It's one thing to be caught in flagrante delicto with a complete stranger.

It's another thing entirely to be caught on film with your hands down Henry Canterbury's pants.

As a proud Dalton student, Blaine's pretty up-to-date when it comes to the prominent politicians of the era. Even then, Henry's father, Marcus Canterbury isn't exactly the type of person who shies away from the media.

The papers love to hate Marcus Canterbury; he's a caricature in every sense of the word. Anti-gay, anti-choice and antagonistic – Canterbury Sr. is currently the outspoken and controversial head of what Blaine and his friends like to refer to as the Gay Lynch Mob. He's not someone Blaine respects or admires, and is most certainly not someone Blaine wants to be in any way associated with.

Which is why, when Blaine wakes up to see his face plastered over the front of the morning paper, he promptly drops his head on the table and groans. There's a note at the top of the paper – obviously scribbled on hurriedly by one of his parents – which reads rather ominously, WE'LL TALK ABOUT THIS LATER.

Wonderful, Blaine thinks. Brilliant. Fantastic.

School is an exercise in awkwardness.

Everyone knows it's him in the photos on the front of the paper – or, at least, they suspect – but his name has yet to published anywhere – for which Blaine thanks God for small miracles – so no one's really sure how to interact with him.

There's an awful lot of staring, for one.

And an awful lot of whispering, for two.

Wes and David corner him at lunch, dropping into seats opposite him and staring at him with enough intensity that Blaine feels like he's on trial. Blaine shifts his gaze away from their faces and nervously drums his fingers against the polished dark wood of the lunch table.

“So,” Wes starts after a silence that last far too long. “The paper this morning.” It comes out flat and unwelcoming – more of a statement than a queery.

“The paper this morning,” Blaine echoes. He's really none-too-eager to talk about this with Wes and David, and decidedly unenthused by the prospect of the lecture Wes will no doubt give him on appropriate behaviour in public, or something like that.

Wes observes Blaine closely for a few seconds, before he says carefully, “That sort of thing's really not like you.”

Blaine shrugs. He would really rather avoid this conversation for now. “I was drunk,” he deflects.

At Wes' disbelieving eyebrow raise, Blaine just shrugs again.

“It's not like you to get drunk,” David points out softly.

“Well, I did, and I was,” Blaine says, shrugging again, praying that they'll just drop it. When he sees the look on Wes's face – one which Blaine has dubbed impending lecture – he knows just how likely that is.

Before Wes can start what is no doubt a well-planned and well-researched speech on drunken behaviour and public indecency, they're interrupted.

“So, it was you in the paper,” comes a voice from above Blaine.

Blaine looks up to see Jeff's grinning face. The Warbler cheerfully flicks Blaine on the nose before he drops down into a seat next to Blaine, reaching across the table and stealing the apple from David's lunch tray.

“Hey!” David calls, reaching for the apple, but Jeff pre-empts him by taking a large bite out of it.

Mouth full of half-chewed apple, Jeff continues, “I mean, I saw it on the paper this morning and was like, Blaine's either got a freaky doppelganger running around, or, well, Blaine's probably got a freaky doppelganger running around because there's no way in hell this is him. I didn't think it was actually you.”

“Well,” Blaine shrugs, looking anywhere but at the mouthful of masticated apple. “Surprise?”

“Hell yeah, surprise,” adds Nick, who's approaching their table with his own lunch tray. “I sprayed an entire mouthful of orange juice across my kitchen when I saw your face on the paper, and then sprayed yet another one when I saw what you were doing in the photos.”

“I was drunk,” Blaine points out feebly.

“You must have been fucking plasteredto the walls,” Jeff states, waving his half-eaten apple around as he makes his point. “I mean, even I have standards, and no, just no. Please tell me you at least got paid for that.”

Nick clouts Jeff around the ears. “Of course he didn't get paid, Jeff,” he hisses, before turning to Blaine. “You didn't get paid for that, did you?” he asks, sounding legitimately concerned.

Blaine sighs. “I do many stupid things, Nick, the latest of which has been broadcast to the nation,” he says softly, “but soliciting sexual encounters for money is not one of them.”

“The ethics student in me is proud that you've seen fit to draw that line,” David says, “but the ruthless business studies student in me is disappointed you didn't cash in on the moment.”

“I repeat,” Blaine says. “I was drunk. And right now I'm kind of wishing I was.”

The four other students share a look.

“What's the tally?” Nick asks.

Blaine skewers a piece of lettuce on his plate. “Four notes with ‘fag', seven with ‘freak', two ‘cockslut's and one ‘backgammon player' – whatever the hell that means.”

“Oh, that one was me,” Jeff admits. “It's eighteenth century British slang.”

Wes, David, Nick and Blaine all stare at him.

“What?” Jeff asks. “You'd think with all the media attention surrounding this, people would start to get a bit more creative with their slurs, but no, it's all about sticking to the classics, and, well, you know what they say. If you want something done properly, do it yourself.”

Nick looks like his reflexes are caught between clouting Jeff again and facepalming. He eventually settles on sighing deeply, regarding his roommate with exasperation. “Sometimes I wonder whose great idea it was to send you to a school with a zero-tolerance harassment policy,” he says. “It just seems like your parents were desperate for an expulsion on your record.”

Jeff shrugs unashamedly. “You'd have to ask them.”

“I would, but I'm sort of terrified out of my skin to meet the combination of genetics that gave rise to someone like you,” David confesses, shaking his head.

“Jeff's chronic lack of tact aside,” Wes says, “you should take this to the Head. We have a zero-tolerance policy for a reason, Blaine.”

“And have him do what?” Blaine asks. “I'm pretty lucky he's not expelling me as it is, Wes. I don't know about you, but I like to think that being photographed with your hand down a guy's pants is in opposition with a rather large portion of the Dalton Honour Code, and, aside from Jeff's, I have no idea who sent these notes.”

“They could check the handwriting,” Nick points out.

“It wouldn't be worth it,” Blaine says firmly. “Look, guys, I get that you're concerned for me and all, but I'm fine. Right now, all I want is to get through this day, get home and survive the lecture I know my parents are going to give me.”

Wes' eyes widen. “Oh, God, your parents.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “My parents. My dad is still in denial about me being gay and my mom is freakishly conservative. How well do you think this has gone down?”

“Well,” Jeff says cheerfully. “Look on the bright side, Blaine. I don't think your dad's going to be able to pretend you're straight anymore.”

Blaine runs a hand through his gelled hair. “Really not up there on my list of priorities right now, Jeff.”

“Do you want to stay the night at mine?” Nick offers sympathetically.

Blaine shakes his head. “Might as well get this over with.”

Marcus Canterbury's Son Caught in the Act

Henry Canterbury, 21, was recently caught on film, engaged in none-too-savoury activities with an unidentified male, as shown below. The pair of them are backdropped by Scandals – a gay bar in Columbus, Ohio – and the unidentified male has his hand down the waistband of the younger Canterbury's jeans.

These recent pictures have thrown Marcus Canterbury, 52, and his politics into the limelight. Canterbury is outspokenly anti-gay, but refused to comment on the article. As it stands, the press are waiting for him to make his move…

(read more)

The first thing Blaine thinks to say to his parents is, “It isn't what you think.”

Which, quite frankly, is pretty stupid, because he's lying; it's exactly what they think.

Jennifer Anderson just raises her eyebrows dangerously. She ignores his previous statement and slides a copy of the paper across the table to Blaine. “Explain,” she commands flatly.

Blaine opens his mouth, but his father cuts across him. “The truth, Blaine.”

Blaine closes his mouth.

He is so fucking grounded.

Blaine doesn't really do rule-breaking.

Jeff likes to laugh at him about it, calling him a prude, and teasing him about his spotless permanent record. Of course, that's not exactly true, given that he does have one black mark on his permanent record – an expulsion from his old school for fighting – but his parents have long since decided not to count that.

The fact of the matter is that Blaine really hates rule-breaking.

It feels stupid and reckless and, why the hell should Blaine risk everything for a tiny adrenaline rush? He likes being a prude, thank you very much, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can go screw themselves for all Blaine cares. Rules are there to keep people safe and they don't work unless people obey them.

So, this? Sneaking out on the weekend and getting drunk at a gay bar in Ohio? It isn't simply out of the ordinary for Blaine. It's freaking unheard of.

But Blaine's not about to try and excuse his behaviour to his parents. They don't get it, really, just like they've never gotten him.

So, Blaine just sits silently as they yell at them – “What the hell were you thinking, Blaine, getting involved with Marcus Canterbury's son?! This isn't just dumb, Blaine; it's criminally stupid!” – and bites down hard on his cheek so that he doesn't speak out of turn.

Blaine hates that there's a significant part of him that wonders just how much of this is to do with the pictures and how much of it is to do with him being gay.

Eventually, his parents run out of steam. His mother huffs at him, looking like the only things she has left to say aren't suitable for a family situation, and his father stares at him, judgement lidding heavy on his hazel eyes. They tell him to go to his room.

Blaine complies.

This sucks.

The only solace he can draw from it is that he's still got his anonymity.

For now.

When Blaine's phone goes off with Jeff's ringtone at four o'clock in the morning, his only thought is that Jeff better to be really, really drunk and really, really stranded to be disturbing him at this time especially given the crappy day he had yesterday.

The good news is that Blaine doesn't have to get out of bed and fetch him.

The bad news is… Well, pretty bad.

“Blaine, that night you were out, getting photographed feeling up Gay McCloseted,” Jeff says hurriedly, “were you out with Sebastian?”

“What?” Blaine asks blearily, blinking at the electronic display of his alarm clock through the half-gloom. God, it's too early for this.

“Did Sebastian take you to the club where you met Henry Canterbury?” Jeff presses.

Blaine pushes himself up in bed, yawning deeply into the phone. “Yeah,” he replies. “Why, though? And can this wait until later? I mean, I know you guys don't really like the guy, but he's my friend and he was in town for a weekend—”

“Really not the time for this argument Blaine,” Jeff cuts him off. “Listen, you need to check your twitter feed. Sebastian… He posted something about, well, you.”

Blaine's eyes snap forcefully open.

Shit.

Sebastian Smythe (@SebbieDoesDallas)
Thanks for a fun night out @BlaineWarbler – though I think you had more fun than I did: [link]