So it's no surprise that when Blaine turns eighteen, an adult, and was expected to go out in the world to make something of himself - or just live off 'Family Money' just so long as he doesn't bother Anthony and Lisset (Blaine's parents)- that his personal account, separate and already obscene, was padded with a sizeable chunk of his parents quarterly assets and a brief phone call from his father's assistant to convey the man's well wishes. His mother, at least, makes some effort and places a call herself but doesn't stay on the line for more than ten minutes and the majority of that had been spent trying to convince Blaine that he'd be better off just taking over one of their penthouse properties in the city than trying to buy his own place outright; less waste of good money, she had laughed, and it kept it in the family.

Blaine tried very hard not to be resentful. He did love his parents, very much, and he knew that they held at least some affection for him. It was just hard to remember that when they insisted upon missing every important milestone in his life. Third grade spelling bees, he supposed, and maybe his first dance weren't all that important in the long run but senior prom had been. Graduation had been. And, now, his official venture into adulthood? That should have counted. It did count and for so much! And his parents couldn't be bothered to actually be around. Well, there was nothing for it. Blaine couldn't make his parents care, couldn't force them to realize their mistakes and that their son was just as important as that next multi-million dollar deal or the next fabulous trip to Cabo. What he could do, however, was spend their money and try to fill his life with things and people that could fill the hole they left when they left him behind.

The first thing Blaine did after his mother laughed a gentle, and possibly drunken, goodbye in his ear was throw his iPhone across the livingroom while he yelled several loud and unintelligible things at the ceiling. Neither did him much good, and he was pretty sure he'd have to visit the Apple store before the day was over, but he pretended that his little tantrum made him feel better instead of make him feel childish and disgusting. Then he chased after his phone and called Wes, followed by three-waying David in, to complain, and loudly, about his newfound fortune and absentee parents. Not surprisingly, they were unimpressed.

"Really, Anderson," Wes huffed, "Most teenagers in your position would be crowing at their luck and throwing a lavish and ill-advised party. Not you, of course, because you're just not normal."

David laughed unashamedly and added, "Yes, but we've known Blainey-boy wasn't normal since the sixth grade when he decided that Maddison Phillip's twin brother was, and I quote, the prettiest boy in all of New York."

"You're both horrible best friends. Why the hell haven't I washed my hands of you and found someone that's nice to me?"

"Probably because you know no one else would put up with your whiney rich boy problems like we do," David offered.

Wes, not to be left without a say, added seriously, "And because we've been your best friends since pre-school. We know you better than you know yourself which is slightly uncomfortable considering we're both straight and had the dubious honor of getting you through both your 'I'm GAY' panic attack when we were eleven and over your first real heartbreak at the beginning of freshman year when Foster decided that blow jobs were more important than the actual relationship and left you for the school slut."

It was very hard to argue with that and, truthfully, Blaine didn't care to. Sometimes he just needed to hear these things, to be reminded that there were people in his life that actually cared about him, Blaine Anderson, and not his or his parents' net worth. And if he was being completely honest with himself, which, despite what his prestige might allude, he tried to be the majority of the time, Blaine was grateful that both Wes and David stuck by his side through thick and thin rather than dropping his ass like he knows they might have entertained doing when he was in one of his fouler moods; Blaine had been such a shit when puberty hit and he figured out he liked dick more than boobs. Not that he ever liked boobs except in the aesthetic sense. And now he was thinking about his first boyfriend getting sucked off by Jody Fitsimmons.

"I just grossed myself out." Blaine made a face and a noise to accompany it. "You put the thought in my head and now I'm thinking about Jody's purple lipstick smeared all over Foster's junk." He shuddered and made the noise again. He was possibly going to be sick too.

"Oh, ew! Thanks, Blaine. Thanks for that. GOD." Wes groaned in his ear and made very convincing gagging noises into the receiver. David just laughed.

"Shut up. Both of you. It's your fault, Wes. You deserve to suffer like I'm suffering."

"I'll pay for therapy for the both of us, then."

There was a sigh, he's not sure from whom, and Blaine figured it was probably time to suck it up and at least pretend that he was mature. Except that he didn't feel all that mature when all he wanted was to go pull out a tube of Cherry Garcia and wallow in self-pity for the rest of the day. He still might but he wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

"Maybe," David piped up though his tone was more cautious than cheerful, as was usual. "Maybe it's better if you just do like your Mom said and move into the condo on the Upper East Side. My parent's have that penthouse on 5th and Wes totally owns that great two-floor studio from when he was doing the whole early enrollment to Columbia."

And if that wasn't leading then he didn't know what was, but he was willing to be led. Besides, living closer to his best friends had been something Blaine had wanted to do if only for the fact that they wouldn't need an excuse or chaperones to visit each other. Or, in Wes' case, a passport and an obscenly long flight from wherever it was his parents decided to vacation this month.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."