seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Türkiye
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Cambodia
seen from Brazil
seen from Germany
seen from United States
@handwrittenhello wrote a super spicy OT3 ABO Geraskifer fic to go along with the drawing I made for the Geraskier Reverse Big Bang!! It's so good, if you enjoy bottom!Geralt and feelings and Yen being a Bad Bitch In Charge then please check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29447181
This hellsite won't let me share the full image so please check it out on my Twitter: https://twitter.com/artcake19/status/1361111926621802496?s=19
Happy Valentine's Day!
My other contribution to the @geraskierreversebang
💙💙💙
@thegrimmgrimm
Here is my art for the Geraskier Reverse Bang!
You can find the accompanying (and amazing) fic by concertconfetti here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521944
Fic: If you just hold in your breath, till you come back up in full
Tittle: If you just hold in your breath, till you come pack up in full Rating: PG 13. violence, minor character death Word count: ~11,800 Summary: Sets in wwii, this is a story of a prince and a boy. They met on the shore, going in opposite directions. Betas: I want to thank the lovely mockingj91, and the amazing Kyra (I really don't know how you could bear with me). You two are just too wonderful <3 Written for the Glee Reverse Big Bang, the amazing art is by Alicia [link to lj]
Fic: Wayward Dreams
Title: Wayward Dreams Author: Rosie Rating: PG Pairing: Gen; Blaine/Quinn friendship Warnings: Set in the 1970, therefore involving sexist and homophobic attitudes (the latter only implied) Word count: 5000+ Betas: Camille and Bea
(Extended author's note)
Written for the glee reverse big bang - art by himaryan
-
"Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it." - Arab Proverb
Blaine Anderson is moving up in the world, but what if all he wants to do is move away?
Read on: LJ | FF.net | AO3, or read below
----------
The first thing Blaine notices is just how out of place he is.
It’s not the way he looks. He’s shaved, put on his best suit, gelled his hair back the way he does for work every day, and as he looks around the hotel ballroom, everyone else seems to be in similar attire; the men attempting black-tie and the women sparkling in ball gowns, cut-glass glittering at their throats in place of diamonds.
It’s the way he feels that makes Blaine uncomfortable. It’s the first of what will hopefully be many invitations to the 1973 Winner’s Ball, celebrating the very best amongst the Fabray Life Insurance collective, as the invitation had told him, and as he looks around the room he’s very aware that everyone else here is a veteran to the event. He’s eighteen, fresh out of school – the only one in his family to stay on so long – and bright-eyed, while the rest of the guests seem tired from the social etiquette that Blaine’s still very aware he hasn’t mastered just yet.
He’s seated at the far end of the head table next to Stanley, who is presented with a commemorative punch bowl for 50 years of service to the company before retiring from a faux-enthusiastic Russell Fabray and spends the rest of the evening entertaining Blaine with war stories and what he intends to do upon his retirement. Blaine nods earnestly; the rest of the table don’t seem interested, nor do they seem interesting. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mr Fabray at the head of the table, his wife on one side and the mirror image of the girl Blaine presumes is his daughter, Lucy, on the other, poised like a portrait.
Mr Fabray invites the guests to stand to make way for dancing before inviting the band on stage. They’re much more modern that Blaine had expected; a drum kit and electric guitars in place of violins, and they even start by playing an Elton John cover.
He stands at the side humming along to the music when Mr Fabray approaches him.
“How are you enjoying the evening, Blaine?”
“Very much, Sir,” Blaine responds, again wary of how it still feels wrong to be here. Mr Fabray notices Blaine’s discomfort.
“Not your usual crowd, eh? Not to worry. Let’s hope we’ll see you here next year.”
Blaine can’t tell whether he’s being condescending or not, though he suspects so.
He heads to the hotel bar, deciding that the only thing that will get him through the night is something stronger than the wine spritzers that were served with dinner in an effort, he suspects, by Mr Fabray to uphold the company’s reputation after “last time.” Blaine’s heard the stories – apparently one of the guests became so drunk that he climbed up onto the stage, pulled the microphone away from the singer mid-lyric and proceeded to tell what was meant to be a joke, except for the fact that, well, it wasn’t. Ever since the mention of it, Blaine’s wanted to know what that was, but all he’s managed to find out is that it involved Noddy and the reason he wore a bell on his hat.
The barman serves Blaine a shandy just as someone pulls up close to him. He almost chokes on his first sip in surprise.
“I’ll take a Shirley Temple, please,” she says, and Blaine realises he’s just made a fool of himself in front of Lucy Fabray.
“Enjoying the evening, Miss Fabray?” Blaine offers, extending his hand. She hesitates for a moment before taking it.
“About as much as it’s possible to,” she says disdainfully, before relaxing. “It’s Quinn.”
“Your father told me - ”
“It’s Quinn. You must be my father’s newest protégé, or so he thinks. I hope you don’t become so, Blaine.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’d hate to see you become the train wreck that he is. Do you have a dream? Ambitions?”
“I can’t say I’ve thought about it too much, but I’d like to travel. I’d like to see what’s out there beyond Reading.”
“Well, let me tell you that the only place my father has succeeded is in making money. As a father, the less said the better.” She sighs before finishing her drink. “Sebastian will be wondering where I am. I’ll see you around, Blaine.”
-
“Good evening, Mrs Fabray. Is it okay if I sit here?”
She looks a little startled; she’s sat at the sidelines, watching the dancing passively. Russell is making his way round the room, speaking to those who are also loitering on the edges of the dance floor. Blaine can see her eyes swing between him and Quinn, who’s dancing with Sebastian. Both their eyes are closed. He doesn’t appear to be enjoying it, just doing it to humour her; his body is stiff, his steps a little awkward, and when he opens his eyes, it’s not to look at his fiancée but to stare at the other couples instead, hoping they won’t notice.
“Of course. You must be Blaine. My husband has told me all about you.”
“I hope he hasn’t been saying anything too bad.” She laughs and takes another sip of her wine.
“Quite the contrary. He thinks of you as his new protégé. His last was Sebastian and look at where he is now. He thinks you’re heading for greatness, Blaine. It’s a shame we don’t have another daughter for you to marry, he says.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he liked Sebastian so much that he introduced him to our Quinn, and when they seemed to be getting on, he set it all up for Sebastian to propose to her. But he’s been acting a little strangely, lately. Quinn doesn’t seem too happy either.”
Blaine doesn’t know what to say, so takes another sip of his drink as Mrs Fabray sighs.
“It’ll all work out eventually, right?”
“I think everything has a way of working out in the end, Mrs Fabray. Now, would you care to accompany me for the next dance?”
“Blaine, I’d love to, but - ”
“When was the last time you got to dance?”
She pauses for a moment. “At my wedding.”
Blaine pats her hand gently. “Would you like to dance with me tonight? You said you’d love to. Come on. The next song’s just about to start.”
Just as the band strike the first chord, Blaine leads her out onto the dance floor, their half-finished drinks left on the table. He places his hand on her waist, takes the other and counts through basic waltz steps in his head. He had never been taught to dance at home like Quinn and Sebastian seem to have been; his own father lacks the co-ordination, balance and affection for his mother to have ever bothered, not assuming these were the social circles his son might have ended up in – who would have needed to learn to dance traditionally if they were going to be working in a factory for the rest of their lives? Instead, Blaine had taken a book out of the library, attempted to pick up the basic steps without a partner and practised in his bedroom every night for a week. His father laughed at him, both for the way he improvised awkwardly without a partner and for the very fact that Blaine had needed to learn to dance this way in the first place. However, it feels less awkward as he relaxes into it, gently trying to guide Mrs Fabray between the other couples, spinning her beneath his arm, and she’s smiling a sweet, genuine smile that Blaine’s happy to see.
“Excuse me, Mr Anderson, do you mind if I take over?”
Sebastian reaches over and breaks their hold.
“Of course, Mr Smythe, as long as I may have a dance with your lovely fiancée?”
“I suppose that’s a fair trade-off, but one dance only. Then we can swap back, can’t we?” He places his arm around Quinn’s shoulders a little too tight. “I hope you’re not trying to steal her, Mr Anderson.”
Blaine laughs, a little uncomfortably. “No, no. Of course not.”
“Good.”
-
As Blaine takes Quinn in hold, he can see how uncomfortable Mrs Fabray seems in Sebastian’s grip. His movements are awkward and somewhat vacuous. There’s no emotion to them, not like any of the other couples surrounding them. Even Quinn is smiling at him.
“Can I tell you a secret? You’re a much better dancer than Sebastian. I don’t think he enjoys it very much.”
“Strange. I wonder why that might be.”
“My mother said once that everything he does makes him look like he’s hiding something.”
“What would he be hiding?”
“No idea.”
They dance together, willing the music to pick up so that their movement can be livelier than the dancing they used to do at year seven socials with the old hands-round-waists-and-sway movement. Quinn pulls him into a ballroom hold instead, and begins to swing him round. The people closest turn to stare at them where they’re laughing, and Blaine sees Sebastian’s grip tighten on Mrs Fabray’s shoulder when the music stops.
“Thank you, Judy. It was my pleasure.” Sebastian goes to kiss her hand, but Blaine notices how his lips only touch his own thumb across her fingers within the show of affection as he and Quinn move back towards their former partners.
“Would you like another dance, Mrs Fabray?” Blaine asks.
“No. No, thank you.”
“Come on, Quinn. I think it’s time we calm down a little after that excitement.” Sebastian leads her away.
-
“And a very good morning to you, too.”
Blaine stops, his hands half-reaching for the coat rack so he can hang up his suit jacket before dealing with it properly when he wakes up.
“What’s the matter? Did the old posh twats bore you into becoming a mute for the rest of your life? Or are you tired out from all your fancy-pants dancing?”
Even without seeing him, Blaine can tell his father is rolling his eyes sarcastically at the thought as he always does when making fun of Blaine and his ambitions. He throws the jacket over his arm instead and meets his father in the living room. There’s a beer in his hand, a little over half-drunk, and the clock next to him tells Blaine that it’s gone two in the morning; his father can’t have slept.
“What are you doing up so late, Dad?”
“Waiting for you to come home.”
“Well, I’m home now.”
His father doesn’t say anything. He stands up, inspects Blaine, then leaves, his bottle of beer abandoned on the floor. Blaine can hear him walking up the whispering staircase and the door in his bedroom slam a little too hard.
-
Blaine can’t sleep. His eyes are aching and his feet are sore from dancing and everything else aches like grey, but his mind is bright, too bright.
He can’t stop thinking about Quinn’s question. He’d answered so casually, like the words were speaking some kind of untold future, but his life is perfectly fine as it is, isn’t it? He’s steadily climbing the social ladder, as the ball had shown him, and he has a great job and a family that love him, and that’s great. That’s all he needs.
But then he thinks about it more. Is there really satisfaction in owning a nice little house, a job with a reasonable income and stuck in a circle of black-tie dinners and cocktails made to varying degrees of success? Will he ever be able to dance properly without being reminded of his father, standing in the bedroom door and laughing at him? Will one of the many nameless, faceless girls dancing with him in his mind one day become his glittering wife who is as hollow as he feels now?
-
The next morning, Blaine shuffles through various pieces of paper in his desk drawer until he finds a particular one that has been in the back of his mind.
He unfolds the newspaper cutting with care, and remembers seeing it for the first time: a report from the UK Pride Rally, the first ever. He had looked on at the television with jealousy, his family with indifference. They wouldn’t care, but somehow he suspects the rest of the people he interacts with through work would be less accepting. The law changed less than a decade ago; it can take much longer to change an attitude.
He remembers Quinn dancing with an uncaring Sebastian last night, and he laughs a little once he realises exactly why Sebastian must have hated it so much – how can you when you don’t even have a physical attraction to your partner, let alone an emotional one? But he stops quickly; his mind is full of too many what ifs...?
-
“How did you enjoy the Winner’s Ball, Blaine?”
Sebastian has walked into his office uninvited and taken a seat on his desk. Blaine looks up from the paperwork and wants to say something about his positioning, especially when there’s two chairs right in front of the desk as it is, but decides against it. He’s already been asked this question six times today, including twice by Mr Fabray himself.
“I enjoyed it a lot, thank you, Sebastian.”
He returns to his paperwork, but can’t concentrate; Sebastian is drumming his fingers on his desk.
“It seemed like you particularly enjoyed dancing with my lovely fiancée, Lucy.”
“Well, she’s a very lovely person. You’re very lucky to have her, Sebastian.”
Again, Blaine picks up his pen and places it on the paper to begin writing before Sebastian asks the next question.
“What do you mean by that, Blaine? I trust you’re not trying to steal her from me. I did tell you when I let her dance with you - ”
“She’s no-one’s property, Sebastian. Quinn can make her own decisions. However, no, I have no wish to steal her from you. She’s simply a good friend of mine whose company I enjoy. I dare say she can be the same to you once you’re married.”
“Are you implying anything there, Blaine?”
“Of course not.” Blaine looks up and smiles. Sebastian stares at him for a few moments before leaving, deliberately shutting the door on the way; it had been open before.
-
Blaine’s walking home from work and daydreaming. He’d decided to take a detour through Forbury to use the time to make going-away plans. London, Paris, Rome; it’s one big cliché, but it’s one he’s becoming more and more fixated on, and he can’t help but fantasise.
He jumps when he feels a hand on his arm.
“Hey, Quinn,” he says, turning round and noting it’s her.
“Care to join me, Blaine Anderson?”
He takes the seat on the bench next to her, but doesn’t say anything. Quinn stays silent as well. The weather is overcast, somewhere in the void between winter and spring, and it feels like it should be raining. Blaine notes how Quinn’s taking the last chance to have a cigarette before it starts and all he can do is sit there and feel animosity radiate from her. The smoke copies the way she’s slouched on the bench in a dress that doesn’t fit her quite right.
“Do your parents know you smoke?”
“No idea. I don’t think so, as my father would probably have made me stop if he knew. He can talk. He still uses cigars.”
Blaine laughs, and for a moment it lightens the atmosphere.
“It’s true. Next time you’re in his office, take a look on the desk. See what you find. He thinks they make him look more professional.”
“Oh, he does that all by himself. Your father is a very professional businessman.” Quinn can’t tell if Blaine’s being sarcastic or not, his tone is so sincere.
“And it appears Sebastian is heading in the same way, and if my father has his wish, I’ll be exactly like my mother. Perfectly lovely, sweet, polite – unnervingly so, don’t you think, Blaine?” Blaine doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say, or where Quinn is heading with this.
“You don’t have to say anything; I know. She’s changed. She used to tell me stories of when she was younger. She went to Holy Jo’s and on their last day of school, to rebel against the nuns, she persuaded them all to dress up as St. Trinian’s girls, complete with wire pigtails. The nuns were furious.” Blaine laughs, a little uneasy, like the child waiting for the moral of a fable.
“Does that surprise you, Blaine? Could you imagine her doing anything like that now? My father’s gone and moulded her into some kind of trophy bride to show off at parties and to house guests. She just serves the tea, or the coffee, or the alcohol, then steps back, just as she should. I don’t want to be like that, Blaine. I don’t want to be Sebastian’s plaything. I want to have fun and dance and not be held down by anything. I love my mother, but the last thing I would ever want to do is become her.”
The silence hangs in the air with Quinn’s cigarette smoke.
“Quinn, what’s your dream?”
“What?”
“That night we met, at the Winner’s Ball, you asked me if I had a dream and I told you I wanted to travel, but you never told me yours. What do you want to do with your life? Ignore your father, ignore everything else. Think in the ideal. What do you want?”
She pauses for a moment, takes a draw on her near burnt-out cigarette.
“I want to be a photographer. I even turned my cupboard into a dark room. My dad thinks it’s just a hobby.”
“We could do it together, you know? Travel, see the world, and you can take photographs as we do. I doubt Reading compares as a location to, I don’t know, Ireland, or France, or those romantic cities in Italy - ”
“But Blaine, I’m engaged! Sebastian is my fiancé! What do you expect me to do? Just drop everything like that and run away with another man?”
“He would.”
“What is that even supposed to mean, Blaine?”
“Run away with another man. Come on, Quinn! He’s definitely in the closet.”
“How can you even say that?”
“Because I am as well.” She waits for a moment, her mouth slightly open, her eyes glassy. She doesn’t say anything. Blaine gives a small smile. “See, I’m no competition to him.”
Quinn laughs, and the sound is harsh. “Look at me, Blaine. Trapped by a father who’s trapped himself in the nineteen-fifties, by a mother who’ll do nothing to stop him or else and I’ve just found out my fiancé is a damn closet case? I need another cigarette.”
She lights another, shivers a little in the breeze.
“I’m serious, Quinn. We could both go home, pack our bags and be on a train away from here in, what, two hours? You don’t have to do this to yourself any more. You could leave it all and live your dream, take all the photographs you can. And when we get back, you could sell them, or enter competitions or something.”
“You’ve never even seen the pictures I’ve taken, Blaine.”
“Why don’t you show me?”
-
She takes him back to her house, to the side of Reading he’s never had the need to go before. The houses across Caversham Bridge are newer and much larger than anything Blaine’s ever known growing up on Oxford Road. The hallway is magnolia-painted, the carpet colour spotless and seemingly almost identical. The most prominent feature of the whole room is the painting on the wall, which seems to be of the family themselves. Judging by how old Quinn appears to be, it seems to have been done about ten years ago, and Blaine is reminded of how she looked when he first saw her at the ball, all still and poised and perfect. There’s something different about Mrs Fabray as well, though he can’t quite work out what before she greets him, smiling the same, strangely sad smile she always seems to have.
Blaine looks back towards the painting for a moment. The brilliance in her eyes has faded. Even in the picture, he can still see the echoes of the girl who would get her whole class to dress as Searle-esque school children.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Fabray,” Blaine greets her, trying to lighten the mood.
Her smile widens a little, but doesn’t seem to reach her eyes.
“We’re heading upstairs, mum.”
“Your father and Sebastian are at a meeting, but they’ll be back shortly for dinner, so don’t be too long up there.”
Blaine follows Quinn up the stairs to her bedroom. The walls are the same shade of magnolia, the bed sheets pale blue. It feels almost temporary. The only hint of personality is a small notice board, which is covered in photographs.
“Are these yours?” he asks, but knows the answer without hearing it.
He’s already drawn to examining the photographs; actions shots of girls laughing together on the park bench, two friends walking beneath the Forbury bandstand, even one of Quinn herself, trying to emulate one of those fifties’ pin-ups his friends like so much, cigarette smoke curling around her face.
“They’re amazing,” he breathes.
“Do you want to see my dark room?”
“Okay.”
She opens a door that looks as if it would lead to a wardrobe, and perhaps it once did, Blaine thinks as he steps inside after her. It’s small, only room enough for the two of them to stand comfortably without being cramped, and smells of chemicals he can match no name to. For some reason, it reminds him of when he used to play Seven Minutes In Heaven at teenage birthday parties, just like in the movies he would save up to see. He laughs at the thought.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. It’s just really, really strange.”
“I’m going to close the door, show you what it’s like when it’s really dark.”
“Is this when you offer to show me what you really do with these pegs?” he asks her, his eyebrow cocked.
She snorts softly. “Just thought you should know that you can’t be in the closet unless the door is closed, Blaine.”
He rolls his eyes before laughing at the way she smirks.
-
“I hear from your father that you’ve become very good friends with Blaine Anderson.” Quinn can’t tell Sebastian’s tone; is he looking for a confrontation, or simply curious?
“Does that matter?”
“That depends on the answer you give.”
“Okay, yes. Blaine and I are friends. I don’t see how that matters, though.”
“Let’s just say that I don’t think it will do good for my image in the company if my fiancée is seen with other men. When your father retires, I’m going to be the one in his office - ”
“He says you’ve already chosen the wallpaper.”
“I have. It’s a William Morris reproduction. And it’s one I won’t be able to use unless I maintain my image to the others in the company.”
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t want me to be friends with Blaine?”
“No, no, of course not. He’s clearly not any kind of threat -, ” Quinn notes the slight discomfort in his voice, and does her best to keep from smirking, “ – but the point still stands that it doesn’t do me any good when people see the woman who is to be my future wife getting so friendly with another man. So just, well, be careful.”
She can hear how he hesitates at how to finish the sentence and sees how his whole body slackens when he smiles after speaking, and she works it out.
“My father put you up to this, didn’t he?”
His red-alarm expression gives the answer away, no matter how many denials he splutters out afterwards.
“It’s okay, Sebastian. Replace ‘fiancée’ with ‘daughter’ in everything you’ve just said and it works out just the same. But Blaine and I are friends. And I’m not prepared to give that up.”
-
Blaine and Quinn are sat on the floor of Quinn’s bedroom and giggling. There are old issues of National Geographic surrounding them on the floor of Quinn’s bedroom and Quinn is reading the captions of the pictures in an overly-stressed form of stereotyped Received Pronunciation.
“Thick unadorned walls assure a calm, cool spot for meditation in a mosque dedicated to Sidi Bou-Gdemma, 11th century founder of Ghardaia. Algeria,” she reads, trying her best to wrap her tongue around the names.
“It does look rather beautiful, if a little stark,” Blaine says, leaning over to look at the picture in more detail.
A few pages on, they find an image of some stone carvings at a place called Timgad, and Blaine does his best to imitate the face of the right-hand figure, going cross-eyed and pursing his lips to give the impression of what he can’t make out as either a moustache or lips. Quinn reaches over to the desk, quickly grabs her Polaroid camera and takes a picture. As soon as it develops, she snorts. Blaine grabs it from her and glares at her in mock-anger before laughing with her.
“We could go, you know? Do it for real. Live our dreams together.”
“What, to Algeria?”
“Maybe. Perhaps start with Europe first, but then who knows? We could go anywhere, really.” Quinn looks at him, her eyes wide at the sincerity in his voice. “Seriously, Quinn - ”
“Blaine - ”
“I mean it. I can see how you’re unhappy with Sebastian. Do you really want to be stuck as an arm-piece for him for the rest of your life?”
“It’s not like that, Blaine - ”
“It certainly looks like it. It would be so easy, to just drop everything and go.”
“You don’t understand. You think my father would really let me break off an engagement to go running around the world with another guy?”
“Then don’t tell him!”
“Blaine, I can’t - ”
“So you want to end up like your mother? A trophy wife?”
There’s a pause, and then –
“Get out, Blaine.”
He doesn’t move.
“You cannot just say that about my mother. Get out.”
Blaine can’t decide whether she’s about to cry or throw something at him
“Okay, fine. But think about it. I’m leaving tomorrow. There’s a train at ten-to-twelve to London, and I’m going to be getting on it. You could be coming with me, if you still want to. It’s probably your only chance, Quinn.”
He doesn’t allow her to respond before leaving. She doesn’t know what she would have said anyway.
-
Blaine places his suitcase by the front door, ready to leave the next morning.
“What you got in there, Blaine?” his father asks, placing a hand on the corner of it absent-mindedly.
“Not much. Clothes, mainly.”
“What the question implied was where are you going? What have you packed this ‘not much’ for?”
“I’m going travelling. Like I said I was.”
“Never knew you had any definite plans. I always thought it was just another one of those little fantasies of yours.”
His father removes his hand, and Blaine notices the dusty print left where it had been, probably the last echoes of his day at the factory.
“Well, it’s happening. I’m going with Quinn, Mr Fabray’s daughter, if she wants.”
“Eloping, it sounds like.”
“If I was eloping, Dad, it wouldn’t be with a girl, that’s for sure.”
Blaine looks directly at his father, searching his face for any sign of a reaction. When he smiles, there’s a sudden release of elastic energy.
“Just as long as you’re still going to send me some of those playing cards or French postcards, if you know what I mean,” he says, elbowing Blaine jovially.
“If I go to Paris, that is!”
“You’ll go to Paris. You’ve always talked about going to Paris. Come on, come and have dinner, and you can tell us all about your travel plans, if you have any at all!”
-
They’re sitting at the breakfast table the next morning – Quinn, her mother, her father and Sebastian. The latter two have their heads fixed on their newspapers. They don’t look up when her mother places a fresh pot of coffee on the table with two mugs, and Quinn notices the look of resignation on her mother’s face.
“What time do we make it?” Sebastian asks.
“Nine-thirty,” Quinn tells him. He folds down his newspaper, addresses Mr Fabray.
“I guess I’d better be off, then. See you at the office, Sir.”
He turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, Quinn calls out, “have a nice day, Sebastian.”
“Oh, yeah. Bye.” His response tells her all she needs to make up her mind.
-
Her mother comes and joins her in her bedroom, where she’s staring out of the window.
“Whatever you decide to do, just know that it’ll be fine.”
“I’m going to marry Sebastian,” she tells her. Her mother is not convinced.
“Fine. Well, that’s good then. That’s settled. So what if he doesn’t like dancing, or girls? Your father doesn’t like dancing either. I’m sure he’ll give you everything you need to be a good wife.”
They turn to each other and smile.
-
They pack her suitcase in five minutes.
“Oh, and by the way, it was five years ago.”
“What?”
“The last time your father thanked me for his coffee in the morning.”
Her mother laughs, almost sarcastically, before hugging Quinn.
“You go, sweetheart. Live your life the way you want to.”
Quinn’s grip on the suitcase tightens. She glances at the clock. The train leaves in fifteen minutes.
“Let’s go.”
She runs down the stairs, her mother following behind.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
Her father stops her in the hallway. He’s doing up his suit jacket for work and is smiling, self-gratified.
“She’s in a hurry. Let her go. I’ll explain later,” her mother tells him.
“No, you’ll explain to me now when I ask you a question in my own house. I said where are you going?”
“And I said let her go.”
-
Blaine is sat on the train at 11.46 with his bags packed, wages in pocket and ticket on the table in front of him. The train is heading for London in four minutes, and after that, anywhere.
He taps out a rhythm on the table and waits for Quinn to arrive. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want to go alone. This is about Quinn’s dream. Not just his own.
-
At 11.49, Blaine steps off the train.
He sighs.
Does Quinn not want to be free anymore? Has she given up? Or is there someone else stopping her from joining him?
For whatever reason, he knows that he can’t leave her behind like this.
-
Quinn is running with only a minute to spare. Her suitcase is cradled in her arms and her hair is swinging behind her. Her breath tastes sickly and dry against the back of her throat.
She rounds the corner to find the train ready to go on the platform. It starts to move. The hand of the clock on the platform turns to 11.50. And Blaine is stood beneath it.
Wordlessly, they begin to run along the platform. The train hasn’t picked up speed yet and they could still get on it if they try, if they really try. Blaine reaches over to catch on the door handle and swings it open, pushes Quinn inside as the train starts to go faster and she has to pull him into the carriage, and they’re laughing, laughing and free and on their way.
They take seats and a moment to catch their breath again.
“You came.” Blaine smiles. Quinn can only laugh breathlessly in response, each meeting of their eyes drawing forth even more laughter. One of the other passengers in the carriage turns around and stares at them, smiles faintly, then turns away again to stare out of the window at the passing houses.
“I don’t know why we ran. There’s another train in an hour.”
beauty in the water (1/1)
Rating: PG-13 Word count: ~2,470 Betas: littleguitar94 and mockingj91 Summary: When Blaine changes, there isn't a bright light to obscure it, or, in fact, any light at all, except for that of the sun, which glimmers when it catches on the waves. Or, the one where Blaine is a merman, but only sometimes. Disclaimer: Man, I wished I owned Glee. I do own this version of merfolk though (I'm pretty sure).
Notes: My submission for the Glee Reverse Mini Bang! This was a total blast to write. It's very different to my usual style – mostly because I read Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse a couple of days before wrote this and I've been meaning to experiment with an omniscient third person narrator. But I actually really love this, and I hope you guys all do too. Originally, this was going to be a lot longer – how they met and whatnot – but I was too busy to write all seven chapters. I'm going to be writing it all over my holiday as a full prequel (in my usual style) if you're interested. You can find the original art by songirll77 here – seriously, it's so amazing, I was so lucky to get such an awesome piece of artwork <3<br /> Read on FF.net or my LiveJournal or below. :)
The cave is silent but for the gentle lap of waves against the rock's ledge – the tide is high but not yet high enough to spill over the top – and two sets of breathing, one of which hitches occasionally, with nerves or anticipation or both, perhaps. The sun is still not due to set for another couple of hours, even though the cave is deep enough that they're more in shadow than light, but the moon will be rising any moment now.
"Don't look," Blaine says. He tugs on the edge of his shirt; he's wearing beach shorts, a tank top, sandals, no underwear; it's so different from his usual clothes – his capris and polo shirts and bow ties and cardigans – but for now he has dressed simply, and in clothes he doesn't mind getting wet, if they get caught in the tide. But today he wears them out of habit; today they won't get wet, or tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day, because Kurt has a bag in which to take them away, and he'll bring them back – and a towel – when the full moon sets again for the last time for a month.
"I won't," Kurt promises. Neither of them mention his cheeks, which are fiercely, surprisingly red; just as neither of them mention that they have seen each other far more intimately than standing nude in a cave in the fading daylight.
A light breeze rolls through the cave – most of it rebounds off the back wall, though some of it escapes through the cracks in the structure, and the rest stagnates in the corners to create pockets of cooler air.
Blaine balances on the edge of the stone, and then slowly lowers himself into the water. Goosebumps raise the hair on his arms and legs and the nape of his neck. He shivers.
He knows that the Atlantic Ocean is almost freezing, and this far north especially so, but most of the time he can't tell; and the closer it is to the full moon, the warmer he finds the water – not that it's warm anyway (this is still Maine, after all, and the temperature of the water barely changes no matter the season or time of day) but it's just about comfortable, if a little on the cold side; and the air above had been so wonderfully warm.
When Blaine gives Kurt permission to look, the taller boy spreads a blanket over the rock – right up against the ledge, onto which Blaine is holding as he treads water; his arms are folded on top, and he rests his chin on his forearms, smiling up at Kurt with eyes like hot cocoa on a snowy winter’s day. Kurt lies down on his stomach, and his smile feels to Blaine worth more than a hundred 'I love you's, and he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Blaine's lips, and the boy – young man, rather, because they're both eighteen, now – he opens up, willingly, easily, happily, the way he has always done. The kiss remains nothing more than lips against lips, a few seconds with open mouths to share breath, and then closed again; a kiss just to kiss.
Eventually, Blaine breaks away, and they share an embarrassed laugh when they realise how far over the edge Kurt is leaning, how much Blaine has risen out of the water. He sinks back down, lower than his arms, peering up at Kurt through his eyelashes in a way that could be shy or could be coy, and is actually a mix of both; but he stays above water level, because he can sense the moon is just below the horizon but still has not breached, and there may still be some time for more kissing but Kurt doesn't trust the ocean not to carry disgusting germs.
"I love you," Blaine says, unbidden of anything in particular. He feels compelled to say it, sometimes: the feeling wells up in his chest, warmth and comfort and passion, and it spills from his lips like a confession – because it is, a little, because Blaine never thought he would be allowed to love someone, because he's gay in a tiny seaside not-quite-tourist town, and because when the full moon's in the sky his body changes from human to mer.
"I love you, too," Kurt returns, Kurt always returns, because he'd never really believed he'd be allowed, either, as he watched his friends hook up and break up and flaunt their relationship statuses through song in the choir room on a weekly basis. He gives Blaine's forehead – the only part of him on display that isn't his eyes – a sweet kiss, and Blaine's eyes squint with the strength of his hidden smile.
"Are you sure you want to stay?" Blaine says quietly. He's giving Kurt a final chance to back out, even though they've talked about this enough to fill a novel. Kurt just raises his eyebrows, in amusement and exasperation, and Blaine chuckles and ducks into the water a little more, so Kurt can just about see his eyes shining above his arms, and through the fringe of eyelashes and curls.
"Of course I'm sure, dummy," Kurt says fondly, twining and twisting his fingers through Blaine's hair – they fill the spaces inside the loose, black ringlets; just the same as they fill the spaces between Blaine's own fingers; just the same as their bodies fill the spaces in the other boy's arms – he tangles his fingers in the strands of Blaine's hair and pulls him up out of the water – and Blaine goes willingly and easily, the same as he always does. His skin is cold where he's no longer underwater, but the goosebumps have gone. He allows Kurt, and himself, a few moments to kiss, but his outside is starting to feel too small for his insides and the lower half of his body is beginning to itch; they are only afforded a vignette of sky and sea and rock through the entrance of the cave, but Blaine can feel the touch of the full moon on the water as it rises above the horizon.
He is the one to pull away again, but this time he swims away, towards the open sea, although he stops just far enough away from Kurt so as not to accidentally splash him; after a final shared smile, he sinks entirely below the surface.
His movements ripple the water, distorting the view of his body, and for that Kurt is glad – he has seen Blaine shirtless almost every day of this summer and the last, because he works on the beach as one of the lifeguards, and Blaine doesn't bother with the modesty of clothing when he's changed into a merman; but they have only seen each other naked a small number of times and the novelty hasn't worn off; Kurt hopes it never does. But he's here because he wants to see Blaine change, because they've talked about it a lot over the last year, or as much as Kurt can convince Blaine not to pretend like this part of him doesn't exist – he wants to see Blaine change, but he'll miss everything if he's not paying attention because he's too distracted by thoughts of what, exactly, he has done with Blaine every other time the boy has been naked.
When Blaine changes, there isn't a bright light to obscure it, or, in fact, any light at all, except for that of the sun, which glimmers when it catches on the waves. The change isn't immediate, either; but at least it doesn't look painful – from above the water, it's difficult sometimes to read Blaine's expressions, even with the practice of talking for months to a pixelated image on a computer screen – at the most, he looks uncomfortable, pressing at his chest and his neck as his organs change to breathe underwater, and clenching his fists so he doesn't scratch at his legs as they meld together, lengthen, grow scales, lose all bone matter to become cartilage and muscle. Kurt watches, with an almost morbid fascination, the tail grows its fin; and he presses his fingers to his mouth in sympathy and protective instinct – because, Blaine said, when preparing Kurt for this, the change is uncomfortable in the way that sitting on your hands is uncomfortable, and the fin is the onslaught of pins and needles when you stand up; and now, underneath the water, his face is screwed into a grimace, and he twists his body and brings his hands up to his head to scrunch his fists in his hair. The tail unfurls from nowhere. Blaine stops moving, his eyes closed to just breathe – while the pain quickly fades, and to adjust to the non-human body – but for a moment Kurt panics that something went wrong.
That is when Blaine comes back to the surface, his smile for Kurt returned to his face. He looks different in a way Kurt never noticed before – subtle differences that he would never have noticed, of course, because he's seen Blaine as mer only twice, and both of those were before they even started dating, before he really knew him.
His skin is smoother, clearer, more rubbery in texture, similar to the feeling of latex, because the human quality of skin would prune, Kurt realises; his eyes shine more, almost literally glowing, more reflective, and they roam over Kurt's face, taking him in in this different lighting; even his hair feels different under Kurt's hand, and that's probably why Blaine's hair isn't ruined from spending so long in salt water.
Kurt whispers, "Handsome as ever," and the words soak into Blaine's skin like moisturiser, sinking through and underneath his skin, softening the nodules of tension in Blaine's shoulders until peace is all that's left; Blaine grins up at Kurt, his smile carefree and as bright as his eyeshine, and, of course, because there is no other response when Blaine smiles like this, Kurt smiles back, all of his guards at ease; and everything is so wonderfully different to the first time, when Blaine was terrified that his secret had been found out, and Kurt had been so hopelessly confused.
Together, they lift Blaine onto the ledge, although, Kurt notices, and Blaine notices Kurt noticing and grins privately to himself – Kurt notices the flex of the other boy's biceps and torso, rivulets running round the shape of firm muscles; his main job is to keep Blaine balanced. He sits with his fin in the water, next to Kurt's blanket, and Kurt takes off his shoes and socks to dangle his feet in the water, too. Blaine lets Kurt run his hand down the lap of his tail – it feels so good, almost as good as when Kurt plays with his hair, or gives him a massage, and it's a struggle not to close his eyes and moan.
And they talk.
Not about anything in particular, because there's nothing in particular to talk about. There are rehashings of old conversations – Blaine's transformation; Kurt going to college in New York, which is so much closer to Maine than Ohio is, and Blaine working at his family's restaurant until he figures out what he wants; general plans for the future, for the duration of college and the life beyond; plans for the immediate future, what they'll do for the rest of the time Kurt is in Maine; idealistic plans for the future, in a perfect world where they could both live in New York without any salination issues; earnest and sincere assurances that they won't break up, that college and New York won't break them up. There are also silly conversations, about why Blaine owns brightly coloured beach shorts, and speculating for the coming seasons of their favourite reality television programmes, and how Kurt's high maintenance best friend's future roommate will cope, and the book Blaine was reading yesterday.
Eventually, the sun sets. It's dark in the cave long before it's dark outside, and back in the water – because when he's like this, when his skin is dry, it's tight and uncomfortable, so he has slipped back into the ocean and is now resting an arm and a chin on Kurt's leg, the other hand wrapped around the taller boy's ankle and occasionally absent-mindedly stroking at the tendon, and every time, in return, Kurt smoothes his hand through his boyfriend's hair, stubbornly curly no matter how wet they get – back in the water, in the almost-dark, Blaine’s eyes are practically glowing, and it's beautiful.
Blaine kisses Kurt's knee and says, "You should probably get going. Your dad'll be worried."
Kurt pouts; his hand, of its own accord, grows stiffer on the back of Blaine's neck, as if that will be enough to keep them together. "I'm eighteen," he says.
Blaine laughs as he says Kurt's name – the way he always says Kurt's name, slow, almost caressing, stretching out the middle and softening the final 't'; the name is precious because the boy is the most precious thing.
"All right," Kurt sighs, "I'm going." Blaine's mother is waiting for him near the old lighthouse, whenever the boys can part, and Kurt isn't sure of the exact spot but it's purposefully somewhere difficult for full humans to casually stumble across. "I love you."
Blaine beams. "I love you too," he says softly, and then he releases Kurt's leg, so he can dry off and put his socks and shoes back on; he folds the towel and puts it inside his bag with Blaine's clothes, on top so someone can't catch a glimpse of them; and then he crouches on the floor, balancing with one set of fingertips, and Blaine rises up to meet him, and Kurt holds them together with his hand on Blaine's cheek as they kiss.
When Kurt leaves, it's with slow steps, careful, because he's mostly walking backwards and blowing more kisses to Blaine; and when he's out of sight, Blaine slips into the water, and, moments later, he's not even a silhouette against the ocean floor.
Chelsea fails at life.
So there was an extension on GRBB so that instead of final fics being due the 5th they aren't due until the 19th.... even more time for me to put off writing this fic. And instead, I'm now torn between writing some more Clint Barton/Phil Coulson fic OR writing another Johnlock. I do love those two pairings. I like ALL OF THE CLINT ANGST and then I love Johnlock because they are soul mates and it's fun to write John putting up with Sherlock being... well, himself.
