“Blaine? Are you okay?”

Finn’s concerned voice just happened to catch Blaine’s attention as he zoned out in front of the espresso machine; Blaine could only thank God--Finn, rather--for small favors, as the mocha he was making would otherwise have turned into a lava flow all over his shoes.

Blaine turned to Finn as he fastened the lid on the paper cup. “Yeah, I’m good,” he chirped, smiling as cheerfully as he could.

“Kurt talked to me, Blaine, so I know you’re lying,” Finn revealed. “You’ve been on edge lately, and it’s obvious.”

Blaine sighed, leaning against the counter and propping himself up with his arms. Luckily for them, they could continue their conversation without incurring the wrath of Gina, since two trainees were being trained right then.

“Finn, I’m just--Rent’s really stressing me out,” he admitted. “The rehearsals are crazy long and crazy frequent, and I barely see Kurt anymore. We had a long talk about it last night, but it’s fine, Finn, really.” Blaine hoped against hope that that was enough to get his friend off his back.

“He told me about your director, too.”

Blaine whipped his head around and stared, wide-eyed, at Finn. “He did what?”

“He told me your director was creeping you out...in, like, the sexual-harassment way, not, like, the Walking Dead way.”

How could he? Blaine thought. Kurt’s the only person I know I can always trust. Why would he tell Finn about that?

“I didn’t want anyone else to worry. I felt bad enough letting Kurt know.” Blaine puffed some air through his lips, shaking his head and displacing his beanie. Frustrated, he took it off, setting his soft curls free. He motioned toward the back room. “Come with me, Finn.”

Once he and Finn were tucked away in the safety of the break room, comfy on the couch, Blaine ‘fessed up.

My director’s name is Amos Flanagan, and he’s really good. He’s apparently really prolific, or something? Anyway. He seemed nice. He called me in on the day of what I thought was the first rehearsal...it wasn’t. It was him trying to ‘get to know’ me. He said he didn’t do that for everyone. It was really creepy and disconcerting, and I went home and told Kurt everything. Of course I did, and he told you. Anyway, so, Amos was creepy. He also told me to call him by his first name. No one else does that in rehearsal, so I don’t do it, either. He makes all these really creepy comments, like when he told me he wanted Mark to be a sexier role with this production, and that I was ‘just the man for the job.’ He makes me really uncomfortable, and being in rehearsal is starting to get uncomfortable, and I can’t say anything about it to anyone but Kurt...and you, I guess. Rachel, too, I suppose.” He grimaced, looking up at Finn for the first time since he’d started talking. Finn’s mouth was open in shock.

“Blaine...you know that’s actually considered sexual harassment, right?” Finn spoke slowly and clearly, as though he didn’t think Blaine would understand him.

“God, Finn, I just--I don’t even want to think about the fact that I might have actually, factually been--that that might have happened. To me,” he stutters. Honestly, at this point, Blaine’s not sure he knows what’s really happening in any aspect of his life. “Do you think...do you think that’s what it is?”

Finn shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know. Blaine, you’re my friend. Ever since Sectionals, like, four years ago, you’ve been my friend. You’re going to get married to my stepbrother someday. I care about you, Blaine, and the last thing I want is to see you get hurt. Just...be careful, okay?” Finn offered Blaine a reassuring smile and a pat on the back as he got up from the chair. “I think I heard Gina say my name. I’d better go.”

Blaine nodded absentmindedly. “Godspeed,” he muttered, pulling out his phone and typing like the wind. He doesn’t even bother with “hello.”

Why did you tell Finn about my creepy director?

it just slipped out, okay? i didn’t mean for it to happen. all i said was that your director was creeping you out.

That’s all he fucking needed, Kurt! We just had a very uncomfortable talk about it, and it culminated in a very cryptic Hudson-style diagnosis of...I don’t even want to say it. I’m not even sure if I’m on my break right now.

...a very cryptic hudson-style diagnosis of what?

Sexual harassment. Maybe.

what the hell is ‘maybe?’

Did you somehow miss the part about “cryptic?”

blaine, please don’t get snippy

I’m allowed to be snippy.

of course you are, but it makes you a whole fucking lot less endearing, darling.

Sorry I’m not a happy sunshine rainbow right now, Kurt.

i don’t want you to pretend to be a happy sunshine rainbow if you’re not feeling like a happy goddamn sunshine rainbow. i want you to be HONEST, and that’s why i told finn.

...are we fighting?

i don’t know; are we?

I don’t want to fight with you. Not after the talk we had last night. I was honest with him, and he told me his cryptic diagnosis, and that he cares about me, and he told me you and I are going to get married someday. :)

he’s right about that :)

I know he is. I’m sorry I typed angrily and forcefully.

it’s okay. i’m sorry i said you weren’t endearing. you’re the cutest, most endearing living being on this planet, baby animals included.

I love you.

i love you, too

My hair’s out of its beanie right now. You’d love it.

i keep telling you, blaine, your curls are adorable. they’re softer than feathers. they make babies laugh, they make birds sing, and they make me smile. i’ve got to get back to class, but i’ll see you/run my fingers through your hair later, k?

Later = like 10. :( I’ll miss you.

i’ll miss you, too.

- - -

A few days later, Blaine was waiting in the audience with the rest of the Rent cast, eagerly anticipating the “big announcement” they’d all gotten wind of. Talia, the psycho bitch playing Mimi, was noticeably absent--she’d been gone the whole week, and only Amos knew why.

When Adam’s death grip on Blaine’s arm tightened, he turned to his friend. “Are you doing okay?” he joked. “I can’t feel my arm.”

Adam grinned. “Sucks to be you. I’m all nervous and bunchy, I need to take it out on someone, and Garrett ain’t here, sweetheart.” Blaine’s dramatic young friend batted his eyelashes coquettishly.

“ATTENTION, ACTORS!”

Their director never failed to pull focus completely whenever he entered a room.

“Oui, Monsieur Flanagan?” cracked Freddie Thompson, the guy playing Collins.

Amos rolled his eyes. “Well, Monsieur Thompson,” he began, “l’actrice qui joue la caractère Mimi est devenue malade, alors elle ne peut pas continuer avec ce spectacle.”

“Oh, if only I knew what you were saying,” Blaine muttered. He looked up just in time to catch Amos’s positively wolfish smile.

“What I said, Mr. Anderson, was that Talia has fallen gravely ill and, as such, cannot continue with this production. However,” he grinned, rubbing his palms together, “I’ve already found her replacement. Come on out, dear.” Amos gestured to an invisible someone waiting backstage.

Blaine couldn’t have been more surprised than he was when he saw the familiar doe eyes and full, high-glossed lips of Santana Lopez.

“Holy shit, Santana!” Blaine shouted before he could stop himself, wrenching his arm out of Adam’s stranglehold and sprinting onto the stage to tackle-hug his friend.

“Baby!” she squealed, hugging him back.

“God, you evil witch,” Blaine giggled. “You could have texted! Or called! Or sent Brittany to deliver a missive with a fucking trumpet!” He shook his head, smiling fondly. “I missed you.”

Blaine and Santana had grown quite close, funnily enough, in the year between her graduation from McKinley and his; in a rare feat of un-Santana-like benevolence, she’d reached out to him via Facebook and the phone when she saw his vague, morose statuses consisting of song lyrics that conveyed the hole he felt in his heart without his Kurt in Lima with him. She sympathized; she was feeling lonely in Louisville and, later, New York, without Brittany’s pinky finger to link with her own. Blaine had quickly learned to be as snarky and nasty to her as she was to him, and they had one of the best friendships Blaine could ever have imagined for himself. Luckily for him, Kurt and Santana had bonded once they were both in New York, and the three of them plus Brittany got together as often as they possibly could with Kurt’s school schedule, Santana’s and Blaine’s audition circuit, and Brittany’s...whatever it was Brittany did when Santana wasn’t home. Blaine wasn’t sure he’d ever find out.

“Sorry, honey,” she whispered into his neck. “You know how it gets. I missed you, too.”

Blaine nodded into her shoulder. “I do.”

The two friends pulled away when they heard the grating sound of twenty throats being cleared.

“Sorry,” Blaine muttered in Amos’s direction.

“That’s fine, Mr. Anderson,” Amos reassured him with his trademark creepy smile...no, more like leer. “So, you two know each other?”

“We go way back,” Santana confirmed. “We went to the same high school. Blaine was a junior when I was a senior.”

“We only really got to be such good friends once she graduated, unfortunately,” Blaine added. “So, yeah, we’ve met.”

That drew a laugh from the audience of actors, and Amos nodded curtly.

“Good, good,” he muttered, looking at the ground. When he looked up, his big I’m-a-professional smile was plastered on his face. “You can show Miss Lopez the ropes, then, dear.”

- - -

“So, bubble butt, how’s life? Get Kurt pregnant yet?” Santana asked as she and Blaine walked out of rehearsal that day, her tone light and conversational despite the absurdity of her question.

“Yeah, we were just really into it one night, and somehow, a baby happened. My money’s on magical genital magic. He’s due any day now.” Blaine cackled when he saw Santana’s incredulous, disbelieving smile. “What about Brittany? I know you two have been cohabitating almost as long as Kurt and myself, but the real question is...have you knocked her up yet?” Blaine tossed a wink at his friend.

Santana didn’t answer, choosing instead to look at the ground and swing the hand she’d entwined with Blaine’s. Blaine went ahead and let his jaw drop.

“Oh, my God, she’s totally pregnant, isn’t she?” he gasped. “Oh, my fucking Jesus lord, Santana Lopez is going to be a parent. God save us all.”

Santana actually punched Blaine in the arm, full-force. “Fuck off, Tom Cruise.” She shook her head, laughing to herself. “Sorry, sorry, height joke, I know. Yes, she’s pregnant, via sperm donor. We decided it was time, but, you know, we might have been a little under the influence when we came to said decision.” She winked. “No regrets, though. It’s going to be a beautiful thing once that baby’s born, just watching Britt be a mom, you know? Oh, and the thing about how pregnant women glow is totally true. Don't tell Kurt, though. It's supposed to be a surprise for everyone, or whatever. But I can't not tell you. You're my baby Blainey.”

Blaine nodded. He loved how deeply Santana cared for Brittany; he would forever be in awe of the sweet, blonde space cadet for being the only one to reveal Santana’s soft side. “I promise I won't tell him. I’m so happy for you both, San. I’ve always wanted to be a dad,” he confessed. “I’m not sure Kurt would be up for it with school and everything, though. I just...I’ve been fantasizing since high school about what our kids would look like if we, you know...collaborated on the...you know.” Blaine flushed a deep scarlet. Twenty-one years old, and I still can’t bring myself to say ‘sperm’ unless absolutely forced.

Santana cocked an eyebrow at him. “Blaine, everyone knows your baby with Kurt would look exactly like a taller, darker, handsomer, less leprechauny Blarney McShamrock.” Blaine could only assume she meant Rory Flanagan, the adorable Irish exchange student from their last year together at McKinley. Man, that brings back memories...and oh, my God, she’s totally right.

“Oh, my God, you’re totally right,” Blaine breathed. “Wow.”

Santana winked. “You’d have a fucking hot kid, Anderson.”

Blaine smiled sheepishly. “Makes sense, considering I have a fucking hot boyfriend,” he reasoned. “Oh, shit, a fucking hot boyfriend who’s totally waiting with dinner. San, I’d better get home. See you tomorrow! I’m so glad we’re doing this together. I missed you so much.”

Santana grinned, showing off the full lips and white teeth that never failed to dazzle people. “I’m glad, too, babe. I missed you more. Love you!”

Blaine returned the sentiment, and they blew each other kisses before heading in opposite directions. Blaine quickly whipped out his phone and saw three messages from Kurt.

Kurt: Baby, where are you?

Kurt: Blaine?!?

Kurt: Blaine, fuck, just answer your phone so I know you didn’t die in some back alley in Harlem, okay? 

Blaine was hit with a crushing wave of guilt. He dialed Kurt’s number from memory, holding the phone to his ear and gripping it so tightly that it dug into his palm. Kurt picked up on the first ring.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed. “I thought you died, you ass.” Blaine could hear a breathy chuckle coming from the other end of the phone.

“No, honey, I’m totally fine.” Blaine smiled. He loved hearing Kurt’s voice, even through static and spotty Verizon service. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. You’ll never believe what happened at rehearsal today.”