The particular shade of blue he needed had been nearly impossible to reach. Too much green, then too little, too grey and not grey enough. He saw it so clearly in his head, yet the paintbrush refused to cooperate, but Blaine was nothing if not perseverant, and particularly skilled when properly motivated.

The apartment was completely dark, not necessary gloomy, but not pleasant either. The furniture, that normally inspired a particular homeliness, looked like props from a horror movie, skeletons of their day life existence. Certainly, they fit the current mood of their owner.

It felt like hours, the sun had fallen in the world outside of that bedroom, but Blaine wouldn´t notice until it was morning again. His whole world revolved around the mostly empty canvas and the face in his mind, burning away all sanity.

The eyes were the focal point, they were what drew him in the first time. The first dream, there were only eyes.

Somewhere in the distance Tulip was meowing, probably starving, it had been over day since Blaine had last left his studio.

The lashes were only a little bit easier, each individual lash, long and delicate. A soft chestnut shade, almost blond near the tips. The rest of his face would probably take him another day and night, but he was starting to feel dizzy and his pulse started to suffer. Putting the brush down was almost as painful as leaving his arm behind, but he couldn't risk ruining the painting now that the eyes were finally perfect.

Tulip was nearly murderous by the time Blaine finished climbing down the stairs. In fact he curled around Blaine´s legs with clear intent before the word food was used.

The black cat settled for climbing on the large mahogany table and making his displeasure known. Loudly and with claws.

Dinner for Tulip consisted on a small plate of tuna in his little golden dish, an unusual luxury but Blaine was feeling guilty for neglecting his only companion, plus he had forgotten to purchase kibble.

The eyes were as perfect as they would get, he decided, sadly nothing he could ever produce would match the perfection of that face that haunted him day and night. And that was saying something. At the age of 23 Blaine was one of the most sought after eccentricities of the artistic scenery, musician turned actor turned painter, guessing what would catch his fancy next was the critics' favourite game. Not that Blaine ever cared about his fame or followers.

Most of what he had done had been unintentionally aimed to anger his parents, a very late teenage rebellion coupled with a severe lack of purpose. At twenty he had been sitting through an extraordinarily boring lecture on American economy when he simply decided he could not waste another second of his life studying something he disliked in order to work at a place he hated, his father's company, doing something that would never satisfy him. Rather that storming out dramatically, he waited until the end of the class before calmly walking to his dorm. That afternoon, Blaine packed all of his belongings bought a plane ticket to NY and left.

His father had been furious, that was to be expected, luckily Cooper took it with humour and put him in touch with a friend. Before a week had gone by Blaine was settled in a small and dirty apartment in the worst side of the city and had a job as a backup singer in a relatively well known club. Most importantly, he finally felt like he could breath.

Blaine was not and had never been an unhappy person, his parents had paid attention to him, not a lot and not very often, but he couldn't claim he had been neglected. His coming out as gay had not been well received, yet it was not a tragic story either, his mother had cried and his father yelled, there was family therapy and family dinners and many failed attempts at reconnecting before they reached some kind of truce. Which had lasted until senior year.

Mr. Anderson, Andrew to his friends, owned a large pharmaceutical company, it took most of his time as CEO and public face; his wife was the head of the, rather large, team of lawyers so he had obviously expected Blaine and Cooper to take some interest in it. He had been disappointed.

First Cooper had taken off to LA to become a Hollywood star, it had yet to happen, however, he remained optimistic, plus having a pretty face never hurt during auditions. Still, Cooper had always been too much of a "free spirit", quotation marks included, so Mr. Anderson hadn't made a fuss, he had two sons so things could still work out. But Blaine, well he didn't have any crazy plans for his future, he claimed no desire to work for his father though he had no alternative option. After many arguments, he was presented with alternatives, first he could get a job which was unlikely without qualifications, he could go to Princeton, where he had been accepted and mayor in business or finally, he could come up with a plan of his own. Additionally, he would only get monetary support if he took option two. So Blaine shipped himself to Princeton.

He lasted two years.

Blaine would be the first to admit, he had no reason to be resentful which he wasn't, not really, and perhaps he should have done something for himself two years before, when his father gave him a chance rather than two years and several thousands of dollars later.

He had eventually returned the money, after he had been discovered one night in the bar and his first tour had finished, quite successfully according to his manager. Andrew Anderson had never quite forgiven him, Sarah Anderson called him every Christmas and for every birthday, Cooper Anderson simply thought he was the biggest troll the family had ever spawned. Blaine simply smiled at the cameras.

Five years and three professions went by and Blaine felt he was finally close to finding whatever it was he needed. And then he dreamed of the face.

Now he was almost sure, his purpose included that face, at least to some extent. His manager, some Sebastian Smythe, the only one who had lasted more than two months around the spastic artist, was happy to ignore Blaine's episode, so long he had something to show to the public afterwards. Admittedly, he had been less understanding this time, when Blaine had called him at two in the morning to prattle about something wonderful he kind of remember from a dream/hallucination. Still, Blaine was worth millions, so Sebastian managed to only curse once before hanging up and rolling back to sleep. The following morning he showed up at bright and early with two business plans ready and a lot of coffee.

"I don´t know his name." Blaine confessed almost embarrassed between bites of blueberry muffin.

"I don't care about his name, Blaine. Is it going to be a good painting?" Sebastian drawled from his position on the large neon pink couch.

"It will be the best thing I'll ever do." Sebastian sighed, yes his client was not really right in the head, but his patience and a bit of prodding he would get something profitable out of him.

"Fine, then paint it" And Blaine did.

For days, it was the only thing he did. The portrait had really come around after the eyes were done. So blue and green and grey, how could such a shade exist? The nose, so round and fairy tale like. The skin, no brush would ever do it justice. Yes, it was the best thing he could ever do. And it wasn't enough.

The second portrait was done within a day. While the first one was like a first glimpse, quite ethereal and only a little unreal with a faraway look, like the subject had no mundane concerns surrounded by a meaningless library (Blaine had painted the background simply because it was so dark and gloom that the Face glowed that much more). The second painting was about the details, about the tiny freckles, about each individual hair. Still otherworldly, but closer, no longer a first contact. He felt like he was getting to know the Face.

The third painting included hands, long and elegant fingers curled around a pencil. Pale and silky, just like the Face. Blaine measured his own hand against it and found himself so lacking...

Sebastian was in the kitchen, Blaine couldn't remember letting him in. No, he wasn't finished yet. Yes, he would be ready for the meeting with the gallery director. Fine Sebastian, you can help me get dressed. Goodbye Sebastian.

The Face had a body; it didn't fit in the frame so Blaine had to paint it on a wall, right on the landing of the stairs. He had to move an old mirror he had hanged there when he'd first moved but it was the only surface he could think of. The Face was taller than him, just a few inches, he found that information exciting.

Two weeks after he had first dreamed of him, Blaine started talking to the Face. He was on his way to feed Tulip while being cursed in cat language when he heard it.

"You are lucky that cat hasn't abandoned you yet. It's weird though, I thought they went wherever the food was." The Face by the kitchen entrance, his newest addition, was wearing a smirk deliciously mocking and the voice, oh that voice. Blaine couldn't have been imaging it, his brain could not come up with such a wonderful sound. Very high, but sweet it fit the Face very well.

"Tulip happens to be a very loyal cat. And I am usually a more responsible owner." Blaine was almost done opening the tuna can, one the reasons Tulip hadn't ditched him yet when he realised what had happened.

"You can hear me?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

For five days Blaine painted and drew the Face all over the house, in napkins and magazines and every canvass that was still unused.

"You are a writer right?"

"Why would you assume that?" The Face was sitting on a log, surrounded by a blue green forest. It matched his eyes.

"Well," Blaine spoke from his position on the bed, he was getting ready to sleep, but that question had been haunting him, "I've seen you hold pens and pencils many times. You have one when you are near the stairs, and you have a pencil and a notebook on the living room."

"Yes, I suppose I'm a writer." He didn't move from his log, his face was aimed at Blaine's bed, but if you looked closely you could see that those blue eyes were looking out of the window completely uninterested by whatever occupied Blaine's bedroom. "What else do you know about me?" he sounded only mildly curious.

"You were born in a small town, it's why you like open spaces." Blaine got thirsty, there was soda in the kitchen he remembered. "Am I right?"

"Maybe." The Face that was caught mid dance in the main hallway was always the most mysterious and playful one, only the profile visible and one arm extended, the hand, so bright against the wall was the centre of attention.

"You love your family, and you miss them." Blaine stood in front of the Face by the stairs "did I get it right?"

It looked sorrowful and distant. "I miss them all of the time."

"You'll get fat if you only drink that".

"You are always so mean" Blaine complained playfully exciting the kitchen, he gave the mocking Face a little peck on the lips.

Sebastian refused to buy supplies for Blaine, something about being the middle of the night again and having other clients.

That day was the first time Blaine set foot out of his house in over three weeks. In addition to the art supplies he needed food for himself and for Tulip, kibble was a must, after nothing but tuna Blaine had woken to cat puke on his kitchen, couch and piano bench.

One canvass took all of the back seat of the car, the new brushes rested on the trunk. His house was on the outskirts of the city, a large and quiet area for a very selective neighbourhood. Quite different from his first apartment on the city.

The market was unusually crowded and Blaine was struggling under the weight of a bag of cat food and apples. Not shockingly he tripped over his right foot.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Blaine's breath caught in his throat, the Face was there just as musical and waiflike as his paintings. And disturbingly three dimensional.