What the Hell was he doing?

Blaine stood outside the little grocery store clutching a crumpled paper bag.  Inside the bag was a pack of gum.  Blaine hadnt gone to the store in his brothers neighborhood to buy gum, but he honestly couldnt remember why he went there in the first place.

He thought back over his night. 

Not more than three hours ago he was steaming when he had shoved his latest boyfriend--correction, ex-boyfriend--out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him.  And when he said boyfriend, the emphasis was definitely on the boy. 

It was always the same. 

Blaine had been cursed with great parents who instilled good values in him.  They had taught him, among other things, to be responsible, to think about the future, to plan ahead, to be sensible.  While Blaines friends often found themselves out of cash before they were out of month, he was never in that bind.  He stuck to a budget.  He had a plan.  He had studied hard in school, gotten good grades, landed a prestigious job, and launched a lucrative side career.  He had extensive and important networks.  People liked and respected him. 

Still, the problem with being the sensible one was that Blaine tended to attract his exact opposite.  He was a magnet for colossal screw-ups.  He drew, like flies, the party boys and the mamas boys who saw in Blaine someone who would take care of them.  And Blaine, because he couldnt help fixing things when they were broken, found them irresistible.

Gahhhhh! Blaine wanted to scream in frustration.

If asked what he really wanted, Blaine would assert that he didnt want a passive boy.  He didnt want to be in charge.  Once, just once, he wanted to be taken care of.  He wanted to be seduced.  He wanted to be worshipped.  He wanted to be on the bottom. 

Of course he didnt want to be irresponsible.  Dont be ridiculous.  But he wanted to experience lying in the arms of a big, strong man and feel protected and safe.  Instead, he was the man who bought the condoms and the lube.  He was the one who held the guy and listened to all of his--usually self-inflicted--problems.  He was the one who made the restaurant and flight reservations, booked the hotel rooms, and remembered to put gas in the car.

He was the man. 

He hated being the man. 

He was determined to stop being the man.  Especially after Scooter, who was really the last straw. 

In retrospect, Blaine should have run away the minute the guy slurred, "My names Scott, dude, but everyone calls me Scooter, man." 

Blaine really had only himself to blame, but his instincts were always to take charge, to mentor, to lead.  So he said, "Hi, Im Blaine, and you should think about going by Scott.  Its more professional."  And Scooter had nodded thoughtfully like hed never considered that before.  So Blaine was hooked, just like he always was.  And Scooter was really cute. 

But, of course, it always turned out the same way. 

Blaine had come home from work to find Scooter, dressed only in boxers and a Cheetos-smeared t-shirt, stretched out on Blaines sofa watching HGTV, surrounded by the detritus of food wrappers and empty Coke cans.  He was scratching his belly. 

He didnt live there, but Blaine had made the mistake of showing him where he hid his extra key.  From then on, Scooter had certainly made himself at home. 

There were three lumpy garbage bags sitting on the floor by the door. 

"What are you doing here?" Blaine asked. 

"Crazy thing, man.  I went home and the landlord, dude, he had put all my stuff out on the sidewalk.  Said something about being late on the rent every month."  Scooter was talking with his mouth full, spewing Cheeto crumbs as he spoke, "I dunno how he expects me to remember what day it is, every single month.  But then I thought, no problem, man.  I can just crash at Blaines.  Hell take care of me." 

"Didnt you think you should call first?  Why arent you are work?"

"I quit that job, man.  They dont respect me.  I dont need that shit." 

Blaine wanted to bang his head on the wall.  Would he never learn?  Blaine was always sucked in by some guys trusting worship of him, but the trust soon turned into helpless dependence.  Ultimately the neediness always crushed any lingering feelings of attraction, and then Blaine-stammering and stuttering, and trying to let the guy down easy-spent awkward days trying to extricate himself. 

Not this time. 

Blaine pulled Scooter off the sofa by the front of his dirty t-shirt, grabbing up garbage bags full of clothes and shoving them into Scooters arms as he impelled him toward the front door of his apartment.  As Blaine pushed him across the threshold and slammed and chained the door behind him, he shouted, "Get a job, get a life, and grow the Hell up!" 

After Blaine had taken a vacuum cleaner attachment to his sofa, thrown away the wrappers, called a 24-hour locksmith to change the locks, and sprayed Lysol everywhere, he called his best friend, Sam. 

"I broke up with Scooter."

"Well, I cant say Im surprised.  But what does it really matter?  No offense, Blaine, but next week youll just find another pretty boy to mooch off you."

"No, Im done.  Im ready to let someone take care of me for a change."

"Thats what you said last time." 

Blaine sighed, "I know.  I dont know whats wrong with me."

"Its just who you are.  Youre a good guy, Blaine.  Youre smart and confident, and you like to help people.  Thats not a bad thing."

"Yeah, but Id like to be a different guy for once."

"Who?"    

"I dunno," Blaine was flipping the channels on his muted television as he talked, and he paused on Santa Clause is Coming to Town, "Maybe an elf."

"Like Thranduil?  He was pretty hot.  We could call you Thrand.  Thrand Anderson." Sam pronounced the name with a deep, narrators voice. 

Blaine laughed.  "No.  I dont want to be an elf from Lord of the Rings.  They kicked ass.  I want to be one of Santas elves.  I want someone else to be in charge and tell me what to do, while I just do the stuff that makes other people happy."

"All right.  Well, go out and get yourself some pointy shoes, but I think you should still call yourself Thrand Anderson.  Or maybe Sanderson, since you want to be a completely different person.  Thrand Sanderson sounds cool."

"Ill give it some thought," Blaine rolled his eyes. "Have a good night, Sam."

Blaine rang off and decided to make some dinner before heading into Manhattan to feed his brothers fish.  Cooper was on location in Canada making a bad movie, and apparently none of his friends could be pressed into fish duty.  Blaine had quickly discovered, however, that Scooter had eaten virtually everything in his apartment, including some very expensive French cheese he had been delighted to find in a European deli in Queens.  Thus, after taking the subway from Brooklyn, he found himself in a grocery store near his brothers place that was much nicer than the little bodega in his more modest neighborhood. 

But then he saw that gorgeous man inside.  He was tall-not really tall, but taller than Blaine-and he was very well dressed.  This guy would never lie on the sofa in a ratty t-shirt and old boxers; he would never wear underwear as outerwear, Blaine was just sure of it.  And his hair-appearing soft and warm in a gravity-defying style-had clearly been cut at the kind of salon you have to plan to visit months in advance.  Guys like that never noticed Blaine, but this one did.  And he was so confident and aggressive, and Blaine just wanted to throw himself at his feet. 

And lick his way up. 

So sensible, take-charge Blaine, who was always the aggressor and never had sex on the first date, was about to have coffee-or something-with a complete stranger on a night that was virtually guaranteed to not leave what was left of his virtue intact. 

The whole incident in the produce section had put him completely off of his game, and when the man had introduced himself, Blaine had stammered out Sams made-up name.  He had no idea why.  He didnt have to pretend that he wasnt the guy always in control.  He had been a stuttering idiot in the stylish mans presence. 

And now Blaine was standing on the sidewalk pretending to be some guy named Thrand Sanderson, and he was going on a date(?) with the devastatingly handsome Kris Kringlemann, who made him nervous as a cat.  But Blaine resolved that-just for tonight-he was going to be that other guy, no matter what.  He wasnt going to pull himself together.  He would be an elf.  He was going to be demure and small and a little helpless and bumbling, and he was going to be taken care of, if only for one night.  He was.  He deserved it.  He could be sensible and confident Blaine Anderson tomorrow. 

He clutched his bag tighter and shivered. 

The door to the grocery store slid open, and Kris strode out, head held high and posture erect.  His face lit up when he saw Blaine, and Blaine thought he also looked a little surprised.  Blaine felt warmth suffuse his entire body. 

When they arrived at a coffee shop that Blaine had passed a few times before but never entered, Kris led him to a table, helped him out of his coat, and pulled out his chair.  Without asking Blaine what he wanted, he walked over the queue and placed an order. 

Blaine wanted to go to the counter and give the barista his own order, but he remembered that he wasnt Blaine, he was Thrand the elf-shy and unassertive.  He would let Kris decide for himself what Blaine needed, and Blaine would let him. 

Still, Blaine was a little irked to see Kris return with only one cup of coffee.  Oh please dont let him be a well-dressed version of yet another selfish jerk, Blaine prayed to the god of irresponsible hook-ups with strangers. 

But Kris set the cup in the middle of the table and took the seat opposite Blaine.  The coffee was an elaborate affair in a large cup, topped with a mound of whipped cream and drizzled with two colors of syrup.  Kris took a spoon, cutting through the cream and syrup to scoop up a little of the coffee.  He lifted the spoon to Blaines lips, which parted on their own accord, and he slipped it inside. 

It was heaven.  Warm and creamy, nutty and chocolaty. 

"Its a turtle mocha," Kris said with his low voice.  "Its pretty rich, so I thought we could share.  Here..." he reached over with a thumb and slowly and seductively wiped a streak of cream from Blaines lips.  Then he popped the tip of his thumb into Blaines mouth, and Blaine touched the digit tentatively with the tip of his tongue. 

Kriss eyes widened slightly, and then he pulled his thumb away, and Blaine was a little relieved.  They were in public, after all.  Still, what he had really wanted to do was suck and suck and suck on Kriss thumb until they were both groaning and Kris took him right there on the coffee house table. 

Blaine crossed his legs. 

Kris leaned forward and placed a warm palm over the top of Blaines hand that was resting on the table.  "So, Thrand Sanderson, tell me all about yourself." 

After starting a little at hearing his fictional name, Blaine was mostly honest.  He told Kris about his job as a music teacher for a private school in Brooklyn.  He told him that he loved singing and playing the piano and guitar.  He elaborated on his passion for Broadway and Disney tunes. He told him he had a brother. 

He did not tell him that he had recently purchased a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn and was painstakingly remodeling it, learning the carpentry skills himself as he went.  He did not tell him he grew up in Ohio, where he went to a private boarding school, was a straight-A student, and was elected class President.  He did not tell him that he had developed a music program that was so successful that other schools were starting to use it and paying him enormous consulting fees to help out.

When Blaine caught himself being too animated, talking passionately and staring intently into Kris eyes to make a strong point, he would check himself, eyelids fluttering down, and he would soften his voice.  He could do this.  He wasnt strong, take charge, Blaine.  He was Thrand.  Thrand Sanderson.  Unassuming elf. 

Every time Blaine reined himself in, however, a strange look passed over Kris face, but it disappeared as quickly as it appeared.  They were getting on well, leaning over the table and talking.  Kris continued to feed Blaine small sips of the turtle mocha with a spoon, occasionally touching his face with a fingertip, rarely taking a sip himself.  Their knees were pressed together under the table, sending frissons of warmth through Blaines body.  Kris voice was low and rumbly, like when he told Blaine he worked on Wall Street as an investment banker. However, every now and then, when he really got going, like when he was talking about the latest show hed seen off-Broadway, his voice would raise in pitch, and when he laughed, it was higher still. 

Blaine liked the higher voice; it was musical.  But just as soon as it appeared, it disappeared again, replaced with the lower tones.  

When they finished their mocha, Kris rose and took the empty cup to the bus stand at the side of the room, and Blaine watched him go, his hands in his lap.  Kurt put the cup in the bus tub and then stood there for a long time, his back to Blaine.  Blaine didnt know what he was doing; he didnt appear to be doing anything.  Then he seemed to inhale a deep breath and square his shoulders. 

When he returned he extended a hand down to Blaine.  "Come on," he said, "Were going to your place."