“His” apartment.

Ha.

It, and the shop it sat above, was an old safe house of the family’s, refurbished and security enhanced when Blaine declared that since the situation had calmed down, he needed a place that was his, where he could have plants and groceries and wouldn’t have to worry about business.

Cooper hadn’t been thrilled—he wanted his second to stay in the family’s house, where security was best and he would be protected (if need be) and would be there in a crisis (knock on wood, but Cooper was a practical Capo).

After a month of heated debates and grudging compromises with some old-fashioned sibling rivalry and power dynamics inherent to their business, Cooper allowed Blaine to choose one of the safe houses as long as Blaine would consent to the cameras being monitored, never bring work home with him, and to be careful who he invited in.

Blaine did, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, and knuckles white at not being trusted.  Cooper had nearly raised him, after all.  He knew the rules well enough to be chosen as Coop’s second.  He was smart and good at what he did. All he wanted was some space to himself.

The apartment was little, old, and perfect for him.  His one neighbor was an old man with a cat who smoked too much and kept to himself, having already passed whatever background check and signed whatever gag rule necessary to live next to the family.

Still, Cooper didn’t approve (Coop being fonder of grander things than apartments above stores), but he had to keep reminding himself it wasn’t Cooper’s life.

And even living in separate places, it wasn’t like Blaine didn’t see Cooper nearly every day and essentially live at the family’s house.

But when he was home, he could dance around the living room without fear of someone who answered to him walking in and losing respect.  He could practice his piano (the small upright tucked into the corner of the office) without interrupting a meeting for a deal on the wrong side of the law.

He could be himself and it was okay.

The trip didn’t take any longer than usual, even if Blaine was floating, muscle memory and reflexes honed to be quick keeping him alive as he nearly walked into a taxi.  He couldn’t figure out what would have possessed Smythe to make such a foolish move.  Had he been dropped on his head as a child?  Or perhaps more recently?  Moving such a sensitive piece, openly talking about it to a fence known to talk, that was asking for the FBI to come knocking down doors and disturbing the peace they were trying to maintain.

Shaking himself out of his work mindset and realizing he was standing in the middle of his living room, staring blindly at the wall, he started a shower, pulling out the clothes he would wear for his gig before getting in and washing the layers of formality off his skin, leaving the spicy clean scent of his body wash.  Gel washed cleanly out of his hair, tensions flowing away with the suds down the drain.

Too soon the water was cooling; Blaine forced himself to leave the comforting warmth of the shower for the rest of the bathroom, goose-bumps rising when his heated skin was hit by air far too chilled for the amount of steam.  Dry and towel wrapped around his waist, he brushed his teeth quickly, combed the slightest bit of product into his hair to help tame the mass of curls.  Deciding against shaving (again) for time’s sake, he sprayed on some cologne and opened the bathroom door, shivering slightly.

Clothes—black slacks with a dark purple pinstripe, gray dress shirt covering his undershirt, purple vest, and a purple bow tie—warmed him up, the layers insulating against the heat.  Black and purple socked feet slid into black shoes dressy enough to perform in but comfortable enough to walk in.  Blaine grabbed his bag from its place by the piano, adding his phone and keys before heading to the gig and, hopefully, Kurt.