a backup plan already in the works.
“Ah? Not quite yet.. First they are going to want to–.” If he knew his friends, at any second there would be someone shouting–!! And (like clockwork!) there it was. Toulouse-Lautrec’s unmistakable voice shouting, ‘Absinthe!’ Followed by cacophony of cheers that nearly drowned out the last syllable. The bohemians never left home without drowning themselves in it.
Blaine only drank every now and then (tonight he figured one of them might need to keep a clearer head–maybe just a tiny bit) but his friends? They wasted no time gathering Christian up and introducing him to their precious muse in all her glory before they set out bound, determined, and filled to the brim with the hope of a bunch of starry-eyed, liquored up dreamers.
HE’S A LITTLE DUMBSTRUCK —- maybe because he has the initial instinct to eat his hair. ( was that as weird as it sounded in his head ?? probably. ) he nods after a moment. ❛ weird. quinn had some makeup that smells like peaches. i don’t get it. if you’re not supposed to eat it, why make it smell like that ? ❜
“I guess because it gets your attention more than perfumes or colognes? That’s what Kurt told me? Who knows? If you noticed chocolate right away? Guess whatever magazine he got that out of has a point?” That was the best answer Blaine could come up with. Poor Finn seemed to be really thinking this one over. He had to give him something to satisfy his curiosity before steam started coming out of his ears. “Peach scented makeup though? That’s something I never heard of.”
We are all capable of horrible, dark things. But we are all capable of moving, beautiful, wonderful things simultaneously.
Paper burned further up the length of Tate’s cigarette as he turned his attention towards the homeowners son ; He’d been lingering about, unseen, and he seemed kind-hearted. Maybe a bit naive in certain aspects, and that created a sense of sympathy within the haunt. The house that they shared was not for someone with either of those traits. Tate held his smoke at a distance, tapping his thumb against the filter to knock ash to the walkway ; Gray being blown from this nostrils all the while. “No, I uh —” didn’t have an explanation. So Tate just shrugged and smiled. “I live next door. You probably met my mom, she likes to greet all the new neighbors. Blond. Real southern accent. Mediocre baking skills.”
He used the railing to draw himself to his feet, meeting Blaine’s stepped with an outstretched hand. “Watch her, she likes to steal jewelry.” He glanced over towards his mother’s home, eyes casting over the window to see if she was creeping ; She’d always been a nosy bitch. “I’m Tate. It’s nice to meet you. How old are you?”
“I did. She was nice.” Blaine remembered the woman who came to say hello. Her accent stood out the most. With draw like the one that tinted her voice, it’d taken his attention off the piano he was playing when his mother let her in and lured him out to greet her. She seemed nice enough. Or maybe a little over-nice and very curious about what they were doing with the house. But he didn’t think for a second she was a thief. Did she wander off? He couldn’t remember. Still, he’d warn his mom about that later.
Side stepping past the cigarette smoke, Blaine climbed up the stairs and sat his bag down on the porch happy to have someone to talk to that seemed his age. Or close. Even though it was more than a little strange Tate was waiting for him when he came home from school, he’d brush it off as the other boy perhaps being a quirky as his mom. “I’m Blaine. It’s really nice to meet you too. You don’t look familiar from school..but..I’m still learning faces. Sorry. I’ll be sixteen in two months. How about you?”
( sms : blaine ) Sounds tempting. ( sms : blaine ) We are talking just as friends, right? ( sms : blaine ) Because I really wouldn’t want anyone to presume that this is us getting back together. ( sms : blaine ) I know how some of our friends can get invested. ( sms : blaine ) Or, I guess, my dad. Who I’m sure will, too, be happy to see you.
( mssg » kurt | sent ) Then that’s a yes? ( mssg » kurt | sent ) Sure, sure. Friends. Definitely. That’s what I meant.. ( mssg » kurt | sent ) Yeah, we wouldn’t want them thinking anything different. ( mssg » kurt | sent )
Especially Burt. He gets so invested in, you know, us. ( mssg » kurt | sent )
CONFUSION IS EVIDENT ON HIS FACE ———– ❛ is that—- is that smell your HAIR ? ❜ he’s not disgusted by any means ; kind of thrilled. ❛ it kinda smells like chocolate ! ❜ /
Finn wasn’t the only one CONFUSED. Blaine’s mouth opened to make a few mouthed attempts at words before finally stuttering, “Is that a trick question–or?” Until the smell was compared to chocolate. Laughter crinkled Blaine’s eyes at their edges. “Yeah, Finn. Guess it does. Christmas present from Kurt. I never thought my hair could smell like a Godiva store. Turns out? I was wrong.”
“Tomorrow?” His fingers lifted and wriggled toward the side of his head. “Starbucks.”
Christian made a soft noise in the back of his throat, nerves painfully obvious by how he fiddled with the brim of his hat. He shuffled over to the chair where the vest lay and eyed the piece of fabric like it had insulted his mother before picking it up and slipping it on.
He took one look at himself in the mirror and groaned, head falling back. “I look absolutely ridiculous!” he cried, slumping down in the chair that had previously held the vest he currently wore. “This is going to be a disaster.” It was muttered, his arms thrown up and covering his face so his voice was muffled.
“Satine will take one look at me and laugh me all the way out the door!”
Behind Blaine three other pairs of eyes were pleading with baited breath and hands formed in prayer for Christian to take the plunge and put it on. For all their sake! For the sake of their art and all their hard work. Blaine stood closest, chewing his bottom lip like a parent watching if their child was going to spit out their first taste of real food or not. Would he do it?
Please, please, please?! YES! Victory!
He had to hand it to the writer. His dramatic collapsing onto a chair act was truly a work of superbly encaptured flair. Christian looked too miserable to point that out, so he let it go and approached him. Blaine’s expression was one of complete sympathy and desperate warm pleading comfort. “One night. One chance. You’re handsome as ever, Christian.” Bending at the waist, careful fingers gave his cheeks a pinch then a gentle pat soothed the touch away before he stood back up and grinned. “She’s going to love you. I promise.”
It’s 2018.
// Pls stop whitewashing characters. I thought we were past this, Felicia? You are no longer included in the cul de sac BBQ.
pianokeysandbowties 