Lost

            He is a hurricane; there is a darkness - a depression that wavers with the uncertain, quivering anticipation of the absent.  While Blaine's location was unknown Douglas had felt lost with no real direction.  Questions and decisions, numerous and heavy, had thrown themselves relentlessly against the walls of his mind:

Stay where you are and wait in case

 – behaviour drilled into him since childhood.

Join the manhunt and do something

- a sense of deluded purpose: a task of distraction to feel less useless.

His keys are in his hand and he is almost out the door when Blaine breezes in.

            ‘Were you heading out?'  The younger man looks confused.

            ‘I…uh…I was about to look for you.'

            ‘Oh.'

Douglas watches Blaine head further into the apartment, running his eyes over him, frantically analysing posture in an attempt to gauge the situation.

Hurt? – no tears or discernable marks on Blaine's clothing, no cuts or bruises, nothing obvious.

Drunk? – Blaine's movements are fluid but a little overcompensated.

Angry? – there is a tightness to his shoulder and a hardness to his eyes.  His voice is gravel – he has been shouting, but that could just be from trying to communicate in a noisy club.

Blaine sets about making coffee so Douglas waits, gravitating towards the breakfast bar – he knows without conscious thought that he needs to let Blaine come to him.  He picks up his discarded book and waits.

            ‘Doug call?'

At the sound of Blaine's voice Douglas looks up and nods in the affirmative.

            ‘He say whether he was coming back here?'

            ‘I think the plan was to stay with your friends tonight.'

            ‘Right…  Yes.  Of course.'

Douglas raises an eyebrow when Blaine says no more, opting instead to finish his coffee before heading in the direction of their bedroom.  Douglas goes back to staring at the pages of his book until he reasons that Blaine must have passed out or something and is half-off the stool and about to make his way across the room when Blaine resurfaces, dressed in sleepwear.  He clears his throat.

            ‘Honey, you may want to take that make-up off.'

            ‘Charlie.'  Blaine says as if that explains everything, before his path diverts back into their bedroom.

Douglas frowns – curiosity with a side of jealousy he fully intends to deny.  This is the calm before the storm Douglas is learning.  He waits – book open before him but unread.

Blaine reappears, his hair damp and curling cherub-esque, his face scrubbed pink and his eyes red rimmed.  He picks up the phone from its cradle beside Douglas and wanders into the lounge.

It takes every ounce of strength Douglas possesses not to follow.

Fragments – leaves of conversations blow back into the kitchen, disintegrating.

            ‘Doug. …  I couldn't. …  No. …  Sorry – I didn't mean. …  I'm fine. …  Home. …  Tomorrow.  …  I know, and as I told him – I am not interested. …  Stop! …  I know.  …  What did you say?  …  He can take care of himself – he's good at that.  …  Goodnight.'

He ensures that it looks like he was reading when he hears Blaine return.  Risking a glance he notes Blaine's knuckles are white where he clutches the phone too tightly, his posture is rigid, his eyes tired.  Douglas watches as Blaine replaces the phone in its cradle, then stands hovering beside him as if he is waiting for something.

            Softly, softly, catchee monkey.

 Douglas nudges the stool beside him with his foot – an invitation Blaine accepts - then closes his book and waits, leaving his body language open and inclined slightly towards his partner.

Blaine's eyes are stormy – there is conflict behind them – a whirring that Douglas aches to be able to ease.  He does not trust his tongue to say the right thing without more information about what happened than his nephew's slurred “There's been an argument.  We lost Blaine!” and the man in questions' present disposition, so he opens an arm instead.  Blaine rests his body against Douglas' and the older man feels a shift as Blaine breathes out – wind escaping taught sails.  Douglas presses his lips to the soft curls that brush his cheek and is rewarded with a small sigh.  The older man forces himself to be patient and to appear calm, but with each passing scrape-tick the silence grows heavier, more tangible, as waves of breath break against it.  He is a clock spring, winding tighter with each cycle of inevitable inflation and deflation; he feels the tension within his own muscles clawing at him – a caged animal, but he reins it in with measured breaths and idle fingers smoothing ripples from Blaine's tense shoulders.  Douglas' insides writhe with every stuttered inhale-pause, but half-spoken words die on bitten lips before they are born.  He keeps breathing with measured precision: scrape-in tick-out.

His reward is the eye of the storm; it is the appearance of peace – a picture postcard with no context, no subtext, and riddled with layered meaning.  Another breath – deeper than the previous few and Douglas finds himself holding his own.

            ‘Nothing happened.'

The older man raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

            ‘I just…  I wanted to come home.  I'm tired of arguing and of other people judging me…us.  I thought I could escape for one night.'

            ‘I know.'

            ‘Sorry if Doug's call had you worried.'

            ‘Who were you running from?'

            ‘I wasn't running anywhere!'  Blaine's voice is sharp.

            Whoops!-struck a nerve.  Back pedal!  Easy does it – don't want to close him down when he's opening up again.

            ‘Alright.'  Douglas keeps his voice calm but there is a fine line between patronising and empathising.

            ‘Don't start.'  The warning edge that creeps into Blaine's voice flashes neon.

            ‘I'm not starting anything, Blaine.'  He feels the younger man begin to tense up again and he knows he needs to brace for impact if he cannot kill this turn of conversation.  ‘I'm glad you came home.'

He must have said the right thing because Blaine exhales and makes no further move to leave his side.

            ‘Do you want to talk about it?'  Douglas tries to keep their unsteady channel of communication open.

            ‘Nothing to talk about.  Ku-…Someone I once thought of as…a friend decided they don't like what I'm doing with my life.'

            ‘I'm sorry -'

            ‘Why?  I'm happy – you make me happy.  Don't be sorry.'  Blaine pulls Douglas towards him for an off-centre kiss which he then desperately tries to deepen, but Douglas withdraws a little.

            ‘You can talk to me you know.'  Douglas frowns.

            ‘I know but I'm fine.  Really.'

Douglas raises an eyebrow and Blaine laughs a little – it is forced.

            Play along and let him think I believe him, then wait until he is ready to talk (and sober)?  Or push further?

            ‘I'm fine!'  There is a pause and Douglas loses himself in swirling pools of burnt amber.  ‘I missed you tonight.'

The change of topic and Blaine's earlier tetchiness are enough of an indicator for Douglas to give in.

            For now.

            ‘I missed you too.'  Douglas concedes.

Blaine smiles at that and presses his lips to Douglas', but the older man does not miss the unspoken thank you in Blaine's eyes.

            ‘How much did you miss me?'

            ‘Lots and lots.'

Blaine rolls his eyes playfully and nips at Douglas' neck before pressing a wet kiss to the teased skin then blowing lightly.  The other man trembles in response.

            ‘Show me.'

-+-

            He wakes in stages and though the sun laps uncertainly at the shores of his mind - each wave inching him closer to consciousness - he makes a valiant attempt to cling to the warm foggy nothingness of his slumber.  Eventually the persistent reminder of day forces its way past clenched eyelids and he rolls onto his back to stretch out, feline.  Bleary-eyed he gropes across the cold side of the bed on a quest for warmth that is absent before squinting at the clock, numbly realising that Douglas would already be most of the way through his work day.  Careful not to move too quickly and mildly surprised by his lack of nausea, he washes and manages to clothe himself (without overbalancing) before heading out with a renewed sense of purpose he somehow distilled from his shower.

The September sun is welcome on his tanned skin and Blaine finds himself feeling oddly positive as he heads towards the nearest subway station.  He spends most of the hour long journey running through what he wants to say in his head – from what he remembers of the previous evening's events he had not been entirely in the wrong, but he had been drunk, and he had said things that he probably should not have.  He must have sighed audibly or something because the ginger hipster across from him gives him a strange look and Blaine frowns slightly in response before looking in the opposite direction.

            Maybe this was not a great idea.

            What if Kurt's not interested in talking to me?

            What if he is?

His mind melts minutes as it races and he soon finds himself climbing up from the depths of the underground.  Emerging, he is forced to take a moment as his eyes struggle to adjust to the late afternoon sun's attack on his pupils.

            Perhaps I am a little hung-over.

Shielding his abused eyes with his hand he makes his way towards Kurt's loft, secretly praying that the other man will

1.       Be at home (alone, preferably)
2.       Want to talk (to Blaine)
3.        ….

He still is not sure about ‘c'.

-+-

            He does not find Kurt at the loft – instead he almost walks straight past him, but something inside Blaine knows that he could never simply pass Kurt the other man is so deeply ingrained within him.  He had felt him, as odd as that sounded to admit.

Blaine wished he had not.

The apologetic ‘I was an ass – I was a drunk, stupid ass.  Please forgive me.  Let us be friends again, Kurt' speech he had prepared died on his tongue as he turned tail and headed back the way he had come.

            Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

What he had seen explained a lot really – the tall, handsome, raven-haired man sitting opposite Kurt, and holding his hand had been a physical demonstration.  Blaine rubbed a hand through his hair and pulled slightly.  How had he missed it?  Kurt had practically spelled it out for him.

Kurt's words echo -

“I broke up with my last boyfriend because for some reason I cannot get rid of you.” 

- twisting, sinuously around his stomach and Blaine feels like throwing up.  How had he missed it?  Last boyfriend – the implication of a current boyfriend.  Someone to buy him coffee and make him smile (the proper one where he shows his teeth)…

Blaine had no reason to be…whatever this is (but he knows that it feels a lot like heartbreak and anger), because he is not single either and this new information changes nothing.  He should have left things where they were between Kurt and himself – dying in the street and wasting away into nothingness.  He should have listened better to Kurt.

            “I cannot get rid of you.”

Well, Blaine could help with that.  He could rid Kurt of himself.

-+-

            Douglas is there when Blaine finally gets home; the apartment is filled with the delicate aroma of cooking and Blaine's stomach gurgles in a confused response.  The extractor fan is on and so the younger man announces his presence so as not to startle Douglas, but if the other man heard him, he does not indicate it.  It is not unusual – the fan is loud when you are standing right next to it and they have startled each other before in this way, so Blaine thinks nothing of it as he gravitates towards his partner, finding himself in desperate need of physical reassurance.  He gently slides his arms around his partner's waist but instead of melting into his touch Douglas pulls away – it is as if he can barely look at Blaine.

He frowns.

            ‘What's up?'  He keeps his voice soft and immediately tries to work out what could be the matter and how to fix it – did he forget an important date?  Maybe someone died or got hurt?  Did Douglas ask him to pick something up for dinner?  No – he'd have written a note.  Perhaps, Blaine did not see it…

He almost misses Douglas' response it is so painfully quiet.

            ‘It's nothing.'

            ‘Come on – something's bothering you – I can tell.  Is it work?'

Douglas turns off the hob and moves the pan from the heat – practical tasks, but they seem to just give him an excuse not to make eye contact.

            ‘Please, talk to me?'  Blaine tentatively places a hand over one of Douglas' and the other man closes his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to meet Blaine's gaze.  ‘Did I do something wrong?'

Douglas' eyes soften a little at that, but his mouth is pulled into a hard line that makes Blaine's brain tickle and his heart ache.

            ‘I called mother – I have to go to China again so we won't be able to make dinner.'

            ‘Oh.  Alright.  How long for?'  It was not unexpected – things had not been going well and Blaine had been aware that a second trip would be a possibility.  It was actually fortuitous timing because it gave them some more time to work out their game plan before talking to the senior Chambers.  Certainly, this could not the topic that was causing Douglas' present state.

            ‘A month.'

Blaine nods dumbly.  A month – that's quite a long time, but they can cope, surely?

            ‘Somehow I feel like you're not telling me something.'  Blaine braces himself as his words deflate Douglas.  The other man's face crumples and Blaine's world shudders with his next breath.

            ‘It's silly really.  I just… you called me his name.  In bed… and I know it was probably nothing – you probably don't even remember – and last night was stressful with the argument and everything… I just… Forget it.  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have brought it up.  It's just me being silly, and I'm going away and –‘

            ‘Oh, honey, I'm sorry!  I'm so sorry.  I don't even remember –‘

            ‘I know, I know – I'm just being insecure and ridiculous, but when I came home you weren't here, and I –‘

            ‘I'm so sorry!  God, baby, I'm so sorry.  Please forgive me.  You have to believe me – it was only you on my mind, I promise.  Only you.  You have to know that, right?  I love you.'

            ‘I love you too.  I'm sorry.  I love you.'

His cheeks are wet and Douglas' lips taste of salt, but they cling to each other like flotsam, words bubbling between them, and he suddenly sees Douglas – truly sees him beneath the polish and the suits and the penthouse… Douglas needs him as much as he needs Douglas.  In that moment everything is certain.  In that moment he knows he can do something to remove all the uncertainty.  He can do something.  He takes a breath to save them both.  He takes a breath to seal it.