#blainson

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Blainson McDerson. Foto actual.

[directoriofakeland-blog]

Blainson McDerson

Género: Masculino. Orientación sexual: Homosexual. Descripción: Tímido, "pero cuando entro en confianza parezco puta de barrio", es una persona rara. Tiempo en Fakeland: - Razón: Quería saber cómo era ser otra persona. Extra: Su lema es "la vida es corta, así que putea lo que quieras." URL de Facebook: https://facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009308334344

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ariedana replied to your post: ariedana replied to your post “sothinky replied to...

I barely read Glee fic and I loved every second of that one. And I didn’t even watch GA beforehand. I do now tho.

Honestly, if you're going to ship Blaine with a non-Glee character, than it should be Jackson Avery, because he is played by one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. *dreamy sigh*

[blainson]

Fic: This Is The World We Live In (And These Are The Hands We're Given) [Heart Conditions]

Fic: This Is The World We Live In (And These Are The Hands We're Given)

Rating: PG-13 for Language

Word Count: 2600+ 

Characters: Blaine Anderson, Arizona Robbins, Calliope Torres, Owen Hunt, Jackson Avery, and a dash of Mark Sloan

Author: Lissa/GlassParade (aka Glitterdammerung on Tumblr)

Author's Note: Happy Birthday, Katrinabug! This fic follows on from 'Collective Intelligence' and is the second 'episode' of the second season of 'Heart Conditions'. The title is from 'Land of Confusion' by the rock group Genesis, although while writing this story I preferred to listen to the cover by Katzenjammer and you should, too.

So the first step to treating a problem is admitting that you have a problem.

Fine.

My name is Blaine Anderson, and I have a problem.

I may just lose my job.

“This feels like I'm walking to my own execution.” Blaine stares up at the entrance of Seattle Grace Mercy West, fighting the urge to fidget with the rolled up sleeves of his borrowed shirt. And his face itches. Shaving his face with a pink plastic disposable razor had swiftly climbed to the number two slot on his Least Favorite Things list this morning, finally displacing Going To Lunch With Cooper When He Was In A Mood To Relive His Acting Days.

But nothing is going to shift number one: Being Called To See The Boss.

“You've met Owen,” Callie points out with a hard nudge of her elbow. “He's not actually the Anti-Christ.”

Blaine nods, eyes still fixed on the letters over the hospital doors. “Right. I know that.”

“And yet you're still not moving.”

“Nope.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arizona glance at Callie and raise her eyebrow. But before he can snap at them to just go inside, he finds his arms grabbed and himself being dragged into the hospital by a pair of determined surgeons. “Hey!”

Okay, okay, the problem isn't that I may lose my job. Losing my job is a result of the problem. Which is that I have a problem admitting it when I have problems.

And that problem is about to bite me in the ass.

“Just get it over with, Blaine,” Arizona assures him, rubbing his shoulder with the hand that isn't firmly wrapped around his bicep. “Like pulling a tooth.”

“Or resetting a broken bone.” Callie flashes him a grin.

“Well, that...that's an apt analogy, coming from you.” Blaine tries to pull free as they haul him into the elevator, but they just beam at him and grasp him even more tightly. “Come on, I was getting to it!”

“Now you're getting to it at a more normal rate of speed!” Leaning forward, Arizona pushes the button for the surgical floor. “Oh, come on, Blaine, it's going to be fine. Nothing to worry about. Relax.”

“I'd do what they tell you,” Mark Sloan pipes up from the back of the elevator, making them all whip around to face him. “Life's just easier, they're going to get their way anyway. Hey, Anderson, my shirt looks good on you.”

Blaine sighs and looks down at his shoes, feeling his cheeks burn from the humiliation of so many people knowing what an utter fuck-up he is. “Thanks,” he mutters, twisting his fingers together. He shoots a sidelong glare at Arizona. “You can probably let go now. I can't really go anywhere, now there's three of you here.”

“I'm not getting involved,” Sloan protests. “Bad enough I'm an eyewitness.”

Callie eyeballs the floor numbers as they light up. “Doesn't matter. We're going to march you right up to that door and make sure you don't chicken out, killer. I'm a surgeon. I believe in being thorough.”

On Blaine's other side, Arizona rubs his arm again and leans her head on his shoulder, also watching the numbers tick upward. “It really is going to be okay, you know.”

“Eat me,” he mumbles, knowing he's going to pay for being rude and already feeling guilty about it.

Arizona tips her head up and kisses his cheek. “Thanks, but you're not my type.”

It's never bitten me quite this spectacularly hard before, though. I've really managed to screw up this time.

Most of the time I just run away. Let them problems solve themselves after I'm not there to keep messing things up. Except then it's like I run into even worse problems.

Instead of solving problems I create bigger ones.

So now, I can't run. Because this is such a huge mistake, I can't even begin to think what would come next.

Armageddon, maybe. With my luck, that seems about right.

At the desk outside the Chief's office, Virginia offers Blaine a kind, encouraging smile. “The Chief is in the small conference room today, Blaine. He'll be glad to see you.”

I bet, Blaine thinks sourly, trudging away towards the indicated room, Callie and Arizona trailing along behind. In his time here, he'd never understood why Dr. Hunt refused to had a normal office like his old boss at Sinai. Or every other Chief of Surgery in the world.

Arizona's reassuring hand landing on his shoulder a third time startles him out of his pointless mental wanderings. “Optimism,” she chirps, sliding her hand down to take his and squeeze it. “Smile for me!”

He does, forcing a grin, but knows from their widening eyes and the step back that Callie takes that it isn't his best effort. “Er...”

“Yeah, go back to looking worried,” Callie advises. “Wounded puppy'll go over better than crazy psycho nurse.”

“Thanks. I think,” he mutters as they approach the conference room. Inside, he can see Dr. Hunt frowning as he taps away on his laptop. Blaine's stomach lurches. He's only encountered the Chief a few times, but the man has always seemed distantly polite, slightly grim and sober. Blaine is 99% sure his little temper tantrum is going to go over like a lead balloon.

“He's a good guy, Blaine,” Callie whispers in his ear as Arizona mindlessly pats his hand, still clasped in hers. “It's going to be fine. Ow-Dr. Hunt understands stuff like this.” At his skeptical glance, she rolls her eyes. “Look. Just get it over with, okay?” And before he can say anything, she's knocking on the door, making Dr. Hunt look up and beckon Blaine inside.

“Thanks, Dr. Torres,” Blaine hisses, but she just sticks her hands in her pockets and grins at him, rocking back and forth on her heels. Arizona, at least, looks a little apologetic, giving him a hug before prodding him forward.

“Go get 'em, killer,” is Callie's last advice, and she ignores the poisonous glare that he aims over his shoulder as he pushes the door open.

In treatment programs, they say that you should hand your problem over to a higher power.

Does Dr. Hunt count?

The Chief eyeballs Blaine for a long time, his gaze a steady, probing, relentless assessment. Blaine fights the impulses to squirm or run. This is a lot like being called into his dad's office for lectures, and it's very uncomfortable. When Dr. Hunt says, “Have a seat,” it doesn't help matters.

But Blaine does, and he starts babbling as soon as his ass hits the leather. “Dr. Hunt, I would just...really like to apologize for my outburst yesterday. I know it was inappropriate. I can't begin to -”

“Nurse Anderson.” Dr. Hunt holds up his hand to stop the flow of words, and Blaine immediately shuts up. “I didn't call you in here to give you a lecture."

Blaine feels his mouth hanging open in astonishment. It takes serious effort to pull it back shut. “You didn't?”

“You're here from New York, right?” Hunt's hand flips through a slender file on his desk that has to be Blaine's. “What brought you to Seattle?”

“Sir?” This genuinely is not going as Blaine had expected.

“What brought you to Seattle?” Dr. Hunt repeats, a tight smile on his face. “Your recommendation letters were excellent. The staff at Cedars was clearly sorry to lose you. Your addresses in the background check show that you'd been living New York for ten years.” He shrugs. “I'm curious as to what could make you uproot your life like that and move across the country.”

Blaine fidgets in his seat, feeling like the ground is shaking under his feet. “I'm not sure that's relevant.”

“Humor me.” The smile is gone now. “See, I'm thinking that someone with a reputation like yours doesn't just lose his cool in public without a damn good reason. Call me curious.”

Just so you know, my higher power sucks.

It's an even larger effort to clamp down on his rapidly rising temper. “I had personal issues and I didn't want to stay in New York anymore,” he bites out, tilting up his chin, setting his jaw, and just like that he's in a standoff with the Chief of Surgery. He is determined not to give. Too many people know too much about his personal life already. This is too far.

Sure enough, Dr. Hunt breaks first. “I'm going to strongly recommend two things,” he states, reaching for a pair of paper slips that he slides across the conference room table to Blaine. “First, a three week leave of absence.”

“I don't need -” Blaine begins to protest, only to be instantly cut off by another raised hand from the Chief.

“Strongly recommended,” he says, a frown darkening his face. “The other slip is a referral to Dr. Wyatt.”

“Seriously?” Now Blaine is thoroughly incensed. All this goddamn meddling.

But Dr. Hunt doesn't budge. “From what I've been seeing, you've got issues, Anderson. Whatever sent you running out of New York is still hanging on to your back and you can't let it go. I'd like to see you let it go, because Dr. Robbins says you're the best scrub nurse she's seen and because you seem like a good guy. I don't want to have to fire you the next time you blow up like that in public, got it?” He turns back to his laptop and taps at few keys. “Take the three weeks, rest up, pull yourself together. And get your ass into therapy.”

He feels like he's been hit by a speeding truck. “Dr. Hunt...”

“Nurse Anderson.” The Chief sighs. “Look, I know a thing or two about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I'm thinking that if something was bad enough to make you pull up your whole life and run to the other end of the country and start airing your personal grievances in front of all your colleagues, then maybe you're experiencing a little PTSD yourself and it should be treated, all right?”

There doesn't seem to be anything else to say or do. The Chief clearly had his mind made up. Feeling railroaded and fully annoyed, Blaine swallows hard and picks up the paperwork. “Yes, sir.”

“Anderson.” The Chief's voice catches his attention as he's reading the referral. “Drs. Torres and Robbins speak very highly of you. That's not something I dismiss lightly, and that's why you're getting this second chance. Don't waste it.”

“Yes, sir,” Blaine says again, getting to his feet and nodding. He's still angry, but it's starting to sink in that he still has a job. That is an unbelievable relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. Enjoy your leave. Look forward to seeing you in three weeks.”

Fine. I've admitted I have a problem. I have handed it over to my higher power.

My higher power is nosy as hell and wants me to see a shrink.

I liked it better before I admitted I had a problem.

It's a clear dismissal. Blaine quietly departs, closing the door behind him to find Callie and Arizona still waiting, almost bouncing in their impatience. “Well?” Arizona demands, eyes wide and fingers wiggling as she reaches out for the papers in his hands. “What is it? What's happening?”

“Um, three weeks of leave to get myself together and start therapy.” He snatches the papers away from Arizona's grabby fingers, stuffing them into his pocket. He is, while grateful, still a little disgruntled about all of it. Yes, he's a little stressed out and still obviously upset about leaving Kurt, but therapy? Really? It seems excessive.

But Arizona lets out a squeal and throws her arms around his neck in a delighted hug. “Yes!”

Callie is more standoffish, but all smiles just the same. “Told you it was gonna be fine,” she admonishes teasingly, reaching out to punch him lightly in the arm. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I guess.” He knows he sounds skeptical, but, well, he feels skeptical. And at loose ends. What is he going to do for three weeks?

And ugh, therapy. He hasn't been to therapy in years and he hadn't liked it when he was in high school.

But he does want to keep his job. He doesn't want to move again, and he doesn't want to go work at Seattle Pres or worse, to some other hospital that's not even nationally ranked.

This is it.

Blaine sighs. “Let me go get some stuff out of my locker, and then can I ask you guys to bring me to my car at the Archfield?”

I have always been a terrible patient. The weeks around my eye surgery, no one wanted to be around me but Kurt, not for long. I'm impatient and I hate not being able to do anything. I am a person who moves, who keeps busy.

I like it that way. It keeps me from dwelling on my problems.

And now Dr. Hunt's solution to my problem is to give me time to dwell on my problems.

Maybe I should take up training for a marathon. I mean it's not like I don't have some experience with running.

And of course, because the day isn't spectacular enough already, Jackson corners him in the nurses' locker room. “Blaine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Blaine just about leaps out of his skin and spins around, crashing back into the lockers as he tries to get under control. “Jackson!”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.” Jackson's eyes are trained on Blaine's, steady but wary, like he's worried about another explosion. “Are you okay?”

Blaine turns back around, keeping his head down while pulling more books and sets of scrubs from his locker and stuffing them into his backpack. “Yeah.”

“No. Blaine.” A gentle hand on his arm turns him back around, and then it moves up to trail down his cheek for a moment before Jackson jerks away. He shakes his head and meets Blaine's eyes again. “Really, Blaine. Are you okay? Really okay?”

A sigh deflates Blaine, dropping his eyelids down as he breathes in, slow and steady. “Not really, Jackson.”

“Yeah. Stupid question, I guess.” Fabric rustles as Jackson crams his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. “Are you going to be?”

“Yes. No. I don't know. Maybe.” He doesn't want to think about this right now. He just wants to leave. The longer he's here, facing Jackson, the more he wants to grab him by the lapels and kiss him and apologize over and over and over and yet, how terrifying is that? “Jackson, I'm sorry. I have to get out of here. We...we'll talk later.”

Slamming his locker shut, Blaine heaves his backpack over his shoulder and books it out of the locker room, ignoring Jackson frustratedly calling his name behind him.

Okay. Maybe Dr. Hunt does have a point about this therapy thing, after all.

Hello. My name is Blaine Anderson and my problem is that I am a mess.

Help.

[blainson]

Fic: Collective Intelligence (A 'Heart Conditions' fic)

Fic: Collective Intelligence (A 'Heart Conditions' fic)

Rating: PG-13 for Language

Word Count: 2100+ 

Characters: Blaine Anderson, Arizona Robbins, Calliope Torres

Author: Lissa/GlassParade (aka Glitterdammerung on Tumblr)

Author's Note: So Katrina is having a kind of rollercoaster week and I thought maybe I could give her a cheering up present in the form of our favorite crossover crack. Picking up where the 'End of a Fraying Rope' arc left off, I believe this story officially opens season two of the 'Heart Conditions' 'verse, and it is the first half of a two part arc.

I think I was in third grade when my older brother told me about ants. “They can carry up to fifty times their body weight,” Cooper said, dropping a huge piece of popcorn on the sidewalk, right in front of a line of ants. “Watch.”

Most of the line scattered, but one tiny ant, no bigger than a grain of sand, it marched up to the popcorn and was the first one to try and move the thing. “He's not gonna be able to do it,” I told him, shaking my head. “It's too big. Give him a littler piece.”

“Nah.” Cooper pulled me back to sit and wait. “I mean, yeah, it's too big for one ant, but we don't need to give him a smaller piece.”

I watched as the popcorn piece rocked. “So how's he gonna take it home?”

“He'll share the load.”

“Wake up.”

His head hurts, his mouth's dry, there's a crick in his neck, and the last thing Blaine wants is to open his eyes and face the owner of the voice floating above his head.

Actually, if the images of yesterday that his throbbing brain is presenting are real, he doesn't want to face anyone or anything at all. Whimpering, he tugs the afghan covering his legs up until it's concealing his head.

But Arizona, securely perched on the sofa's arm, is undeterred. She wiggles her sock-clad toes, jostling Blaine's head. “Nope. No more hiding. Up, up, up, up.” The jostling gets more intense, rattling his tender brain until his entire world is nothing but pain, and he sits up to make it stop. He glares at his unrepentant boss, who resembles nothing so much as a cheery little gargoyle, but she doesn't seem to care. “Good morning,” she sings out, offering him a mug of tea.

Blaine accepts it, but grudgingly. “You're way too pleased with yourself.”

“Yup. Drink.”

A few sips and the fog of pain and confusion that envelops him begins to recede. “I'm in your apartment.”

Arizona has slipped off the couch to go pour herself a mug of coffee. “Ooh, sharp. Nothing gets past you.”

Since his memory is letting him know she is being good to him in spite of the fact that he was a horrible ass to her yesterday, Blaine throttles back his instinctual sarcastic response. It takes some doing, but he finally manages to redirect himself into a relatively calm, “Fill me in?”

She looks skeptical. “You want a refill before I do that?”

Well, that's not ominous at all. Blaine swallows hard. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” With a shrug, she ambles back over to the sofa and plops down next to him, sticking out her tongue when he scowls at her coffee. “Okay, so. After you told me, Karev, and Avery to basically fuck off, you went out on a date with your super douchey high school buddy. Which was, and I am quoting you, 'a goddamn disaster,' and we are all shocked to hear it.”

He can't help but shoot her a dirty look. “The color commentary is necessary?”

A throaty chuckle. “Oh, yeah.” Arizona sips at her coffee and goes on. “From what we can gather, you then got blind drunk and wandered Seattle on foot until you got to the pier. You called Santana and scared her to death -” At this, Blaine winces, because one, anything that scares Santana Lopez has to be very bad indeed and two, Santana does not care to be scared in the first place and she is so going to make him pay for that. “-so she texted me, we came and got you, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoes, rolling it all over in his mind. It's about as horrific as he'd thought it would be. More, actually, he realizes as the memory of his abortive attempt to sleep with Sebastian barges in full embarrassing Technicolor detail to the forefront of his mind. Not to mention... “I told you all to fuck off.”

“Sure did.” The expression on Arizona's face is too carefully neutral as she focuses on the mug in her hand like rainbow striped pottery is the most fascinating thing in the world. “In front of most of the surgical staff.”

“Including Hunt.” The interjection is Callie, wandering out of the bedroom in her underwear to grab her own cup of coffee. “By the way, you have a meeting with him this morning, killer.”

“Shit.” Blaine sets his tea on the coffee table and dives back under the afghan. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Callie smartly yanks the afghan off of him and tosses it aside before clapping him on the shoulder. “Meh. It's gonna be fine. Hunt's cool, he gets PTSD.”

“I don't have PTSD,” Blaine protests, but Callie just levels her most piercing judgmental stare on him as she disappears back into the bedroom and he has to simply shut up because maybe she's a little bit kind of right.

Besides, Arizona is still sitting next to him, still very carefully neutral and calm and waiting. Closing his eyes, Blaine breathes in deep and says, “Arizona, I'm so sorry.”

“Good. You should be.” She looks up from her coffee and it's her eyes that finally betray her hurt, wide and dark with an anger he knows he's earned. “I know you're having a really hard time. That you've been having one for the last God knows how many months. Since before you got here.” She pauses and inhales sharply through her nose. “But I resent the accusation that I meddle.”

And sure enough, after a couple of minutes, the other ants came and they all worked together to pick up Cooper's popcorn and they carried it off down the sidewalk like it was no big deal.

You probably get by now that this is a metaphor, right?

“Arizona-” But she raises her hand and he stops.

“We're friends, or as far as you'll let me be. And I'm your boss. As your friend, I want to help and as your boss I have to. I can't have a ticking time bomb in my OR, I don't want to see someone I care about hurting.” Her hands around her mug are white-knuckled, her face tight with distress. “I don't want to make you feel bad, Blaine, but you need help.”

“I know I do,” he replies quietly, the admission alone feeling like some weight off his shoulders. “I'm just used to carrying it alone. Or I was, before Kurt, but now there's no Kurt and I'm out of practice...”

“That's why friends are important,” she reminds him gently, a soft hand patting his knee. “We're all here for you. Callie, Lexie, Sloan likes you...and there's Derek and Meredith, and Karev...”

She doesn't mention Jackson and Blaine's not at all surprised after all he'd said and done, but it's still a knifethrust to his heart. Jackson didn't deserve the treatment he'd gotten, it's not like it's his fault Blaine's so panicky and fucked up.

And if he fights through the panic and is honest with himself, he's going to miss Jackson, plus it's going to be a circus of pain and guilt to see him at work every day. Maybe I should move again...No. No sense widening his sphere of destructive influence. “Karev doesn't like me,” he says aloud, pushing his regret aside. “He just feels some weird misplaced guilt over that O'Malley guy.”

“No, he likes you. He wouldn't bother with the guilt if he didn't,” Arizona informs him matter-of-factly. “He doesn't like that he likes you, but he likes you.”

Blaine stares. “That's messed up.”

“That's Karev,” she sighs, and...okay, fine, that actually does make its own kind of sense.

The thing is, ants are smarter than humans in the sense that they know when to share the load. Humans overthink things, we're too independent, too full of pride.

Ants don't care. They aren't weird bundles of neuroses and emotions. Their little ant brains just know they need food to live, and they can't carry everything alone. They know they need their colonies to survive.

We have no control over the fact that we feel things, but we don't have to cling to our emotions and try to carry them by ourselves. And yet we do exactly that, holding on and holding in until we basically collapse under the weight of our own screwed up existences.

Be the ant, Blaine.

Wow, that sounded way less dumb before I actually said it.

He drinks the rest of his tea and bites at his thumbnail. “Dr. Torres only tolerates me because you like me.”

“No, I think you're actually growing on her,” Arizona begins, but that's when Callie breezes back through with one towel around her hair and another only just covering the rest of her.

“Like a fungus,” Callie assures Blaine before disappearing into the utility room. Blaine side-eyes Arizona, who smiles hopefully.

“She does like mushrooms,” she offers, and all he can do is shake his head and laugh helplessly, because what is his life?

Callie comes back in and tosses his jeans and an unfamiliar shirt at him. “We washed your jeans, but the shirt says dry-clean only and smells like it needs it. So I got Little Grey to bring you one of Sloan's shirts.”

“It's going to swallow me whole.” Blaine stands and holds the shirt up to his shoulder, sighing when Arizona and Callie collapse in giggles at the sight – Sloan is obviously taller than he, and broader across the chest, so it is a little comical, but it's this or a shirt that smells like a distillery, so he'll cope. He waits patiently for the women to finish laughing. “You done?”

“Till you actually put it on,” Callie shoots back with an actual smile and, huh. Maybe she does like him a little.

Arizona takes his arm and drags him towards the bedroom. “You need a shower.”

No objections there. “I really am sorry, Arizona.”

“I know.” She beams at him and wraps her arm around his shoulder to give him a little squeeze. “Apology accepted. On the condition that you let me really be your friend. I'm a good friend, Blaine. You need one that's actually here if this is ever gonna be home for you.”

His first instinct is to shoot down the ridiculous idea that Seattle will ever be home for him, but...well, where else would be?

Not Lima, not the backwater, narrowminded hick town that he fled like a bat out of hell as soon as he could manage it.

Not New York, that repository of broken dreams and haunting memories.

He'd gotten an offer months ago to join Cooper at the practice he works at in LA, but they've never been the closest of brothers and Blaine can't really see Malibu ever feeling particularly homey anyway.

For all that he told Santana he's not sure he likes it, Seattle really has become a refuge, a place of safety and comfort for him. He has a job – he hopes he still does, at least – friends if he can just fully accept them, an apartment that is his and his alone, a life that without even really thinking about it had become wholly and completely his, with no one else's choices influencing the decision.

It's the first time in his life that his life is his own.

Whether he'd meant for it to happen or not, this place he'd chosen strictly because it was as far away from New York as he could get in a hurry...it truly was coming to be home. With every misstep and fuckup that meant, it was home. His home.

Blaine turns and smiles at Arizona. “Thanks, Arizona.”

“For what?” She pulls a towel and washcloth out of a cupboard and hands it over, smiling back as she waits for his answer.

Setting the bath linen aside, he pulls her into a hug. It might be the first time he's willingly hugged anyone who isn't Santana or Jackson in months. “For wanting to be my friend.”

He doesn't know how to fix everything he's messed up, but this, at least, is a start.

Obviously humans are generally superior to ants. We're bigger. We have opposable thumbs. No antennas. We don't have brains the size of dust motes.

But we really do overthink and overcomplicate emotions.

As stupid as it sounds, you know, it might not be the worst thing, emotionally, to be like an ant. Find your colony. Share the load.

And for the love of God, Blaine, get new metaphors.

[sanfran-blaine-blog]

Hummingbird Heartbeat || Blainson

Blaine had no idea why he had typed that. But... he was so stupid and he had no regrets considering that Carson actually was coming over. He smiled and then looked at himself. God, Adler was right, that was so blunt. He bit his lip and then ran a hand through his hair. This was going to be so dumb. As Blaine heard the door be knocked on, he smiled and quickly got up. Wait, should he put on a shirt. He grabbed a vee-neck and then smiled, knowing exactly what he was going to do. As he answered the door, he held the shirt in his hand. "Hey, you got here faster than I expected." He opened the door and smiled and kissed his boyfriend before pulling him into the dorm. 

"So New York? Gosh, that's so sad. We won't be able to see each other for a week!" Blaine sat down on his bed and looked up at his boyfriend, about to put his shirt on over his head. "Definitely going to miss you. But I mean, we can hang out today and have our last day with a big bang, if you want." Oh god, if only Theo heard him right now. This was just SAD and embarrassing.

[blainson]

Ficlet: Better Days (a 'Heart Conditions' story)

Jackson wakes up in the middle of the night. He wants to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, but he’s nervous about running into Blaine. In his own apartment. He’s aware of how ridiculous this sounds. It's been two months since...since that scene on the catwalk. Since they broke up but didn't. They see each other at work – more than should be expected, since Arizona keeps pulling Jackson onto her service. (like her motives aren't transparent at all) It shouldn't be awkward, should it? They weren't...dating. It wasn't a thing. Or rather, it was a thing, but not that kind of thing. So it ended. It's the kind of thing that happens all the time. Especially at Seattle Grace Mercy West. Jackson's pretty sure the hospital's found a way to harness all of the pent-up anger and sexual tension that simmers in the surgical wing and they use it to power the MRI unit. It's just that, you know, he misses Blaine. He didn't see that coming. Basically, he's trapped in his room and thirsty because his ex-something is maybe out there in the kitchen and Jackson both does and doesn't want to run into him. Why is he here, anyway? It's like he's always here. And April isn't like Arizona, she's doesn't play matchmaker, doesn't really meddle. Blaine isn't malicious, he wouldn't be over here all the time just to torment Jackson – in fact, they pretty much spend all of their time holed up in April's room as if Blaine doesn't want to run into Jackson.

So that means Blaine's here because he and April want to hang out together. But again, why? He moved in with his stupid tall jock boyfriend a month ago, is there already trouble in paradise? Do they argue all the time? Is the sex not as good as they were hoping? Is Blaine okay? Is the jock one of those kinds of assholes who...is Blaine okay? After a good deal of tossing and turning, Jackson finally gives in and pads out to the kitchen in an effort to escape his wildly spinning thoughts. Sure enough, Blaine is leaning against the counter with a mug of tea in hand. He gives Jackson a weary smile that makes his heart stutter, just a little, and then he's pushing a glass across the counter. “I heard you moving around. I know you haven't been in bed long so I thought you might be thirsty...” Blaine trails off, abruptly staring down into his mug of chamomile – Jackson knows it's chamomile because at this hour it's always chamomile – and his cheeks burn a little red while he lets out an embarrassed little chuckle. Why does Blaine have to be so damn cute? Why does he have to have a stupid tall jock boyfriend? They fall into a silence that's equal parts familiar and awkward – maybe it's familiar because it's awkward, and in that there's a certain comfort, Jackson finds – and he tries to think of small talk. He is suddenly realizing that they didn't do a lot of talking when they were hooking up. What does he know about Blaine? That he's from Ohio, that he has an older brother somewhere, that he collects vintage cookbooks (and what is that about?), that he used to live in New York and that once, he was engaged to be married, but he isn't. And the sad thing is that all of this isn't stuff Jackson learned from talking to Blaine, it's stuff he picked up from gossip and from being around him. And now it's too late to learn more directly from the source, but oh, man, he wants to. While Jackson's lost in his thoughts, Blaine speaks up. “So...how’s work?” They crack up. They both know how work is. The ridiculous question dissolves a little of the tension between them, eases the air in the room the slightest bit. “It’s fine,” Jackson replies, rolling his eyes to let Blaine know he sees through the small talk. Never mind that he was just trying to search for conversation himself. “What’d you and April get up to last night?” Blaine shrugs. “Screwdrivers and a Gossip Girl marathon. Nothing major.” But it’s what they do all the time, Jackson knows, and his morbid curiosity suddenly gets away from him and takes control of his speech. “Doesn’t your… uh.” He can’t say the word boyfriend. “That Sebastian guy. What does he have to say about your pretty much living in April’s room?” A snort from Blaine. “I’d say it’s none of his business. He’s the one who invited the intramural lacrosse team to party at our place tonight. I’m here for my sanity.” Huh? Jackson frowns, because no way. “You mean, he’s not - uh…” Blaine looks puzzled for a moment, then when he figures out where Jackson was going, it’s like a light goes on, and he lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like it started life as an incredulous laugh. “Uh, no. No, Jackson. Sebastian and I aren’t dating. He’s my roommate. And an occasionally shitty one at that.” “Oh. I didn’t know.” And he feels sheepish, jubilant, a little freaked out, and confused all at once. Does this mean something? Can it? Does he want it to? Maybe it’s too soon. He does know this: that’s kind of the best news he’s heard in weeks, regardless of whether or not he can figure out why it makes him so happy. “You didn’t ask,” Blaine smiles. He sets down the mug on the counter and takes a step closer. Jackson feels all of the tension he’s been carrying begin to melt. Blaine is looking up at him and they haven’t been this close since all of that shit went down and he feels like the moment could shatter with one wrong move. When he reaches up a hand to cup Blaine’s cheek, he doesn’t flinch. He just smiles sleepily at Jackson. It makes Jackson feel warm and he’s already forgotten what he originally came out to the kitchen for. He strokes Blaine’s cheek lightly, reveling in the familiar scratch of stubble under his thumb. The man gets a five o’clock shadow at eleven in the morning, so he shouldn’t be surprised. And Jackson has always, always liked it. He’s also always liked the taste of chamomile tea. Everything feels slow and dream-like, and Jackson keeps wondering when he’s going to wake up in his own bed. Blaine’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. April’s voice breaks through the silence. “Blaine, where’d you go?” The sound is coming from her room, but it’s enough for Jackson to drop his hand and take a step back. Jackson loves his roommate, he really does. She cooks and cleans and even irons creases in his scrub pants. But right now? He’s not really feeling the love. 

[glitterdammerung]

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This gives me excellent Blainson feels. The sexy kind.