He had dreamed of being on stage ever since his parents had taken him to see Arlecchino, Servitore Di Due Padroni at the commedia dell'arte as a young child. One look at the masked figures jumping around on stage and Blaine knew that that was what he was wanted to do; one look at the laughing faces in the audience and he knew that that's what he needed to do. He had left the theater bouncing off the walls and begging his parents to let him stay there forever. To get him on stage. To take him to many more shows.

And his parents had agreed.

Well, not to the letting him stay in the theater part, they had managed to drag the screaming five year-old home after a rather violent round of kicking and screaming on the curly-haired kid's part. But after that day, the Andersons signed their youngest son up for drama lessons,dance lessons, singing lessons, and violin lessons, on top of his current piano lessons; they figured that if he had a well-rounded artistic education he could figure out what exactly he wanted to do when he was older.

While Antonio Anderson did this slightly half-heartedly (he himself had wanted to be a cowboy, an astronaut, a fireman and a Jedi when he was his son's age, he figured all these lessons were just a waste of time and money and that this was simply a phase that his son would grow out of within a few weeks or months), Maria Anderson was most definitely the proud stage-mom. She loved nothing more than driving Blaine around for auditions, running lines with him, listening to him sing or play, watching him dance around with a goofy smile on that adorable little face of his, a smile that she knew stemmed from a deep and true love for performing, a love that she knew would never fade in time.

And in that, she was right. At seventeen, Blaine Anderson was nothing more than that same bouncing 5 year-old, stuck in an older boy's body. He never did manage to pinpoint exactly what kind of performance he wanted to focus on or specialize in but his "well-rounded education" did serve him well; he pretty much did it all.

Whether it was a school play or concert, you could be sure that Blaine Anderson would be involved. When a member of the school orchestra fell ill or simply didn't show up for practice or even a performance, more often than not you could count on Blaine Anderson to fill in for his part (considering he was proficient in virtually all of the instruments the school had at their disposal). Blaine had been in a large number of the community plays that his village put on, ever since he was a little kid, and in his later years he had even helped with the creative process, helping to compose for musicals or write dialogue between characters.

Blaine ended up having a bit of a reputation in his village as being the artistic Jack of All Trades, to which he always modestly replied: "not all trades, I can't draw for shit".

That easy-going nature of his always won people over one smile in, but lately, that wide grin was becoming more and more uncommon. Word on the street was that not all was well in the Anderson home, and they were right. Tensions had mounted to the point where Blaine was typically seen out an about town at all hours of the night, rehearsing in the community theater he had learned how to break into when he was 9, playing guitar in the little caf� he favoured in the piazza, waiting tables at his friend's restaurant or playing piano at the lounge bar his uncle had once owned.

He had begun the let his grades slip, focusing his attention solely on his artistic endeavours and his job, to the point where it had begun to consume all aspects of his life. Bags became a permanent fixture under his eyes, his usually clean-shaven face was now, more often than not, covered in stubble and his wild curls, which he bemoaned and spent hours gelling down every day now sprung free (although he did seem to get more tips at his waiting job when the damn things were flying all over the place). His friends began to worry about him, but he managed to shrug them off, telling them to stop worrying, he was fine. It was only once Blaine showed up on Wes' doorstep at three in the morning with a bruise rapidly growing on his right cheekbone that he cracked, and he told one of his best friends everything that had been going on.

Wes almost didn't let him go home the next day.

Thankfully, having Wes and of course David (because he couldn't pour his heart out to one without telling the other, it just wasn't done) in on the situation managed to raise his spirits somewhat, especially since they always seemed to know what he needed, even before he did sometimes. Which explained why when their school announced the study abroad trip to Washington, Wes and David both pushed him to sign up, even though they normally would have accepted his "I'm all over the place here, I can't abandon my job/my plays/ my gigs" excuses.

"Basta, Blaine! Andremo tutti in America. Fine della discussione." Enough, Blaine! We're all going to America. End of discussion.

Blaine gave him a scowl, but remained silent. Whenever David pulled his Italian mother act, you had better do as he says, he had learned this back when they were seven and Wes and he would bicker over who got to throw rocks at cars and who would be lookout.

When he told his mother about the trip, she agreed to sign the consent form, tears in her eyes, but knowing that it would be best for her son to be far away for while, no matter how much the thought pained her.

He was among the few lucky students whose overprotective mothers allowed them to go abroad for a full semester, although it certainly was entertaining to hear their indignant screams from open windows that first week after the announcement. You could almost imagine the other mothers taking notes on the novel ways to tell their sons how they were horrible for wanting to get away from them, the new ways to guilt trip and smother.

All in all, only Blaine, Wes, David, Jeff, Nick and Thad had managed to secure a spot on the trip, mostly because their parents weren't the attentive type; in fact, since most of them were business executives and such, they encouraged the trip and the learning of English.

And so it was that they were seated on a plane on their way to America. Blaine didn't know whether it was the change of pressure in the cabin, or the fact that they were on their way across the world, but his friends had seemingly all lost their prep school ways (and their minds) and were now trying to chat up every single girl on the plane under 25. Blaine laughed at their antics from his window seat, feeling lighter than he had in months but still he wore that slight frown on his face. On his lap was his cellphone, the text message from his mother shining on the screen:

"Prenditi cura di te, figlio mio. Buon viaggio, caro, ti voglio bene!" Take care, son. Have a good trip dear, I love you.

Blaine knew that his mother loved him, of course, but having a physical reminder was nice. Of course, when Wes and David caught him moping by himself, they couldn't let it slide.

"Stai soffrendo d'ansia da separazione dalla tua chitarra?" You suffering separation anxiety from your guitar?

"Puoi sentirla piangere dal compartimento bagagli?" Can you hear it crying from the luggage compartment?

Blaine cracked a smile, despite himself.

"Idioti. Lasciatemi stare, sto bene, lo giuro." Idiots. Leave me alone, I'm fine, I swear.

And for once, Blaine kind of meant it. The future finally looked a little brighter.