Hangover

            He is numb to the wind's jellyfish-esque attempts to sting his eyes and cheeks with freezing tentacles that are almost tangible; he can no longer feel his fingers or nose anymore - but he needs the fresh air.  He needs to sober up.  He needs to think. 

Douglas does not expect to actually be able to spot Blaine from the balcony – no, he's long gone by now – Douglas is blind to the external wold of his surroundings anyway, lost and stumbling in his mind's eye as he is.  Unseeing eyes dart frantically as Douglas fumbles through the tortured mess he made of the past seconds?, minutes?, hours? – he cannot be sure.  Time is at once gelatinous and fluid in his present state – lapping at him then crashing over him, drowning him.  He cannot breathe – his lungs ache with panic, frustration, anger, and fear.  Little demons pawing at him – rocks tied to his limbs, pulling him under tormented thoughts. 

He should never have had that last drink.  Perhaps, he should not have had the one before it.  Or, not drunk at all! 

So foolish – I should have stopped this days ago. 

~ But you didn't.  You didn't want to. ~ 

He feels like a man shipwrecked – all the wind has been stolen from his sails now - adrift and listless.  Douglas had felt guilty leaving Blaine to make his own entertainment on New Year's Eve - he was surprised how quickly he had become accustomed to Blaine's presence in his life.  For months he had felt as if he was merely drifting, coasting along directionless and alone.  He had found no pleasure in his work and he had shunned colleagues and friends alike making excuses to avoid social interactions where he would be forced to recognise the successes and happiness of others – each proclamation affirmation of his own pathetic existence.  Things had gone from bad to worse when Roger had barged his way back into his brother's life – a living, breathing reminder of how Douglas' life should have been.  If he were a better son.  If he were straight.

Blaine had shone like a lighthouse at the Andersons' party, and though Douglas had not even spoken to him, he had somehow imparted some light back into Douglas' darkness.  He had returned from Roger's with a more positive attitude towards both his work and social lives – he had actually tackled his projects with something resembling enthusiasm.  But he had never quite gotten the beautiful boy with the golden eyes out of his mind.

When Doug had called him, Douglas had not even thought to refuse Blaine help, and in the days that followed, Douglas had expected to find the pedestaled illusion he had created in the lad's image from fragments of gleaned information wanting.  He had not expected to feel for Blaine. 

~ To fall for him.~    

It had all happened so quickly and so gradually that it had taken him by surprise – dinners and lunches and easy conversations, light touches, and warm gestures.  He had not expected Blaine to fit so easily into his life that he had built in New York.  No one else had – what were the odds that a teenager could do what men had been unable to?

Douglas realises that he is pacing and forces himself to stop.  He leans heavily on the balustrade and attempts to clear his mind of the dwelling, circling thoughts.  He brings himself back to the present day – to the events which led Blaine to flee him.

The day had gone so well and he had won the business – the contract was worth billions, not to mention the added reputational bonus the Chinese venture would provide.  Dingxiang Youxi had chosen Douglas' design over all of those tendered by rival firms – the design was a labour of love for Douglas – he had worked on it solidly since the request for designs had gone out.  It had been a wondrous distraction – the perfect project to take his mind away from youthful copper and honey and the building was to be his greatest work – towering gracefully over the skyline, an endless testimony to passion and his lasting legacy.  When Dingxiang had announced his trip to New York Douglas had scarcely dared to breathe, to dream – this deal meant that he had truly gained international recognition for his work, despite his father's continual assertions that he had no great skill or talent.  Despite his father's rejection, Douglas had done what his father had not, yet rather than leaving him elated Douglas had felt hollow somehow.  So he had accepted the congratulatory champagne, and the celebratory white wine that Mr. Youxi had brought with him –

‘To New Years and new beginnings!'

- and he had eaten only enough to be considered polite. 

He was not sure why he had expected Blaine to be home when he had returned – but, upon finding the penthouse empty, he had been overcome with a feeling of remorse and guilt that he could not understand.  He had put it down to too much alcohol, to which he was not accustomed, and too little food, and had been about to retire when he had heard the sound of footsteps.  He had instantly recognised the footfall as Blaine's and he recalled feeling out of breath and dry-mouthed.

The gorgeous creature before him had stolen what remaining breath he had together with his better judgement.  Blaine had been right to be confused because Douglas had wanted him then.  He had wanted him from the very beginning.  Sweet lips and soft skin had overwhelmed him and he had been utterly powerless in the moment.  Unable to be the rash, mature adult Blaine had needed him to be, Douglas had let himself be lost in Blaine's inebriated and misguided passion.

Nausea struck him, gloved and merciless, but Douglas fought it down.  He was the lad's acting guardian and he had taken advantage of his young charge when he had been in a vulnerable emotional place.  Disgusted with himself, he found that he was shaking. 

            ~ Your father was right – you are useless and good-for-nothing, Douglas Graeme Chambers.  He probably never wants to see you again.  And why should he? ~

A distant alarm called him from his spiralling thoughts – it took him longer than perhaps it should to recognise the ringtone of his phone.  He made his way back into the dark room and fumbled in his coat pockets for the vibrating cell.  Numb fingers took a while to register on the touchscreen and he missed the call.  Unlocking it the number revealed explained everything.

1 Missed Call from Benedict Charles

-+-

            He is surrounded by the press of writhing bodies – sticky with sweat and alcohol and sweet with musk and arousal.  They surge against him like waves; pulling at him, stroking him, grinding against him.  He feels, more than hears, music over the sounds of hooting, cheering and shouting – a tribal force through his heart and veins that pulls his feet to the beat like a pied piper.  His hand is never empty long – bottles and strange shaped glasses filled with exotic looking liquids of every colour.  He has lost all sense of smell and taste – he is a mess of raw fibres now; he feels.  It burns with delicious fury.  It is easy to get lost in the swarm – the lights reduce faces to angular flashes of distorted colour – eyes, teeth, hair, jaw, lips.  The feel of lips at his pulse.  The feel of hips against the swell of his ass.  Hands in the dip of his back.  The hard press of arousal against his thigh.  A hand pulling his.  Insistent.  Up, up, up to the surface. 

The cold hits him like a sledge hammer and the sudden lack of everything – sound, heat, bodies, music, voices – slaps him hard.  He throws up violently – liquid, only liquid – until he is empty.  Then there is the sharp of the floor on his palms – dulled knives in pillows: distant and far away.  Then there is darkness and echoes of familiar voices.  Then nothing.  Nothing.

-+-

            His mouth is cotton wool, his stomach a thrashing sea monster, and his head is simultaneously on fire, under water, and the punching bag of an extremely angry gorilla.  He barely has time to register that his limbs work before he finds himself in the bathroom acquainting himself with porcelain.

He rinses the bitter bile from his mouth with tap water and winces at the blurry, bloodshot mess in the mirror. 

The shower's operational difficulty level has miraculously increased by itself and the floor is uneven but he manages to take a shower, and towels himself dry before another attack of nausea has him back on the floor retching up nothing into the toilet bowl.

Eventually he heaves himself up from the warm tiles with noodle limbs, and attempts to make his way back to the safety of pillows and blankets.  Bacon and coffee smack him in the face – both are too strong – they have no right to be so pungent.  The fridge is too loud and the clock insults him with each persistent tick, but he makes it into the kitchen before he remembers why he is in the state he is in.  His brain helpfully forgot to remind him until he was face-to-face with Douglas about his New Year's activities – confirming Blaine's suspicion that it was a traitor and was only interested in feeding itself.  His stomach lurches as the smell of food finally reaches it and he barely makes it back to the bathroom in time – not that there is actually anything else left in his system to bring back up.

He does not expect the firm, gentle hand on his back rubbing soothing circles – he expects raised voices and Disappointment.  He expects to be thrown out, not to be fed and looked after.

It should feel patronising but this is the care of a friend not of a parent.  This is tenderness.  This is understanding and forgiveness, and Blaine wants to hate Douglas for it.

-+-

            They do not talk about what happened – it should be strained, but it is not.  Both are in as much denial as the other.  They go back to their easy schedule – Blaine sightseeing and Douglas working.  But their nights find them tossing and turning in separate beds to images of red silk, suits, and the feel of desperate lips and stubble. 

Returning to Lima feels like a betrayal and the thought is more confusing to Blaine than it should be.  He should be happy to be home with his family and friends again.  No one asks him about what happened with Burt but his mother sends Douglas a thank you card and makes Blaine sign it.  Blaine cannot explain why the act makes him laugh hysterically for an hour after she suggests it – but he signs it anyway.

            Lima is not New York.  Obviously.  But the fact had not hit him until he returned to Lima of how tiny and insignificant everything is there.  Nothing is as urgent or important.  It all seems watered down and, if he is honest, childish.  His friends seem childish – their petty squabbles and talk of Christmas presents, and holiday activities bore him to his core, but he does not share his experiences of New York with them - the good or the bad. 

He feels restless.  He studies hard – he needs to get into Columbia.  He wants to impress Douglas – he wants to prove that he is adult and worthy of his time.  Of him.  He devotes all of his energy to his studies and to being the best he can be at everything.  He becomes the epitome of perfection during the day – grades, manners, style.

The nights make his skin crawl.  He retreats at home – growing irritable and snappy when his mother attempts to find out about his day.  He finds her attention cloying and babying - his perfect grades prevent his father taking harsh action for his withdrawal from family life.  He is, after all 19 – he cannot be mothered forever. 

Energy crackles under his skin and he feels as if he is losing his mind.

            It is Sebastian who calls him out on his behaviour; but Sebastian is easily distracted.  Blaine does not have to try hard to convince his friend to accompany him to a club in the next city over.  He feels alive the second the music courses through him and he eases himself into the press of bodies.  He lets it surge through him – erasing and cleansing him.  He finds it oddly cathartic – at once a reminder and a punishment.

The first night out is a success and for a short time afterwards Blaine feels calmer – more focused.   But then the itch returns.  His mind is a hive of hornets and wasps and bees.  He prickles without provocation and it is Sebastian who drags him out.  But it is not Sebastian who starts the fight.

-+-

            He lost his phone somewhere between deflecting the empty bottle that had been aimed at his friend's head, and the bouncer forcibly ejecting him from the club.  Afterwards he learns that the bullock of a man who had attacked Sebastian had done so because of a misunderstanding – Blaine's friend had been getting a little too intimate with the meat-mountain's boyfriend and the man had decided to take it upon himself to teach the younger man a lesson with the business end of a beer bottle.

It is an experience Blaine never wants to repeat – being delivered to his parents' house in a police car.  His mother is a whirlwind of tears, anger and ferocious disappointment and seems unable to understand that Blaine was actually defending his friend not fighting.  His father is more helpful and focuses on talking with the police and Sebastian's father.  Blaine sends sincere thanks to whoever is up there that Sebastian's father is a state attorney – no charges are being levelled against Blaine.

The early hours are emotional – Blaine's mother, exhausted, retires upon his father's insistence at some point in the lecture that follows the police and Smythes' departures.  Bill is angry and disappointed but Blaine can handle that because ultimately, if he had not stepped in, Sebastian would be, at best, in the hospital. 

Sleep escapes him – he is too wired – adrenaline and anxiety course through him and he finds himself on his laptop.  Reddit, Tumblr, Facebook – he finds tiny distractions, amusing gifsets, anecdotes.  He has not indulged in this procrastination for months and there are memes to catch up on.  Then he notices something – actually, the lack of something; there are no posts from Sam, or Finn, or Artie...or Kurt….and it hits him hard then – how much has changed in such a short time.  All because of one mistake.  All because he answered a stupid Facebook message when he was feeling lost, undesirable, forgotten and left behind.  He almost breaks the laptop with the sudden need to be rid of it.  He pulls his knees up to his chest and tries to stop himself from falling apart.

He reaches for his cell – but he lost it in the scuffle.  He remembers then the blood and the glass – his knuckles are bruising from where his punches connected.  He traces the rust coloured patterns – soon they will be purples, then greens and yellows.  Do bruises really ever completely fade?

If the bouncers had not intervened when they had he has no idea what would have happened – the mountain's friends would have likely joined in he supposes.  The thought makes him feel nauseous.  He needs to talk to someone – someone who has seen him at his worst and dis not abandon him.  Someone who will still listen and understand even though it has been weeks – he makes his way to the kitchen and uses the landline to dial a number he hopes is right – he has no way to check.

It rings, rings, rings.  Click.

            ‘Blaine?'  His name is a soft sigh and Blaine's wall crashes down.