“Harrison, Harrison…and you’ll be staying in room seventy-four! If you have any enquiries, complaints, suggestions, anything like that, we’d appreciate if you could leave a note in the small box near the entrance. I’m Kurt, and if you’re not sure how to use something, or you simply get lost, feel free to come talk to me, although I’m sure a tech whiz like yourself will be fine. Enjoy your stay!”

Smile. Hand keys. Compliment.

Kurt often grew tired of the charade, but it was a good kind of tired; a kind of ache that was addictive in its own peculiar shape. The happy face wasn’t really a mask; it was just a face, a character, an emotion to wrap his head around until he could retreat to the small haven in which he resided, away from the bright lights, flashing cameras and swift action of the stage of Lakeside.

It was almost noon. Lunch service would be opening soon, and there were more people to serve than at any other time; there were people passing through, using the hotel as a rest stop for a few hours, as well as the more dedicated guests.

When the Andersons stepped into the polished, refined lobby of Lakeside, it somehow reminded Blaine a bit too much of Dalton to be comforting. His father stepped forward, checked them in, and hurried them up to their rooms to unpack; he couldn’t be kept waiting, obviously.

Making some excuse that he needed rest, Blaine had quickly picked up his bag and retreated to his room. A medium-sized bed was placed neatly in a corner, and there was a towel—two, actually—placed in a spiral-like shape on top; a small, compact black re-mote rested in a holder just beside the door.

A slight scent lingered around the room, mainly around the towels, that Blaine couldn’t quite place—eucalyptus, perhaps, with the slightest hint of vanilla scattered in random places.

“Blaine, dear? We’re just going for a quick look around the place, grab a bite to eat, see how long we’ll stay and all; the receptionist said dinner was at five, so make sure you’re ready. Don’t go outside.”

Blaine sighed, bringing a palm up to massage his temple. His mother was overbearing at the best of times, but on family vacations she watched over him and Coop like a hawk – like if she let them leave her sight for any less than a moment, they’d be gone.

“Yes, Mom. I’ll be there.”

He heard the door close with a quiet click, and that was that. He was sure that Cooper would be gone soon after his parents’ departure, and sure enough, about a minute later, his door opened to reveal his brother, dressed in a white polo, bootleg jeans and a smile that took up the whole bottom half of his face.

“Blaine! Buddy-“

“You can go, you know. I won’t tell.” Blaine almost winced at the sound of his voice, a monotone that made the ringing silence in his ears seem even louder.

Cooper almost looked astounded at his statement, the devilish grin fading into a tight line before crossing the room and kneeling before his brother, touching his shoulder gently until Blaine looked up.

Cooper’s eyes were a lighter brown than his, and his hair was combed roughly back into an un-gelled, product-free style than Blaine was sure he could never get away with, curls or not.

There was absolutely no reason for Cooper to stop, or to talk to Blaine at all sometimes, but he always did. Always gave an encouraging smile, or whispered a crude one-liner that Blaine would raise an eyebrow at—then promptly fall over, laughing—even though Blaine never really needed it at all.

But Cooper did; he needed to make sure Blaine was okay. So Blaine knew that the second they both heard the hollow, empty sound of his voice…Cooper wasn’t going anywhere. Not until Blaine stopped pretending he was okay.

“Hey, I heard they have room service. And some of those servers are pretty sore on the eyes.”

His tone was softer now, but still a bit playful. Sitting up next to him, Coop wrapped an arm around his shoulder and offered a warm smile.

“I say we skip lunch, order some of Lakeside’s finest sustenance, rent some Disney, and have a good-old fashioned Anderson brothers’ food rave! Whataya say?”

Blaine wanted to sigh, to go get the rest he said he’d needed, but one glance at his brother told Blaine there was no way that he could ever refuse him.

“Sure.”

Cooper’s answering fist pump was rewarding enough.

Letting a small smile creep onto his mouth, Blaine remembered just how much he loved his bother. Right now, Blaine could pretend that everything was perfect; that he was perfect.

***

“Hey, faggot.”

Blaine barely had time to register the insult before his shoulder went firmly colliding into the edge of a locker, his glasses falling onto the floor. Holding in a groan, he curled into himself while a group of boys, all remarkably tall, circled around his small frame.

“P-please, just-“

A sharp kick to his ribcage had Blaine sucking in a gasp, before kneeling towards the ground and feeling around for his glasses, trying to ignore the group. He suddenly heard an unmistakable crunch - almost inaudible amongst the chattering of the students around him.

They don’t care, he realized, I’m sitting here like a blind fucking dog and they don’t care.

Sure enough, it took at least another minute before the group left, still calling out remarks over their shoulders.

Eighth grade was already going to suck enough, but with the red flag of being outed two years earlier, it was like Blaine was walking around with a giant neon sign flashing clichéd, stereotypical comebacks every time he took a step.

Blaine didn’t want any attention. He just wanted to get through high school, just like everybody else. The night he came out, he had told himself that, just in his own head -especially after his father’s reaction. Being temporarily disowned was incentive enough to pull his head into line, and it was also enough to bring Cooper and his two years of police training into the mix.

Keep to yourself. You don’t need to do extremely well in school, or talk too loud, or have too many friends. You won’t anyway.

He didn’t even need to be perfect anymore.

Two weeks later, however, a young girl by the name of Quinn Fabray transferred to Westerville East High. Now, Quinn wasn’t the nicest of people by any means, but if there was one thing she hated, it was seeing people suffer unnecessarily. And big noses.

So, when Blaine had his third pair of glasses that month broken, she knew she had to try to do something.

So, she took his blind, groping hand, and introduced herself.

“Quinn Fabray.” Her voice was light and airy, and if Blaine hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was an angel.

Of course, angels were quite rare in Ohio.

He must’ve let that slip, because the next thing he heard was a soft, chiming-bells laugh that made his skin prickle.

“You want some wine with that cheese?”

“I-I’m gay!” he blurted out suddenly, eyes going almost comically wide at his statement.

Ohmygodyouidiot, his mind hissed, she’s going to run off and leave you here, why did you have to say that, you idiot-

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you, Blaine?” Her voice was drawn tight, like a pulled string, probably from refraining from laughter. Or anger. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He froze, looking up at the girl-Quinn, he corrected himself, before cautiously pulling himself up, one hand in Quinn’s gentle but firm grip, the other on the cool metal of the locker.

He stood, wobbling a little before adjusting to being upright with such a blurry vision, and turning to thank Quinn.

But she was gone.

After a quick stumble to his locker to find his spare pair of glasses, he found a small, square piece of paper nestled ever-so-neatly in his pocket.

Looking down, he immediately knew it wasn’t his own writing; it was cursive, for one, and it was much thinner, a smooth, ordered scratching of words on paper, a definite opposite to the blocky, thick print of his own handwriting.

The early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. See you in History, cupcake.

It was unsigned, and had no name, but Blaine hardly had to think about who it might’ve been from.

***

As it turns out, History wasn’t on his timetable until the end of the week, so Blaine was stuck in the seemingly unsolved mystery of Quinn Fabray for a grand total of three days. It seemed longer.

But, he supposed, it was worth it. The girl seemed nice. What harm could mindless chatter—in a class he was already sure to fail—do?

In person, Quinn was a bit tubby, but other than that, she was quite pretty. In the weeks they talked after that first meeting, though, she’d begun to lose noticeable weight, and her confidence had grown, too.

After two months of quiet smiles and inside jokes, Quinn had taken him to meet Sebastian.

Well, Sebastian was…different. He smiled and laughed along with appropriate jokes, and left when asked, and possessed the same eighteenth-century charm that Blaine vaguely grasped. But there was a lingering feeling about him, nothing you could really name, but it was still there. Lingering in the shadows, like that monster in the dark that disappears as soon as you turn on the light.

Around Sebastian, Quinn was different, too. She smiled less genuinely, laughed a little more nervously at jokes, and stayed as close to Blaine as she physically could when there was no one but the three of them in the room.

Blaine should’ve known there was something up with Sebastian.

But he just couldn’t bear to hold himself back from having friends, even if they were a little different.

Even if they weren’t perfect.

***

After four hours, Cooper suggested that they make themselves presentable for the dinner service, at least, and quickly went to shower.

Blaine decided to forego most of his prepping, instead moving quickly downstairs to look at where he’d be sitting for the next few meals.

There was a small moment of silence, before-

Crash!

-a sudden rush of what sounded like plates breaking came from directly behind Blaine, making him jump forward in surprise, almost tripping over himself.

“Fuck!”

The voice was strangled, and high, and incredibly irritated, but that was still no reason to swear that loudly. Once Blaine saw who owned the voice, though, he stopped worrying about language. Or anything else in general.

The boy was gorgeous; Blaine was sure he could’ve walked into an art gallery and just stood there, and no-one would’ve said a word. His jaw was chiselled, all high cheekbones that had clearly only been recently defined. His hair was styled into a perfect comb-back, not a single light brown strand out of place.

Blaine was sure that if he looked much longer, his jaw would drop open in a Wil. E. Coyote style expression, so he drew his gaze away from the boy as quickly as he could, dragging his eyes down his body. A small droplet of red was slowly forming on his finger from the jagged edge of the plate, but other than that, he seemed fine.

Walking forward slowly, Blaine carefully drew in a breath for luck before attempting to make conversation.

It didn’t work.

Two more broken plates and one very frustrated Kurt Hummel (Kurt, Kurt, Blaine couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop rolling those four letters off his tongue, Kurt) later, Blaine was sitting down with a very patient girl named Brittany, while she carefully cleaned and bandaged his now cut cheek.

“I still don’t know how you managed to get it up there. The mess was practically miles away from your face. Even a hobbit couldn’t shrink down to be level with the ground.”

Kurt, he had discovered, had a plate full of sardonic wit, that he was ready to dish out at any given opportunity - yet absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth.

"Did it hurt-"

"If you make some reference to me being an angel, I will puke."

Blaine didn't miss a beat, quickly cutting away his concern for Kurt finger in favour of a when you apparently ascended from hell?

Kurt cut the beat in half.

"For your information, it didn't. I'll have you know that devils can't actually afford Prada."

***

Kurt Hummel was very confused.

Ten minutes after that Blaine kid arrived, Kurt found himself already somewhat attached to the boy.

His terrible comebacks and size were endearing, in a way. So was the fact that he could partake in a conversation with Brittany, without missing a beat when she mentioned her cat’s ecstasy addiction.

He wasn’t too sore on the eyes, either. That helmet of gel definitely needed some work, and so did his eyebrows, but other than that…he was alright.

Kurt was definitely sure he could pass for straight.

He probably was straight.

But apparently, that wasn’t going to stop Kurt’s imagination from running over the hills and far away.

Watching Blaine chatter like an overexcitable puppy with Brittany, Kurt slipped away into the main kitchens, closing his eyes and letting out a small wisp of a breath.

-eyes and hands and heat and ohgodyesplease and more and white-hot pleasure slamming through his spine, losing balance and falling, falling headfirst into a pool of warm hazel brown-

Okay, eyes open.

Right, he was gorgeous. And probably straight.

Just like the last, and probably the next.

But you’ll never get him, a small, stupid voice in the back of his head piped up.

You graduate and die in an alleyway on your knees.

Attempting to ignore it, he stifled a small groan of Blaine he knew was climbing up his throat, and went to set out the dinner service.

Soon, it would be over.

He’d never have to see the kid with the eyes to die for again, and he could live with that.

But he so didn’t want to.