He tossed the paper towel away and pushed through the door into the small hallway, and out into a huge gallery.

College was not quite what Blaine had expected. It was his fault, he supposed, for biting off more than he could chew. Everyone expected so much of him, coming from a school like Dalton and having a brother like Cooper and just, everyone expected him to succeed. It wasn’t even a question. He would do the best and be the best. He’d thrown himself into a heavy workload, with his schedule completely packed, and his life was now a constant cycle of reading and researching and note-taking with little in between.

And the worst part, the very worst, was that he had no real emotional support. He knew a few people who’d gone to school in New York, but he’d either fallen out of touch with them, or hadn’t been close with them to begin with. He was a social animal at heart, but the time needed to establish and maintain new friendships was time he didn’t have, and on the few occasions he’d tried to go out and meet people, the guilt had inevitably forced him to go back home, to the apartment his parents generously paid for. The only person he really had was his brother, but between Coop’s busy filming schedule and Blaine’s classes, they were lucky to see each other once a month at most.

It was getting to him.

So Blaine was walking through this gigantic museum with impossibly high ceilings, surrounded by art that brought to life an immense spectrum of human history, and he was totally wrapped up in himself - in the fact that he was completely alone in a stressful, scary world.

He pulled the folded paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and skimmed the assignment again. It was vague in that annoying way that so many of his G.E. class assignments seemed to be. He could choose any piece of art that spoke to him.

His eyes darted around the gallery, which must have held hundreds of pieces in itself, and towards the hallway, which led to the next of many more galleries. He shuddered out a breath, shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking.

---

He’d been exploring the museum for hours with no luck. It wasn’t so much that the art wasn’t speaking to him, as he wasn’t receptive to it. He felt closed off in his own headspace, emotions stuck in a freefall, with nothing else getting through. Paintings and sculptures and tapestries translated into a series of meaningless shapes and colors behind his eyes, no matter how sharp or distinct.

Finally, he turned into an alcove with its own small gallery, his eyes falling straight to the small wooden bench in the middle of the room, and he sat down heavily. He buried his face in his hands and took a moment to feel the flesh of his palms, the pulse of his own breathing against his fingers. His hands fell away eventually, and left him staring down at his knees.

He was…god, he was just pathetic, wasn’t he. After everything he’d been through at the hands of other people, it was this, this loneliness, that was dragging him down. And he had no one to blame but himself.

Wetness prickled at the corners of his eyes and no,, he was not doing this again. He took a deep breath and looked up to steel himself, and his mouth fell open. Right in front of his eyes was the most incredible piece of art he’d every seen.

Though the central figure was life-sized, the statue towered over his head. The young man was sitting on a pedestal, his waist draped with a loose sheet of fabric, legs tucked in an elegant diagonal line, his face pensive and stunning. The marble gleamed under the museum lights, but the perfect shape and cut of the stone made the boy’s skin look soft to the touch. He was breath-taking and perfect from his sculpted hair to his petite chiseled toes.

Blaine felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

He stood up as though bodily compelled towards the statue, eyes craning up and then back down, following the line of the figure’s poised body. He walked from one side of the display to the other again and again, stomach skimming the red velvet ropes, his eyes never once leaving the marble figure.

He looked upward at the jut of the boy’s chin, the smooth neck that led to broad shoulders and a sharp clavicle and a lightly muscled chest. He took in the planes of his stomach, and the folds of fabric draped over his waist. His eyes skimmed down to the figure’s knees, then back up to the apex of his thighs as they disappeared under fabric. It felt vaguely sensual and Blaine flushed red, letting out a whispered “sorry” before logic kicked in. He glanced behind him for the first time in several minutes, relieved to see that he was alone. His eyes were quickly drawn back to where he left off, cataloging every dip and curve of skin over muscle (“carved in stone,” he reminded himself under his breath).

And then he just flat-out stared. He had no idea how long he’d been standing there, blatantly ogling the sculpted angel of a boy, when the sound of echoed whispers shocked him out of his reverie. Two elderly women walked into the room, contemplating the paintings that hung on the surrounding walls. Blaine took a deep breath and pulled a notepad out of his pocket to start his assignment.

He looked at the empty page, pen in hand, and back up at the statue, and all he felt was overwhelmed. Nothing came to him immediately, so he made a few bullet points to spur himself on. He took a few more minutes to concentrate on note-taking, with no luck, before getting captivated once again, this time by the perfect part of the figure’s lips. When the old women had wrapped back around to the front of the room, he was jolted once again and glanced down at his notebook where the page was filled with a giant scribble that looked something like a heart. He gulped and shoved the notebook back into his pocket, and instead took out his phone.

He stepped back a few feet and took a picture with shaky hands. It did not turn out well. He tried a few more times, but even when the lines were crisp, it was nothing compared to the real thing. With a sigh, he emailed a couple of pictures to himself and put the phone away just as the old women walked up to the statue.

“This one’s nice too,” one of the women said. Her companion hummed in agreement and they stood for a slow, silent moment before moving on.

Nice? Nice?

Blaine shook his head and stepped forward again. Hot cocoa was nice. Ladybugs were nice. This was not just nice, this was…

He stood as close to the barrier as possible, his shoes knocking the metal stanchion. An urge welled up in his gut; a gripping urge to reach out and touch, and he tried to fight it but there were little stone toes right in front of his trembling fingers and they were adorable and what was wrong with him and-

“Excuse me, sir.”

Blaine’s arm snapped back to his side and he looked at the man calling to him. He clearly worked at the museum, with his dress shirt and a nametag and authoritative stance. The spotlight reflected off his bald scalp as he came closer, and Blaine could read the name across his breast pocket: BURT HUMMEL.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, um. No. Just admiring.” Blaine fidgeted with his fingers, holding them steadfastly in front of his coat.

Burt folded his arms and glanced between the statue and Blaine.

“This your first time here?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Not New York; I live here. Just the museum.” Blaine cringed inwardly at himself. God, he needed to socialize more.

Burt took a few steps closer. “Any particular reason?” His tone was…not unfriendly, but not overly polite. It felt like an interrogation.

“School project. Not that I don’t like art or anything. I’m sure I would have come during my free time at some point. If I had any,” he said, shoulders drooping.

He turned and let himself linger on the statue, this time transfixed by the angle of his barely-visible hipbones. Burt considered him for a moment, and then followed his gaze. “You sure there’s nothing I can help you with?”

Blaine had to close his eyes to process the question.
“Actually, there is. How much does a museum membership cost?”

Half an hour later, Blaine walked out of the museum with a membership, a heap of confusing feelings and the vague notion that he should probably find a therapist.

---

He visited the museum three more times that week. He had to skip lunch twice, but it was worth it. When he stood in front of that statue, he felt a passion that shook him to his bones. It was a happiness he hadn’t experienced in such a long time, and well worth a few hunger pangs. By the end of the week, the museum worker named Burt knew more about Blaine than any of his fellow students.

Blaine was contemplating this sad, sad fact while he unlocked the door to his apartment and threw his messenger bag on the couch. The sun had long since gone down, so he flicked on the lights and ate his leftover takeout quickly. He wanted to go over one of his midterm papers before he went to bed, so he dropped the empty carton in the garbage and went to his bedroom to change into something cozier.

As he bent down to search through his dresser, he could sense that something was wrong. There was a nagging in his periphery, subtle at first but then impossible to ignore. A flash of something bright in his memory. He stood up slowly and turned, and that’s when his heart stopped.

Sprawled on his bed, contrasting starkly against his dark blue sheets, was the back of a boy with skin so pale it gleamed like a spotlight in the glow of the moon.