Thin Ice

                He exits the taxi at the address Doug text him, keeping as much weight as he could off his injured foot, and takes in his surroundings after paying the cabbie.  5th Avenue was the last place he had expected to end up at 4am on Christmas morning.  The fringe of trees that signal the boundary of Central Park glow almost eerily, strung as they are with lights, and giant snowflakes garnish the imposing buildings blinking slowly at him.  He glares at them – they are too jovial and jar with his mood right now.  He limps awkwardly towards the building the gruff cab driver had pointed him in and grimaces as the icy wind bites his face – he had only just begun to regain feeling in his fingers thanks to the heaters in the cab (he has lost hope of feeling his toes for now – anyway the numbness helps dull the pain of his injury).

The doormen wear forest green uniforms with polished brass buttons that remind him of watching Cinderella pantomimes as a child, and he is mildly surprised that they get the door for him without the slightest hint that they are judging his dishevelled and shoeless appearance.  Whoever's address he is at probably called down to let them know to expect him, Blaine supposes, as they do not seem surprised to see a stranger at this hour.  He anxiously runs a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to make himself look a little more presentable - at least he was well dressed (barring his present lack of footwear).  He is directed towards the lift – an art deco affair in gleaming brass and enamel – and one of the doormen, noticing Blaine's slow progress, enquires kindly as to whether or not he can call a doctor to attend to Blaine's apparent injury.  He thanks the older gentleman for his concern but politely declines – his breeding and ingrained manners kicking into overdrive – after glancing to make sure he was not trailing blood across the marble.  The lift doors slide closed with a whisper and he hardly notices that he has moved at all as the lift takes him up and up and up, all the way to the penthouse.  He re-reads the text message – Doug had not said who it was that he was sending Blaine to and the text message contains no clues, only the address which Blaine had had to re-read three times before he could take in the fact that his friend was sending him to see someone on the Upper East Side.  On Christmas morning.  At silly-o'clock. 

Doug had actually seemed genuinely concerned by Blaine's mental state as he had recounted the goings on at the ice-rink and what had transpired between Kurt and himself.  He had berated his own stupidity and pathetic optimism and Doug had hardly spoken a word other than to tell him to go to the address he was about to send him via text message.  Blaine took a deep breath, richly scented as it was with Brasso, lilies and crisp linen - it reminded Blaine of a funeral parlour and did nothing to calm his already frayed nerves.  The doors slid open with a gentle whoosh and he found himself hobbling down a short corridor towards a grand set of double doors decorated with stylised water lilies in a motive repeated subtly, both in the white moulding around the ceilings, and in the marquetry that made up the highly polished floor.  He could not see an obvious door knocker or doorbell so he raised his fist in preparation to knock – praying that this was the correct address and that Doug had not chosen now to play some sort of devilish trick on him.  He was not expecting the doors to open before he signalled his arrival and he certainly was not expecting to see him.

-+-

                The shrill bells of his 1950's Bakelite phone had woken him with a start and he had groped to answer it with shaking hands - his heart racing like he had just run a marathon; heavy and pounding in his chest.  The only reason someone would call at this godforsaken hour was to impart bad news.  He could barely hear over the racing roar of his pulse as he listened to the slight crackle on the line and the sound of someone's breath.  Doug had been quick to reassure his uncle that, no - no one had died, and no - he was not trying to give his uncle a heart attack, and yes – he was aware what time it was.  Douglas struggled to force his breathing to return to normal as he let his nephew talk – Blaine was alone in New York on Christmas morning and had nowhere to go.  Something had happened and the lad was friendless and in a bad way, and as Douglas was the only person Doug knew in New York would he be able to do Doug a “hunormous” favour and take Blaine in for the night? Douglas had had to stop himself from blurting “yes” as soon as he had heard Blaine's name – he had forced himself instead to listen to Doug's concerns for his friend's wellbeing, and had let his nephew apologise for the umpteenth time for calling at such an antisocial hour.  He eventually assured Doug that it would be no hassle at all and, of course, any friend of Doug's was a friend of Douglas'.  Doug had been so grateful Douglas' heart had ached for him – he could only imagine what it would be like to care so much for someone else's wellbeing.

Douglas dictates his address for Doug to give Blaine and then has Doug read it back to him so he is certain that his nephew has taken it down correctly.  He then lets Doug ring off and falls backwards onto his bed, suddenly and utterly boneless.  His hands are still shaking and his breathing is unsteady and he passes it off as a mixture of shock from being woken from a deep, though dreamless, sleep in the early hours of the morning and anxiety for his nephew's friend.  From the sounds of things he was not in a good place mentally, and Doug had sounded so genuinely concerned…  Douglas takes a deep breath then takes stock of the situation – his housekeeper is, naturally, unavailable – it is Christmas and he is not due to see her again until the 27th (January 2nd if he can help it – the woman works too hard and he is more than capable of coping by himself over the holiday).  He pads his way through his apartment and pokes his head into one of the guest bedrooms – he finds it made-up and releases a little sigh of relief as he would have no real clue where to start to look for fresh sheets.  That is one thing taken care of at least.

It is then he notices that he is not exactly clothed appropriately to meet someone for the first time – someone he had spent hours openly ogling at a party even though he had not been formally introduced (he still blames the whiskey).  He blushes at the thought and hurries back across the apartment to his sprawling rooms to dress.

He finds that he cannot sit still and makes his way to the kitchen for a coffee so he can attempt to make himself feel a little more human.  In hind-sight tea would have probably been more suitable as his nerves are already firing on overtime like live electrical cables in a bucket of water, and caffeine is not exactly going to help that situation any.  The rich smell of the beans as he grinds them helps to ground him a little however, and he manages to stock the fancy and over-complex machine without spilling everything everywhere, despite his trembling fingers.  He glances at the vintage station clock across the room (a happy find during a site renovation he worked on when he had first moved to the city) and frowns a little – the lad must have been really far away.  Alternately finding a cab on Christmas morning may have proven a challenge.  Douglas frowns as he takes a sip of the hot, bitter liquid – perhaps he should have told Doug that he would send someone to collect Blaine?  Anything could have happened to him by now!  He should have called down – Gerry and Brian were on duty tonight and they both knew Douglas well enough to call a driver for him with no awkward questions.  He winces at the thought of trying to explain why a teenager was making his way to his apartment in the early hours of the morning.  If it had been one of the newer guys - Greg or Markus, for example - they would surely have raised an eyebrow, but Gerry and Brian had been at the building since Douglas had first moved there.  He sent a quick prayer to anyone who was listening in thanks – the last thing he needed was gossip.  It was then that he remembered that he really needed to let them know to expect Blaine downstairs and to send him right up.  He called down to pass on the message and was grateful that he detected no surprise or scandal in Brian's deep voice.  Brian was not the type to ask questions and it was not as if Douglas often had young men visit his rooms.  In fact, Douglas could count the number of people he had had to visit him (clients he preferred to meet in his offices) on one hand in the 10 years he had lived there.

As time passed he became more and more aware of the metallic scrape-tick of the old clock, and he poured himself a second cup of coffee - more to give himself something to do with his hands than anything else.  He ran a hand through his slightly sleep tousled hair and glanced at his reflection in the spotless oven as he did so and was marginally pleased with what he saw – he did not look as wild-eyed and frantic as he felt on the inside.  He tried to distract himself from the nervousness of waiting by flicking idly through some designs he had brought home from the office with him that were now spread haphazardly across the glass dining table top.  He found himself looking through them more than at them and he eventually closed his eyes in frustration.  This was not how he had imagined finally meeting Blaine – how could one simply extend a hand and invite someone into their private space when they knew nothing of one another?  Well, Douglas mused, he knew quite a lot – more than he should really, from Doug's constant commentary, but, that aside, the only time Douglas had actually been in the same room as Blaine was at that party.  They were truly strangers.

                What must he think of me - the strange uncle of his friend who stared at him all evening without even saying “hello”?

He shook his head lightly and reminded himself why Blaine was making his way (hopefully) to Douglas' in the first place – the lad was stranded in New York and had just had a rather nasty argument with his ex on Christmas Eve.  Douglas took the opportunity to re-centre himself – to push all his fears and worries to the side – to make himself open and ready to help his nephew's friend.  Nothing mattered right now apart from doing what he could to ensure Blaine's comfort and safety.

The brief buzz of the intercom alerted Douglas that Blaine must have arrived and he made his way across the suite to the large double doors that led onto the small private landing that served as the entrance to his penthouse.  He stared for a moment at the ornate carvings and marvelled briefly at the significance of the moment – want it to or not his life had changed the moment he first accepted his brother's invite to the Andersons' anniversary party and now, on the other side of those doors with which he was so familiar, stood a boy he had been unable to get out of his head since the moment he had laid eyes on him.  Douglas took a breath with the full knowledge that his life was about to change again for better or worse and opened the doors.

-+-

               Blaine froze, hand held awkwardly in mid-knock.  He had lost all ability to form conscious thoughts apparently and was stood, frozen, like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar.  Doug's uncle stood before him in the flesh and suddenly Blaine needed to be somewhere far, far away.  He had no idea what he had been expecting – the address was a penthouse on the Upper East Side, for goodness sake!  But whatever it had been, it had not been this – he had idly thought about meeting the man before him numerous times since Blaine had first caught him watching him.  In each permutation, be it at a party, or a formal dinner, Blaine had been cool, calm and collected – dressed to the nines, extending a hand, and coming across as mature and suave.  This was not supposed to be how he met Douglas Chambers.  Deep-down he had never really thought he would ever actually meet the man before him – why ever would he?  He was merely an eighteen-year-old (almost nineteen, thank you very much) boy and his friend's uncle was an attractive man who shared Blaine's inclination and who he secretly looked up to the more he learnt about him.  He represented safety and integrity, and served as a distraction – someone Blaine could fantasise fancied him without ever needing to face the reality of inevitable rejection. 

When Blaine had first heard tale of the elusive “Lord Lucan” he had experienced a deep thrill that had surged through him, awakening something within him that he had never had cause to previously think about.  The romanticism and mystery had appealed to Blaine and he had become mildly obsessed with gleaning bits of information about his friend's absent uncle.  Feeling unsatisfied with what he heard and picked up from listening in on his parents' discussions, Blaine had devised a character in his head that was charming, debonair, and a bit of a rogue - a rebel who had, due to some indeterminate scandal (that may, or may not have been related to a murder), left his family for the big city and never looked back.  As he had grown older, Blaine's immature and naive caricature of the man he privately called simply “Lucan”, had developed into a complex romantic lead for Blaine's first inexperienced fumblings and he blushed down to his frozen toes at the possibility that the man in front of him could ever learn the reality.  But the man before him was so much more tangible than “Lucan” had been – fiercely intelligent dark eyes bored into his and Blaine was certain that he was completely see-through in that moment. 

Blaine realised with chagrin that he was staring and dropped his eyes quickly muttering something about how he should never have come - that it was a terrible mistake, and that he was just going to get a hotel room, whilst somehow managing to apologise profusely for disturbing the gentleman at this ridiculous hour on Christmas morning.  Before Blaine could turn to leave he felt a gentle, but firm, hand on his shoulder accompanied by a deep rumbling (and nervous?) laugh. 

          ‘Come now - there's no need for that.  You're Doug's friend and he's family which makes you family by extension.  So let's start over shall we?  I'm Douglas.'  His voice is softer than Blaine had expected, deeper somehow, and though quietly spoken, there is a power to his voice that makes Blaine know instantly that he never wants to cross this man.  Douglas holds out his hand and Blaine squares his shoulders and takes it forcing himself to meet the elder's eyes again.

          ‘Blaine.  Blaine Anderson.  We met - well, we almost met at my parents' wedding anniversary party.'

          ‘I remember.  I find myself remiss there – allow me to make up for not introducing myself as I should have to my gracious host.'  Douglas' smile is soft and looks genuine and Blaine lets himself relax slightly as Douglas steps aside and gestures for his young companion to follow him into his private space.

Blaine makes to follow Douglas, disguising his limp as best he can, and praying he does not re-open the wound as Douglas' carpets are deep-piled and cream in colour.  He is tense and keeps his back as straight as he can as he follows the taller man into the open-plan kitchen area, trying to act as if he is not helplessly overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted. 

          ‘May I take your coat, Blaine?'

He realises he must be positively glowing as his skin gradually warms with the ambience of the room, and he is thankful that it masks his blush as he pleads with his fingers to co-operate while he negotiates with the toggles of his thick overcoat.  His fingers feel like sausages and he is certain that the simple activity takes him a lot longer than it should, but he eventually manages to peel himself out of his coat.  Douglas takes it from him, and his scarf, without a word and merely motions for Blaine to take a stool at the Corian topped breakfast bar as he disappears back into the hallway - presumably to hang Blaine's things in a closet somewhere as Blaine did not recall seeing anything so homely looking as a coatrack.  He grimaces as he realises that Douglas would have noticed his shoeless state and wonders what the man thinks about it and how he could explain without coming across as pathetic.  He is not left alone with his thoughts for long, however, as Douglas returns, crossing the large, open space and busies himself gathering two large mugs, a saucepan, a canister of something Blaine does not immediately recognise, and some milk.

          ‘Hot chocolate sound good?'

          ‘That would actually be kind of perfect, thank you.'  Blaine cannot help but smile a little, and he winces as his cheeks sting.  He forces himself not to stare while Douglas makes their beverages and instead allows himself to take in his unexpected surroundings.  The room is sparsely but tastefully decorated with numerous architectural details and a muted colour palate that serves to accentuate the stark beauty of the more structural items.  Someone has plainly spent time designing the lighting to almost paint with the available textures in the room and the resultant atmosphere is wholly comforting instead of being clinical and empty.  It is simultaneously elegant and masculine and Blaine finds himself appreciating the subtleties of the decorative touches he can see.  He massages his frozen hands as he looks around and for the first time since he arrived in New York he allows himself to try to relax a little.  He is concentrating so hard on not thinking about why he came to be in Douglas' place that, when a Cornishware mug appears in front of him full of thick, creamy hot chocolate topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon, Blaine jumps slightly.

          ‘Sorry.'  Douglas smiles as he takes a seat across from his young guest.  ‘You looked very deep in thought there.'

          ‘Sorry!  I was – um… I mean I wasn't.  I was trying not to think.'

He does not expect the quiet hum of understanding that Douglas makes in response, and he is not quite sure what to say so instead Blaine wraps his tortured fingers around the mug and tries not to moan in pleasure at how good it feels. 

They sit with the rich scent of cocoa, cinnamon and cream between them until both mugs are empty and have long-since gone cold.  The silence is peppered with the noise of the city slowly waking around them and Blaine slowly allows himself to process recent events.  Douglas casually reads a book he must have fetched at some point and Blaine silently thanks him for not trying to talk to him – after all, Doug must have told his uncle something and Blaine knows that, were their roles reversed, he would be dying to know what happened. 

Eventually Blaine feels about pulled-together enough to move – his foot has started to throb and his eyes feel like they have been open for days.  He gingerly goes to stand and the movement draws Douglas' attention.

          ‘Sorry.  I…uh, please may I use your bathroom?  I lost my shoes and I cut my foot at some point and I should probably see to it to make sure there's no glass or anything still in it before it closes up too much.'

Douglas frowns in concern but nods and leads Blaine down a side-corridor, past multiple doors, and finally into a bathroom that was almost the size of Blaine's bedroom back in Ohio.  Blaine mumbles his thanks and takes a seat in a wicker bath chair that looks like it is at least five times his age, then begins to peel his bloody and filthy sock from his injured foot.  He hisses in pain as the fabric sticks around the wound where the blood has dried, and suddenly Douglas is kneeling beside him – his hands gently taking over for Blaine.

          ‘Let me.'  It is spoken so softly - almost tenderly - that the fact that it is not a question but command does not bristle Blaine and he instead finds himself giving his foot (and trust) over to a man he hardly knows.  Douglas removes Blaine's sock with what is almost a caress, and makes a small tut noise before standing and leaving the room.  Blaine frowns in confusion, his foot twitching slightly at the sudden absence of slightly rough, warm hands, but Douglas is soon back with a brown bottle of something, a small bowl (which he fills with water from the sink), and a bundle of cloths, pins, and bandages.  Blaine follows Douglas' movements with curious eyes as he methodically pours a measure of the liquid into the slightly steaming water - releasing a sharp antiseptic smell into the air.  Douglas once again kneels before Blaine and gently takes his foot.  Blaine hisses between his teeth as the wet cloth touches his foot and the cut seems to glow bright-hot like a brand. 

‘It's not too bad – you were lucky.  This should kill any potential infection.  I know it stings, sorry.' 

‘No – it's fine.  Thank you.'  Blaine forces his voice to sound strong and is pleased that it does not betray him as Douglas works on his foot – first cleaning, then drying and bandaging it.  He only meets Blaine's eyes when he has finished and then it is so brief Blaine almost believes he imagined it.  Douglas cleans up methodically, pouring the now brown water out down the sink, and disappears again - presumably to return the first-aid items to wherever they came from.  He leaves Blaine with a couple of pure white towels of different sizes that look impossibly fluffy and closes the door behind him.  Blaine takes the opportunity to place his bandaged foot on the warm tile (Under-floor heating? he wonders idly) and is pleasantly surprised when he only experiences a dull, pressing ache instead of the sharp, stabbing pain from earlier.  He stands gingerly and tests his weight through his foot then makes his way over to the sink, cringing when he sees his reflection up close.  His eyes are puffy and his hair is a dishevelled nest of half-escaped curls.  He frowns and quickly runs the tap splashing his face with freezing water in an attempt to reduce the swelling around his eyes.  He presses his face to a towel and inhales Egyptian cotton and lavender.  

          He does not know how long he was in the bathroom for, but by the time he emerges he feels a little closer to human.  He eventually finds his way back into the kitchen and finds Douglas at the breakfast bar with his book again.  Blaine clears his throat a little to get the older man's attention and tries to smile when Douglas' eyes meet his own. 

          ‘There is a guest bedroom just down that hall and to your left – I've put out some fresh clothes for you.  Get some sleep, OK?'

It should be awkward, Blaine knows it should.  He is, after all, an unannounced guest in this man's house, but it is not awkward.  Blaine thanks Douglas from the bottom of his heart, fractured and tormented as it is, that the man has not asked him if he wants to talk, or even how he is.  He resolves to make it up to him somehow as he enters the room Douglas has offered him.  Blaine finds a plain white Henley and a pair of dove grey jogging bottoms – both are well-worn but clean and warm and smell strongly of the same fabric conditioner as the towels.  He strips, changes - rolling up both the sleeves of the top and the pants legs so they are not so ridiculously long on him, then pulls back the cashmere and silk comforter before sliding between the linen sheets.  For once he has no problem drifting off and before he knows it he is lost to fractured dreams featuring furious glasz eyes.