Old Boys

            He wakes gradually to the smell of fresh coffee - his eyes are bleary and his bed is facing the wrong way.  He reaches out for his bedside table expecting to find his alarm clock so he can work out what time it is, but instead feels nothing but empty air and only just stops himself from falling out of bed.  All at once the sweet innocent oblivion of his post-sleep mind is jarred back into reality by memories of the previous day flooding back and he feels the bitter prickle of tears.  He blinks repeatedly to clear his vision and takes a calming breath as he tries to pull himself together and come to terms with the events that led up to his present position in an unfamiliar bed in borrowed clothes.  He had been so positive that he and Kurt would reconcile and they would spend some family time together with Burt…  He had been such a naïve fool.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to remain distanced and objective – he needs to keep it together, at least until he gets home.  He cannot break down in Doug's uncle's penthouse – not after turning up shoeless, wind bitten, and puffy-eyed.  He runs his last conversation with Kurt through his head again and it does not hurt any less the third, fourth, or thirtieth time.  Kurt was always so good with words – he learnt how to wield them as weapons over the years and now his accuracy cuts to the core.  He was right though – Blaine did not know what he was doing and he was running away.  Kurt had once told Blaine that he was never saying “goodbye” to him, but Blaine supposes he signed that promise away when he had broken Kurt's trust.  It feels like something that happened to someone else in another place, another time.

The familiar tug starts in his chest again – the one that tastes like guilt and shame – and he feels the weight of it start to crush him.  He takes a breath, then another, and another in an attempt to halt the on-coming wave of panic that threatens to drown him.  What was he thinking?  Kurt had been utterly right to react the way he had.  He pinches the bridge of his nose hard.  Anger bubbles up gradually – he is so sick of ruining everything.  He tried so hard to be what everyone needed him to be – immaculate, considerate, strong Blaine – and what did it get him?  He has nothing.  Kurt had been the shining beacon in his life – the wake-up call he had not even realised that he had been missing and Blaine had ruined everything.  He wants to scream, to cry, to attack a punching bag until his knuckles bleed and the pain flows away.  He is so tired - tired of having to be perfect all the time - tired of people expecting him to always be strong and sensible and to do the right thing.  Well he had proven that he was actually pretty incapable of doing anything right – the New Directions hated him, the old New Directions hated him, and now Burt and Kurt hated him.  But not Doug, and not Sebastian or Hunter – they were his friends and they would still be there for him, wouldn't they?  How long would it be before he messed something up with them?  And the Warblers…  They were expecting him to lead them to a Nationals victory and Blaine was terrified.  Kurt had been completely right – he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. 

The realisation makes him feel simultaneously exhausted and extremely agitated at once and it slowly dawns on him that he really does have to get up and somehow face Douglas.  Douglas whose generosity Blaine has no idea how to repay, or even how to begin to try.  A trickle of iced terror runs down his spine when he remembers the significance of the fact that it is Christmas Day and that Douglas probably has plans that Blaine is ruining.  The thought expels him from the warmth of the bed and he almost trips over the hem of the jogging bottoms (they must have rolled down as he slept) as he makes his way to the door.  He rolls the pants legs back up; noticing that his foot feels better than he had been expecting it to as he is forced to balance on it.  He gingerly opens the door and makes his way back to the bathroom – a couple of bottles have appeared together with fresh towels and Blaine's chest aches at how considerate Douglas is.  Curious, he unscrews the silver cap on the bottle containing a moss coloured body wash and identifies bergamot and cedar wood in the scent.  He runs a finger over the label – Bracing Silverbirch – then strips and walks into the shower cubical.

The shower is like nothing he has ever experienced before – steam and water jets pummel the tension from his shoulders and massage him, and he finds the shower gel's scent soothing and refreshing.  He exits the shower feeling more awake than he has in months.  He dries off using the fresh towels draped over the free-standing heated towel rail then pulls the Henley and joggers back on.  He towel dries his hair as best he can then and glares at his reflection in the mirror that somehow has not steamed up – like the floor and the towel rail, it too must be heated.  He notices a new toothbrush (still in its packet) nestled next to a tube of toothpaste, a small tub of pomade, and a comb.  He sends a silent prayer of thanks to Douglas's thoughtfulness and adds another line to the list of things he will never be able to fully repay his friend's uncle for as he fixes his hair.  He tries not to think about how spookily well Douglas seems to know him. 

Feeling closer to being put together, despite the casual attire, Blaine takes a deep breath – inhaling the spiced steam one last time, and makes his way into the kitchen.

            He finds Douglas bent over a series of complex looking blueprints, one hand clutching a bacon roll and the other a pencil.  Blaine watches Douglas work for a moment before the effect of the smell of food on Blaine's empty stomach forces him to announce his presence.

            ‘Uh…hi.'

Douglas looks up from his work and smiles warmly at Blaine.

            ‘Hi.  There's one of these for you keeping warm under the grill – you do eat bacon don't you?'

            ‘Oh!  Yes!  Thanks.'  Blaine mentally berates himself for coming across no more put together than he had previously as he fetches the roll from the kitchen and transfers it to the waiting plate on the side. 

            ‘There's coffee too – I'm still trying to figure that machine out so it's strong.'

            ‘Strong is fine by me right now.'

            ‘I figured it might be.'

Blaine helps himself to some of the coffee and makes his way with both plate and mug to join Douglas at the table.  He sits in silence and watches – noticing the slight creases and lines that appear when Douglas frowns and the way he transfers the pencil to hold it with his mouth as he flips between A1 sheets.  Douglas' lips purse around the end of the pencil and Blaine blinks hard, swallows and forces himself to focus on something, anything else.  He notices that the drawings appear to all be of variations on the same building – interiors and exteriors.  He finds he wants to ask Douglas about them but Douglas is working so he keeps silent and instead listens to the soundscape of their environment – the whirr-hum of the fridge, and the steady scrape-tick of the clock.  The room looks so different in the light of the day and Blaine notices for the first time that there are floor-to-ceiling windows along one entire wall that look out on a stunning view of Central Park.  He loses himself watching the tiny people go about their lives and is mildly surprised at how quiet it seems considering how dry the weather is.  It is then that he remembers what day it is again.

            ‘Merry Christmas, by the way.'  Blaine blurts before he can stop himself.  Suave, Blaine.  Well done.

            ‘Hmm?  Oh - um…  Merry Christmas, Blaine.'  The smile Blaine receives is a little tight but utterly genuine, and Blaine finds himself returning it.  Douglas' eyes meet his again and he looks like he is about to say something, then reconsiders it.  Blaine frowns, finding he needs to say something, anything, to fill the void.

            ‘I, uh, I want you to know that I'm really sorry we met like this and that I am so beyond grateful to you for your generosity.'  He knows he is rambling but he is overcome with the sudden need to let Douglas know how he is feeling, and the relief that washes over him when Douglas responds is palpable.

            ‘It is really no bother, Blaine.  It is actually nice to have a little company.  I'm just glad that I could help out a little.'

Again there is no agenda to Douglas' admission that Blaine can detect – he is not asking for details and Blaine relaxes a little knowing that Douglas will probably never ask.

            ‘I guess you have plans for later or something –'  He glances at the clock and winces when he notices the late hour – it is almost four in the afternoon, the sun will be setting in the next half-hour, and he has missed most of Christmas Day – not that he would have really felt like celebrating anyway.  He is surprised to hear Douglas huff out a laugh in response and raises an eyebrow at the man in question. 

            ‘No plans in particular, no.  I was thinking of heading over to the Club in a couple of hours – you are welcome to join me.  They usually put on a good spread.'

            ‘Um…I don't really have any spare clothes – my stuff is all kind of with my… my ex's father.  Anyway – I really don't want to impose on you.  I should really reschedule my flight or something and head home.'

Douglas' expression is unreadable and Blaine feels his skin tighten.  Dark eyes search Blaine's for what feels like an eternity and Blaine gets the feeling that Douglas is looking for something.  He does not look away. 

            ‘If that's what you'd like.'

Douglas smiles slightly and goes back to his drawings leaving Blaine feeling completely lost.  He has no clue what to do.

            ‘There's no hurry, you know.  I'm not going to kick you out, Blaine.'  The comment seemingly comes from nowhere and Blaine frowns.

            ‘I'm sorry?'

            ‘Doug mentioned that you had planned to stay in New York for a couple of days at least – you may have noticed that it is not exactly crowded here.  You're welcome to use this as a base.  It would save you the hassle of trying to change your plane ticket and it may give you the opportunity to have a bit of a break.  You look like you could use one.'

It is the most Douglas has ever said to him and Blaine has the urge to grab the man and hug him for being so kind towards someone who is practically a stranger.  Douglas senses Blaine's instability of mood and frowns slightly.

            ‘I didn't mean to overstep the mark – I'm sorry if I've offended you, Blaine.'

            ‘Offended me?  No!  I just… thank you.  I would really appreciate that.  To stay, I mean.  So long as you are sure you don't mind, that is.'

            ‘You'll find I don't make offers I do not intend to keep.'  Douglas' smile is warm, genuine and a little relieved and Blaine finds that his own is similarly open.

            ‘So – how about tonight?  I feel bad that I haven't provided you with a proper Christmas dinner.  A bacon sandwich does not exactly fit the bill…'

            ‘Actually, it was kind of exactly what I needed.  So…tell me about this Club?'

-+-

            The dinner jacket fits him like it was made to measure and Blaine has never worn anything quite like it – the shawl collar is grosgrain silk, and the lining is a deep red which matches the pocket square and the laces of his dress shoes perfectly.  He feels almost back to his old self and he is still not completely certain how Douglas pulled it off.  It was not exactly like any shops were open and Blaine reasons that it is probably safer not to question his good fortune or the reach of Douglas' contacts.

The Club turns out to be a little like something out of a Dickens novel – the men there range in age between their early 30's and late 70's, and Douglas seems to know everyone.  Blaine is introduced to barristers and judges, politicians and doctors, gallery owners and property developers, designers and shop proprietors.  Seemingly anyone who is anyone is there.  Douglas does not leave his side and Blaine finds that he is infinitely grateful as he is more than a little overwhelmed.  Douglas' presence is soothing and warm; a stabilising force – as the sun is for the planets that orbit it. 

There are a number of “Old Boys” from Dalton and they each take an interest in Blaine – asking about his GPA, his extracurricular activities, and his post-graduation plans.  He feels as if he is on show and he subconsciously leans a little into Douglas' reassuringly calm and commanding presence.  He's not sure if the Old Boys are weighing up, testing him, or simply about to eat him.

Dinner is a formal affair complete with silver service, and the food is the best he has tasted.  There are nine courses and Blaine feels full by the end of the fourth.  Wine and brandy are flowing freely and the serving staff treat him exactly the same as the other gentlemen present – calling him “sir” and refilling his glass before he even notices that it is empty.

Blaine supposes that the only difference between now and Dickens' time is that no one smokes when they withdraw after dinner.  He feels as if he has been drawn into a private and ancient world; he feels grown-up – so far removed from the petty dramas of school and his old life. 

The room spins a little when he moves his head too fast, but it is Christmas and he is actually having a good time so he cannot find it in himself to care.  He loses himself in the hum of conversation but something feels off – beside the camber of the room.  He feels colder, somehow – unsteady; as if the world has been knocked from its axis.   He realises that at some point he and Douglas have separated.  A seeping ice crawls up his spine and he stands on his tiptoes to try to spot the architect over the heads of the other gentlemen.  Somewhere, someone is playing a piano and the sound draws Blaine like a moth to fire - chasing away the ice.  He wanders through the labyrinth of ornate rooms – so like Dalton and nothing like it at the same time – until he spots the grand piano.  The pianist looks to be in his mid to late twenties, the youngest man Blaine has seen that evening by far – he is blonde and slim and has the most piercing green eyes.  Blaine finds himself leaning against the smooth black gloss of the instrument before he is aware he has moved towards it from the gilt doorway.

            ‘You're new.'

The voice is old money and molasses.  Blaine smiles and nods.

            ‘Yes – I'm here with Douglas.  Douglas Chambers.  The architect.'

            ‘Oh?'  The blonde stops playing and stands to offer his hand.  ‘I'm Benedict Charles, but my friends call me Charlie.'

            ‘Blaine Anderson.' 

            ‘Nice to meet you, Blaine.'  Charlie holds Blaine's hand for a little longer than Blaine thinks is probably necessary before releasing him.  The moment reminds Blaine a little of the first time he met Sebastian all those years ago at Dalton - it is not an unpleasant sensation.

            ‘Likewise.'

Charlie smiles as he retakes his seat at the piano, flexes his fingers and then resumes playing.  It is not a piece Blaine is familiar with but it has a nice blues rhythm to it.  Blaine resists the urge to squeeze next to Charlie on the piano stool and instead leans back onto the piano in a move he hopes looks casual.  He feels warm and his blood is buzzing in time to the beat of Charlie's music.

            ‘You're good.' 

The blonde smiles at the compliment.

            ‘Do you play, Blaine?'

            ‘A little, yeah.'

Charlie shifts over on the piano stool and motions for Blaine to join him Blaine is certain that his cheeks flush but he manages to resist, instead shaking his head slightly.  The pianist turns the full force of those emerald pools on him and Blaine finds himself sitting next to the young man – thigh pressed tightly to thigh.  He can feel the muscles in Charlie's leg shift as he depresses pedals.  He can feel the bass notes vibrate through the floor and into him through the seat.  He almost misses Charlie's question he is so lost in sensations.   

            ‘So, what brings you to the Club, Blaine?'

He takes a breath.

-+-

            Douglas feels the loss of Blaine's presence keenly and manages to fight down the inexplicable wave of nausea that accompanies the realisation.  This is worse than the last time he lost sight of Blaine at the Andersons' party – this time Blaine is supposed to be his responsibility.  At least that is how he rationalises it, because Douglas cannot contemplate the other explanation.  He excuses himself from the conversation he had been engaged in – some innocuous anecdote, no doubt, Douglas had ceased to pay conscious attention a while ago – and actively begins his search.  It does not take him long to spot him – he hears him first.  Blaine's silky baritenor is like a siren's draw and he finds a crowd surrounding the piano where both his charge and another young man are engaged in entertaining the patrons.  The blonde is practically on Blaine's lap – one arm draped around his shoulders while Blaine plays and sings.  The crowd are enjoying every moment and as Blaine draws the song to its conclusion there are plenty of “encores” and requests.  Gone is the shy, embarrassed and uncertain boy that greeted Douglas that afternoon at the table – this delightful creature before him is a consummate performer. 

            ‘You said he could sing but I think you undersold him,' a gruff voice next to his ear interjects Douglas' thoughts.  He recognises the man as a fellow Old Boy. 

He does not reply and later, much later, when he is back in his own bed - staring at the ceiling and unable to sleep, he will torture himself for being so rude – it will seem unfathomable to him.  It is utterly out of character for Douglas.  He will justify to himself that he was simply concerned for Blaine – partly because the lad had clearly had too much to drink, and also because Douglas was supposed to be responsible for him.  A responsible person would be concerned that his charge was in the company of a man with the reputation of Benedict Charles.  So, Douglas will trivialise the way his palms had pricked with sweat, and his pulse had been racing – merely a symptom of his concern and a side-effect of the heat of the room.  He will deny that his gut had clenched with a mix of fire and ice when Charlie had nonchalantly taken Blaine's hand and pulled him up and into an impromptu bow.  He will quash the memory of the way his world had diminished to nothing but a pair of amber eyes and a honeyed voice, and he will watch the shadows on the wall until they slink away to hide from the new day.