.

Ok, Blaine's lying. Sue him, if you please.

He does remember the first time he saw him, really, truly saw him, but he blatantly brushed it off. Or perhaps sneezed it off would be more accurate. He was so, so very sick that day, he can't take seriously anything he did, said or saw.

He was just walking dazedly around school, occasionally stopping in the middle of the hall to close his eyes and concentrate on the knowledge that he was actually headed somewhere, and trying to remember in which direction that somewhere was. Just as the classrooms were filling up and Blaine was left wondering aimlessly, trying to make it to trigonometry, he caught a glimpse of ridiculously familiar, knee long trousers with a kilt-like print. It was odd enough to find a boy without uniform in a private school, and feeling a lot like Alice when she went after the rabbit, Blaine followed the boy down the adjacent hall, and then all the way to the parking lot. Blaine saw him get inside a black navigator and slam the door shut rather angrily, before taking off.

Blaine didn't even get to see his face.

And then again, throughout the morning he had drank half a bottle of cough syrup.

In Spanish class he had started writing his notes in a messy attempt at Spanglish that was more on the English side than anything. Not to mention that at lunch he actually took a bite off his sandwich and started chewing before David pointed out that he hadn't removed the plastic wrap. Oh, and in case you were wondering, he did make it to trigonometry, and he spent the whole class writing a poem about the characteristics of equilateral triangles, a full-of-sentiment, tear-jerking poem in which he expressed his undying conviction that all triangles are different and unique and beautiful in their own way and should be treated equally, no matter how many sides they have.

He thinks he might have sung something about swimming across empty lands during Warblers rehearsal, but he was so constipated that maybe it just came out muffled, or something. Whatever. Blaine basically erased that day from his memory, because it was better to remember it only when David asks whether Blaine would like some plastic wrap to condiment his food.

He puts it behind, because his life is a mess without adding a silly crush to it. He tries not to think of him when awake, tries to focus, to live his life. And then enjoy their time together at night, without reservations, taking as much as he can get and giving back all of his heart. Because Blaine loves him. Loves him so, and it hurts at the same time that it makes him feel weightless, fearless... when he is held tightly, when their noses rub together sweetly...

Blaine remembers clearly the first time it happened.

That night there were street lamps where there didn't use to be, casting a quasi-candlelight glow over the pier. There was no soft mattress beneath them, nor covers to hide them from the world, only hard wood and the summer breeze to brush against their skins. They connect in the deepest of ways, and sharing that kind of intimacy makes him feel fragile, breakable, but so loved and cherished. Worshiped, almost, as hands trail lightly across his skin and brush secret places. He returns it in kind, with a fervor and devotion he didn't know he was capable of. He feels his heart fill up to the brim then explode, bringing him to tears and sobs because he's never felt this full in his life.

And it's sweet and it's tender and it's full-of-sentiment, all languid, inexperienced kisses and soft words whispered in close-by ears. It is everything Blaine ever dreamed it would be...

Except it is only a dream, and Blaine wakes up cold and sticky and in serious need of a shower.

The metaphorical fall is higher and he hits the metaphorical ground hardly with a gasp of surprise, because he didn't expect to feel so empty and... despaired. He sobs in the bathroom floor for an hour or so, rinsing himself carefully, because he can't scrub away the lingering electricity in his pores, the tease of fingertips on his skin, and he isn't sure whether he actually wants to get rid of it or keep it with himself for the rest of the day.

He knows he needs to compartmentalize. Neatly separate his two different realities. Because in the cruel world of the awake, he has school, he has college coming up, he has his parents to deal with. His parents...

After a long and heated discussion on how much Blaine did not want to become a lawyer versus how much a career in music depends on luck rather than talent, Blaine and his parents had come to an agreement.

Blaine would be a musician, as in, classical music musician. He would go to Julliard -even though he always wanted to go off to Cali and get a recording deal- and he would become a whateverinstrumentyouwanttoplayexceptguitar-ist, because apparently guitars make musicians more inclined towards pop music, or so his father says. Piano was also out of the question, because apparently everyone wants to play it and suddenly his parents care about his area of expertise being too mainstream.

"We just want to make sure you can find good job opportunities." It's hard to think of it that way, it feels as though they reject everything he wants just to make him miserable.

The worst part is that Blaine's been having music lessons for as long as he can remember, and he has tried out, at least once, almost every single instrument you could find in an Orchestra, and although the piano and the cello were nice enough to pursue for a while, he never quite connected with them the way he connects with a guitar, there's something so unique about the way he can feel the vibrations in his chest every time he strums a chord; he's not just playing, he's embracing the music, quite literally. He is holding the harmonic vibrations close to his heart and it's almost as good as when he sings, because he can practically feel the music inside of him.

So Blaine settles for the cello, since it's probably the closest thing to a guitar his parents will let him have (a mandolin would've been nice, but his father can't tell the difference from that and a guitar, so Blaine didn't even bother mentioning it). At least the cello sits between his legs, his arms surround it, embrace it as he plays, like a lover, he thinks, trying hard not to blush, the vibrations reach him still, rummaging through his chest and reverberating to his very core, a low, soft rumble that reminds him vaguely of a growl...

And he guesses, at the end of the day, that he won't be miserable if he has to play it for hours on end.

Graduation comes too fast, his last days of camaraderie and support slip away through his fingers and far before he's ready to, he has to leave the comfort of Dalton's halls. He makes promises like his life depends on it, during those days. He promises Wes and David that he'll visit them in Stamford for Spring Break, he promises Thad and Trent to not be a stranger, he promises Nick and Jeff that he'll (illegally) have a few beers with them every week or so, since they'll be living in the same city even if on different ends of it, and he promises along with all the Warblers that they'll have yearly reunions in the very same music room in which they learned that once a Warbler, you won't get rid of these parasites you call friends even if you want to.

Saying goodbye to his parents is not as hard. It consists mainly of "Yes, mom, I'll call at least once a week" and "Yes, dad, I promise to audition for the symphonic orchestra every year until I'm accepted." After that, off to Julliard he goes.

It's nice enough, he gets to hear, see, eat, breathe music for the next five-or-so years of his life. Even still, he gets a little pseudo-job playing guitar and singing in a small café, and every now and then he still scribbles a few verses across napkins he'll later misplace or forget to take out of his pockets before doing the laundry. It doesn't matter, the words are all up inside his head, they don't go away.

Neither does he. He never goes away, and it seems he only embeds himself closer to Blaine's heart, he's not just in the privacy of Blaine's dorm anymore.

To be fair, it's not that Blaine doesn't remember or doesn't want to remember, it's just that ninety-nine percent of time, Blaine is pretty much sure that he has to be hallucinating. Or maybe daydreaming, if hallucinating sounds too harsh and loony-bin-worthy. Yeah, considering Blaine has only ever seen him in dreams, daydreaming is probably the right term.

Because it came down to a point when Blaine saw him everywhere: Out in the streets, in coffee-shops, in campus, in the subway…

Of course Blaine never stopped to think that he only started seeing him so often once he moved to New York for college. Of course, yeah, right, never spared a thought. And it's not like he started looking for him either, no, no way would he ever do that. He wasn't taking long strolls down Broadway Avenue because he had heard him whistle a show tune a few years ago, no, that wasn't the reason at all, he just really likes taking long walks and seeing the happy faces of the tourists. Of course.

Because it was so stupid to go looking for him when Blaine could see him and talk to him and be with him every single night. So, so stupid and so very pointless.

Moths pass, they turn into years and at some point, Blaine decided it was time to try dating. He couldn't live inside his little bubble of fantasy forever, right? That's not how life is supposed to go by.

So date he did, and to say the outcome was disastrous would be an understatement. Guy after guy that Blaine just couldn't look in the eyes because they weren't his eyes, guys Blaine couldn't crack a joke to because when they laughed their nose didn't crinkle like his, guys whose hands Blaine had to reject when they tried to hold his over the table, because their hands didn't look like those of a porcelain figurine.

After each and every one, he would go back to his dorm, lay down on his forever un-made bed and sob himself to sleep. What was wrong with him? Sure, everybody has fantasies but why in hell can't he let it go already? He was 21 already, for god's sake! It had been almost five years since it all started!

All he wants is somebody to hold him while he feels like this, like a broken toy that didn't meet the quality requirements of the fabric and was put to sale at a lower price. He feels so tired, so damaged, and when he walks to sit down beside him, on their bench, and he smiles that barely-there smile that Blaine likes to think is only meant for him, Blaine wants to cry with both despair and relief.

Because maybe, just maybe, as long as he still has him, dreams will have to make do.

.