Part Four – Age 13 – Blaine

It wasn't as easy as it looked, being Blaine Anderson.

He had always been the envy of his peers.  A wealthy father, a popular, well-known older brother, a Fab of his own since he'd first started grade school.  Everyone thought his life was perfect.  Everyone wanted to be his friend.

But Blaine knew the truth.  Blaine didn't have any real friends except for Quinn.  They were all smiles and jokes and favors to his face, but Blaine heard the ridicule they'd whisper when they didn't think he could hear.  The rich boy.  The snob.  Why, he was just too good for anyone, wasn't he?

But that wasn't the worst of it.  Not by far.

By middle school, a few more of his classmates had acquired Fabs of their own.  Peter and Andrew, in particular, were eager to ingratiate themselves by means of shared experience.  They would regularly corner him at recess to talk about their Fabs and ask for his advice.

“So Blaine, you've had yours for years now… how do you get ‘em to, you know, let you touch?”

“You don't need permission, Drew.  Something must be wrong with yours.  Rita lets me feel her up, no problem.  And if they don't want it… well, then you just take it, right?  I mean, she is yours.”

The problem was that Blaine had never done any of that with Quinn.  Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, his father had taken Blaine aside and given him The Talk.  Blaine had known about sex by then, of course, had wondered secretly what the fuss was all about.  His father's advice just confused him further, made him feel pressured to feel all these things he simply didn't.  Was something wrong with him?

Nearly a year later, the box of condoms his dad had gifted him with a knowing wink still sat in his drawer unopened.  Cooper had found them a few months back, had ruffled his hair affectionately.  “Just a late bloomer, aren't ya Blainey?”

Apparently he was.

Well, so much for that!

*******

His mother and father were at yet another dinner party, his brother and his Fab, Cassandra, at a party, and that left Blaine and Quinn with the house to themselves.

Blaine found her in her room, sprawled out on her stomach on the bed with a book.  Typical Friday night.

“Whatcha reading, Quinn?” he asked, climbing up beside her and mimicking her posture.

Quinn hummed.  “It's new, called The Hunger Games.  You should read it.  You wouldn't believe the things they do to these kids!”

“Sure,” Blaine said.  “But… can it wait?  I kind of made us dinner.”

Quinn turned to look at him, a horrified expression on her face.  “No pizza tonight?”

“Umm… no,” Blaine said, feeling his face heat at her predictable reaction.  Pizza was Quinn's favorite food, and with his parents gone in the evenings more often than not, it had become a weekly tradition.  “But I made brownies!”

“Hmmph,” Quinn said, still frowning.  “Maybe I could forgive you for brownies.”

“Come eat with me?”  Blaine pleaded, using his best puppy-dog eyes.

Quinn sighed, closing her book.  “I suppose the slaughter can wait…”

Blaine beamed at her and all but jumped off the bed, making a beeline for the door.  Quinn rolled her eyes and followed in a much more lady-like fashion.

When they reached the dining room she froze on the spot, her eyes widening.  “Wow, Blaine.  What's all this?”

Blaine blushed and shuffled his feet, his fingers playing absentmindedly with his bowtie.  “It's… umm… it's dinner?”  He'd set the table as best he knew how with his mother's china and found some candles from last Thanksgiving in the cupboard.  Blaine hoped she wouldn't mind when they came up missing.

“It's beautiful,” Quinn said in a breath, stepping forward.  Blaine hastened over to pull out her chair.  He'd spent a lot of time memorizing this from the movies, and he was determined to get it right.  “What's the occasion?”

“Oh.  I… I just thought it would be nice.”

Quinn smiled at him as she settled in her seat, smoothing the pleats of her skirt.  “So what are we having?”

“Chicken fingers and mashed potatoes and salad,” Blaine answered, a little embarrassed.  “I'm sorry… it's all I know how to make.”

Quinn didn't quite manage to stifle a giggle.  “That's okay; I like that.”

“Good,” Blaine said.  “I'll just go get it then.”

He returned with their food, already plated, and they sat down together to eat, Blaine prompting Quinn to tell him more about her book (which did sound really, really interesting.)  They'd shared meals a million times before, and maybe it was just his nerves, but while their conversation flowed as easily as ever, something about this meal felt different. 

His palms began to sweat as their plates emptied.

“I… do you want dessert now?” he asked Quinn when she was finished.  “Or… I had something else in mind.”

Quinn looked amused.  “I'm full—it was very good by the way, thank you.  What else were you thinking?”

Blaine stood shakily and offered her his hand.  “Come with me?”

Quinn curled her delicate fingers into his with an easy, pleased smile.  Blaine led her into the living room, abandoning her in the middle of the floor while he fiddled with the entertainment center.  Soon music filled the air—classical stuff that wasn't usually Blaine's taste, but his parents seemed to love it, and he knew Quinn did too.  “Dance with me?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Sure,” Quinn said, her face glowing prettily in a blush.

Neither of them really knew how to dance—not like this, anyway—but they fumbled through it together with minor damage to anyone's toes.  Blaine's heart beat faster with every passing moment, his body tensing.  How was he going to do this?

“Blaine, you're all tense,” Quinn observed.  “Is something wrong?”

“No!” he answered, too-quickly.  “It's nothing; it's just… I'm trying to kiss you.”

“What?” Quinn's movement halted so suddenly that Blaine almost tripped.

“I'm… I just… I mean, I don't want to do it wrong!”

“Well, you needn't have gone through all this fuss,” Quinn said matter-of-factly.  Her voice softened.  “I've been wondering… when you would.”

 Blaine stared at her.  Her lips looked soft, pink, and yeah, he was curious but…

“Why don't you just do it already?” Quinn said, hands on her hips.

So Blaine did.

It was simple, nice, anti-climatic, and Blaine felt really stupid for having worried so much over something so easy.  He lingered for a few moments, then pulled back.  Quinn's eyes were closed; he could hear her breathing in little puffs.

“Quinn?” he prompted, hoping he hadn't done something wrong.

Her eyes opened, and then she rushed forward, joining their lips again.

This kiss wasn't so simple.  Quinn's mouth moved against his so Blaine followed with it, daring to flick his tongue out against her lips just to see.  But when she began to open her mouth, little by little, Blaine drew away.

“Okay?” he said, feeling mostly relief that it was over with.

“A little more than okay, I'd say,” Quinn offered, cheeks flushing even darker.

Blaine smiled and took her hand.  “Let's just dance some more?” he suggested.

Quinn shook her head playfully.  “Nope.  Maybe later.  I want some of those brownies!”

*******

Blaine's fourteenth birthday party, like all the birthday parties he'd had before, was crowded with nearly every kid he'd ever met, and very few that Blaine actually liked.  Wes and David were there—sons of Blaine's father's friends whom Blaine would be going to high school with come autumn.  He had spoken with them a few times before, and they were alright.  Blaine really hoped that with the new school year he could maybe, finally, make some real friends.

As it was, he sat off to the side with Quinn, who once again had her nose buried in a book.  His mother had already asked her once to put it away and “socialize,” but Blaine's father had objected, pointing out that education was more important, and wasn't it great that Quinn had shaped up to be such a smart, proper young Fab?

Fab.  Blaine was beginning to hate the word.  Outside of his home, it was starting to seem more like an excuse to treat someone badly, as less than a person.  He knew he would never, could never, treat Quinn that way.

He watched the guests as they arrived and were greeted by his mother.  Blaine knew she would prefer him to greet them with her, but by now his hatred for these sorts of parties was no secret, and his parents had reluctantly agreed to tolerate his attitude so long as he kept a smile pasted on his face and treated everyone cordially.  It's not like they had a way to force him to comply, anyways.

Most everyone was here by now, Blaine noted, scanning the yard and taking quick count of his classmates and his parents friends children.  Thirty-two puberty-ridden adolescents were in attendance, not counting himself and Quinn.  Nearly a third of them were Fabs.  Only about five guests yet to arrive, then.

He glanced back at his mother to find her leading yet another girl through the patio door.  Angela—he recognized her from class.  She was a shy girl, quiet and kind, one of the few that Blaine could see himself being real friends with if she ever came out of her shell.

But she wasn't the one who captured his attention.

Trailing behind her was a boy Blaine had never seen before.  Had Angela gotten herself a Fab?  He was tall, taller than Blaine for sure.  His blonde hair was unremarkable, but even from this distance Blaine was struck by the dazzling blue of his eyes, standing out amongst his handsome features.

Quinn had never felt quite right—not like Blaine knew she was supposed to—but it wasn't until just now he'd found something that did.

Someone who did.

It felt like he'd been frozen, like he was made of marble and someone had come along and tapped him carefully on the head, and suddenly the surface of him chipped away.  He'd known this, somewhere.  Even at five years old, when his father had taken him to the Fabrication company.  It was one of his earliest memories.  Like Prince Eric.  But he'd forced it down, told himself it didn't matter, that it wasn't important.

He tore his eyes away from the boy to look back over at Quinn.  She hadn't noticed him staring.  His heart hurt for her, for himself, and he decided it in that moment.

He'd hold onto this, keep it safe within him.  But Quinn could never know.

Happy Birthday, he thought, forcing himself to his feet, forcing himself to enter into the fray and interact in this empty place, with these empty people that made up his life.