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Klaine - "Healing Hands"

After a string of horrible relationships and a year of therapy, Blaine Anderson goes to The Healing Hands Institute to get the confidence to enter the dating scene again. Will a mysterious man Blaine sees on the train there derail those plans, or will he be just the person Blaine needs?

Alternate Universe, crushes, romance, angst, anxiety, talk of PTSD, talk of therapy, future fic, sexual surrogates, implied Kurtbastian. Implies that nobody met in Ohio, that Sadie Hawkins never happened, and that a few teachers and students are close in age.

(This started as a one-shot, but I'm thinking of making it a fic, depending on what people think. So if you like it, let me know <3)

The announcement for the next stop comes over the loud speaker, but Blaine doesn’t catch it, deeply enthralled in the chapter of the book he’s devouring at record speed. He didn’t think that young adult fiction would be his cup of tea, but it came highly recommended by one of his regular students – a precocious young viola player whose bowing happens to be head-and-shoulders more advanced than some seasoned musicians Blaine knows. She speaks so passionately about these books every time she comes to see him that the only way to calm her constant chatter at the end of their lessons was to buy the whole series. Since then, he hasn’t been able to put the books down. He’s not usually into fairy tales. Mythical creatures and contrived happily ever afters don’t appeal to him. He’s long stopped believing in Fairy Godmothers and Prince Charmings. But these books have him hooked. He’s even made plans to attend the author’s book signing at Barnes and Noble in Times Square this summer.

Blaine’s not worried that he’s missed the final call. He’s made this trip on the subway enough times that he knows this isn’t his stop. As the train starts up again, the doors sliding shut and the car picking up speed, he glances over the edge of his hardcover book to look at the new passengers settling into their seats. A grand total of four people got on at the last stop, and Blaine’s glad. He hopes the train doesn’t fill up too much before he reaches his stop. He’s not fond of crowded trains - of closed quarters in general – where bodies get shoved together, inevitably touching when the train zips and sways, or how the temperature starts to rise slowly with each new person that joins the fray.

Two stops pass, more people enter, some people leave, but Blaine hardly notices…until a man sits in the seat right next to him – a husky, somewhat ripe man, whose thick thighs bulging from his cargo shorts spill over the lip of the seat and meld against Blaine’s leg. Behind his book, Blaine scowls. He doesn’t begrudge the man a seat, but he doesn’t understand his need to sit next to him, as the train car is relatively empty, and last time Blaine checked, seats were not scarce. But Blaine’s only about five stops away from his destination, so he could just stay where he is and read, ignoring the man’s sweaty leg or the smell of b.o. making his eyes water.

No. That’s what old Blaine would do.

Part of Blaine’s trip to Lower Manhattan from his studio in Queens is about putting the flaws of old Blaine behind him and moving toward a future with new Blaine, a more assertive Blaine, one that sticks up for himself, one that’s not as timid.

One that can put a bleak past behind him and move toward a shinier future.

Blaine gathers his coat, his messenger bag, and his book, and moves through a narrow forest of riders (the few who prefer to stand than sit as there are indeed open seats everywhere), walking to the far end of the train, to an area where there’s more than enough open space for him to sit. He takes a seat opposite another man reading, deciding that this will be the book nook corner of the subway car – a thought that makes him chuckle.

His chuckle makes the other man look up from behind his book.

Blaine sits, opens his book, and from a simple matter of directionality and proximity, their eyes meet.

The man chuckles back at Blaine, who’s captivated immediately by the blue eyes staring at him, and Blaine wonders briefly if this man – this gorgeous, fair-skinned man – read his mind. But then Blaine’s eyes flick to the cover of the book the man is holding up in his view, and he smiles.

They’re reading the same book.

But in that way that daily commuters acknowledge one another without starting a conversation lest it disturb their chosen ritual of getting lost in the journey, the man returns to his book, leaving Blaine to stare awkwardly at his beauty while he reads.

Blaine’s eyes drift back to his page. He starts over again where he left off. He reads the same sentence about twenty times before his gaze drifts back up to the edge of his book, and he stares at the man across the way.

He’s exceptional. He could be a model. It’s been known to happen, seeing models or singers or actors on the subway. Blaine sees their pictures in the society pages all the time. There was a Vine of Kanye West on a train going to Brooklyn, and Blaine swears he saw Christy Turlington on the L once.

If this man isn’t a model, then he might have missed his calling.

Whoever he is, he’s stunning. He’s sitting at an angle, caddy corner with the rail, his right leg crossed over his left, and those legs – they go on forever. His shoes and his clothes have to be designer something (Blaine gave up an interest in designer clothes when he traded a career in law for music and stopped being able to afford any), and look as if they were designed just for him. His walnut-colored hair defies gravity, and those eyes – if Blaine were more poetic, more…better with words, he could describe them as luminous, shimmering with an inner light, holding the secrets to the true magic in the world.

Or just plain glorious. That works, too.

He’s the kind of man Blaine would have dreamt about as a teenager. In fact, Blaine thinks he did dream about this man – back before a long slew of the wrong guy left a bad taste for fairy tales in Blaine’s mouth.

But maybe a man like this could take that bad taste away.

Blaine sits up straight in his seat, shifting his legs, trying not to look small and slouched. He blithely considers approaching the man, sitting in the seat beside him (or the next seat over, leaving one in between them out of respect) and striking up a conversation about the book they’re both reading. From the amount of read pages on the right-hand side of his book, they seem to be at about the same place in the story.

Maybe Blaine could do this for himself, he thinks. Go over and talk to this man. Introduce himself. Maybe this ride downtown is unnecessary, and everything he’s spending his inheritance to re-discover is actually lurking somewhere inside him. Maybe he doesn’t need doctors and psychiatrists to help him get his mojo back.

The man’s eyes shift up, probably at the feeling of Blaine’s eyes boring into his forehead, and Blaine’s gaze darts back down to his book, his breath racing, his pulse soaring, and a phenomenal amount of sweat pouring down his back in the space of a second.

Nope. He can’t do this alone. He needs help.

PTSD. When his therapist told him he had it, Blaine couldn’t believe it. He’d never been to war, hadn’t been abused by his parents. He’d actually had a really good time in high school, which he knows is rare. When he came out, he wasn’t bullied, wasn’t attacked. He had more support in his life than most people could ever hope to have.

What he didn’t have was a competent read on men. Not all men, just the ones he decided to date. The manipulation was subtle, the changes it made in his personality minor at first, until he started to doubt himself, every decision he made, every word out of his mouth.

His own self-worth.

It got to the point that he experienced major anxiety over little things, like trying to choose the white wine or the rose to go with his salmon almondine.

And he wasn’t even dating anyone at the time.

He had vague nightmares. He’d wake up feeling sad and scared, but with nothing to link it to. He became passive-aggressive. He let people walk all over him, even his students, and the oldest one he has is thirteen-years-old.

When Blaine had a level 100 panic attack during his first major audition in over a year, he knew he needed help. He found a therapist in the city, one who dealt specifically with victims of abusive relationships (though Blaine still wasn’t willing to admit to having been in any, too ashamed to let that thought root in his mind), but most importantly, a therapist who was sensitive and supportive to issues that affect homosexual men.

After a successful year in therapy, Blaine decided he wanted to try dating again. But the idea of meeting someone, of letting them into his carefully constructed life still very much held together by hopes and dreams terrified him.

His therapist – Dr. William Schuester - recommended The Healing Hands Institute of Lower Manhattan, a place that specializes in advocacy, rehabilitation, interpersonal relationships, meditation, New Age therapy, a full spectrum of neuro- and psychoanalysis…

…Sexology.

Blaine wasn’t even thinking of sex when he decided to rejoin the dating pool, but yeah, sure. He guesses they’d have to include that since, at some point, he’d like to get back to that.

That thought, coupled with the man across the way uncrossing his legs and re-crossing them again, licking his lips then his fingers to turn the pages, makes several uncomfortable things happen in Blaine’s body. His chest tightens, his stomach flips, his legs become restless, and his cock throbs, all simultaneously.

When the train slows and the stop signal chimes, Blaine nearly jumps out of his skin.

The train comes to a halt. The doors open and a mass of people flood the car. Blaine scoots to the far end of the bench to avoid the commuters rushing in. A sea of bodies flow in front of him. A gaggle of laughing teenagers opens the end door to cross over to the next car. Why people do that is beyond him. The train is stopped, just get in that car from the outside. Blaine grumbles about it in his head, turning his body away from the crowd to keep from having his knees knocked. He closes his book with his thumb keeping his place, and holds it to his chest so that the dust jacket doesn’t get ripped. He endures this tide of people until the final call sounds and the doors slide shut. Then he readjusts himself, settling back into his seat the way he was before. He peeks around the two men standing in front of him to the bench across the way. He knows the man, sitting closer to the doors, must have suffered a similar fate, and Blaine is eager to commiserate silently with him.

But he’s gone. He must have gotten off.

Blaine stands up to look out the window, ignoring the huffs and, “Watch it!” of the men he shoves out of his way. The train starts up again, begins to chug along, but Blaine doesn’t see him on the platform - not a perfectly coiffed hair of his head, not his stylish, tailored suit.

Not those eyes that sparkle like they’re full of stardust.

He’s gone.

Blaine sits back down, broken hearted that he’s lost this chance. He swore after he flubbed that audition that he wouldn’t let another opportunity pass him by, not because of self-doubt, and especially not because of fear. But he tries to look at the bright side. If he rides this train again at this same time, Blaine’s bound to run into him. He’s going to be coming this way a few times a week for therapy. Or, he can find a reason. But for now, he has to face the facts. He’s in no position to even think of asking a man like that out on a date. That kind of man probably has people throwing themselves at his feet all over New York. He doesn’t want to be just another creepy random guy. No. He’ll work through the steps and get his groove back. He’ll change, for the better, then Blaine will work up to him…

…provided Blaine can find him again.

Blaine gets off the subway three stops later. The train lets off right on the street he needs, which is convenient and welcome since, after nearly a decade, he still gets lost when he’s going somewhere for the first time. Blaine is no stranger to the commute downtown. Subways he can manage fine – hop on the right one and get where you want to go. It’s about as close to plug-and-play as you can get. But once he gets above ground with tons of new information thrown at him – people, busses, buildings, cars, noise - his mind becomes a mess.

Thank God for Google.

From the street view on Google Maps, the building he’s going to looked big, but in real life, it’s much larger than Blaine expected.

Blaine’s therapist rents a brown stone walk-up adjacent to a strip mall. Compared to him, Healing Hands must do an incredible amount of business.

Blaine walks into the lobby, takes the elevator up to the fifth floor, and there it is. The fifth floor. Healing Hands takes up the entire fifth floor. It looks more like a chic day spa than any medical office Blaine has ever been in – antiqued hardwood floors (probably for that trendy Cape Cod feel), distressed pearl-on-gold painted walls, soothing water features bubbling, accompanied by bamboo stems sticking out from cylinder glass vases, the bottom halves filled with colored stones, red upholstered club chairs set up to best take advantage of the row of picture windows, and to the far left, is that…a juice bar?

Blaine smirks.

At least he can see where his money’s going.

It strikes Blaine that it seems kind of quiet for a Tuesday morning. When Dr. Schuester made the appointment for him, he said that they could just fit him in. But Blaine sees no one, not a soul milling about. He hears a door open and a phone ring, but otherwise he’s alone. There’s a counter a few feet in front of him, but no receptionist in sight.

“Hello?” he calls out, making an effort not to be too loud and disrupt the peaceful atmosphere. He approaches the wrap-around desk, the thing an eyesore of gleaming white Lucite. His eyes sweep around, his mind considering whether this is really necessary or if it might be better to spend his $15,000 on a vacation in Malibu and a membership to Match.com, when a head of blonde hair appears behind the desk. Blaine leaps back an inch, startled, and she smiles wide.

“Good morning, and welcome to The Healing Hands Institute!” she says loudly.

Blaine looks left and right to see if anyone else might pop out of the woodwork.

“Hello,” he says. He waits for her to ask him what he needs, but she says nothing. She simply smiles.

Okay…

This woman, grinning fanatically at him, is also not what he expected. The receptionist at Dr. Schuester’s office is a prim woman in her mid-thirties, with a bob of copper hair and a warm, delicate smile. She’s polite, quiet, and constantly cleaning. But this woman looks so excited to see him, Blaine expects her to leap over the counter to shake his hand. She has an earbud in her right ear, bright green shadow on her eyelids, and her lips are the color of bubble gum fresh out of the wrapper. Her long, wavy hair is pulled into a ponytail high-and-tight on her head, and the first impression Blaine has is that she kind of reminds him of a cheerleader.

“Um, my name is Blaine Anderson,” he says as she pulls out her earbud and looks him over with cheerful sky blue eyes.

They’re pretty eyes, but they come nowhere close to the man on the train.

“Ah, yes. Blaine Anderson,” she says without consulting the clipboard of names in front of her. “You have an appointment at 10:15.” She stands from her desk and comes around to the front, her billowy floral blouse and pink skirt shifting on her frame as she walks. “Please, follow me.”

Blaine gives the receptionist a quick once over from behind as she leads him away, thankful that no one is around to see. He can’t help it. The cut of her triceps and the way her calf muscles move when she walks is mesmerizing. Blaine tries not to judge by appearances, but she has an impressively athletic build for someone who spends hours a day behind a desk. He wonders briefly what she does after work. Cross training? Running? Zumba? Or perhaps she’s one of those lucky few who just has good genes. Blaine’s older brother, Cooper, is blessed with the good genes in the family. He barely needs to lift a coffee mug to build muscle. He’s tall, blue-eyed, with fabulous skin, enviable hair, and he’s an actor. That kind of shadow isn’t easy to live under when you’re just a hair shy of 5’ 8”, have curls that frizz out everywhere (requiring a gallon of rubber cement to tame), and a single cronut can make you gain fifteen pounds.

Blaine sighs. He’s doing it again – acting like old Blaine and cutting himself down inside his head.

He takes a deep breath. He came to this place to leave old Blaine behind. From this moment on, he is new Blaine, and new Blaine doesn’t put himself down anymore.

The receptionist takes him down a long hall, passing a line of doors on both sides but no windows. They could be offices or supply closets for what he knows.

“My name is Brittany,” the woman says as they approach what looks like the double-doors to a conference room. “If you need anything – water, tea, coffee - just peek your head out and holler. I’ll hear you.” She opens the doors. “Wait in here, and your team will be with you in just a minute.”

“My team?” Blaine asks in surprise.

“Yup,” she answers with a nod, “your team. Welcome, and let The Healing Hands take care of you.” She backs out of the room, pulling the doors closed.

Blaine stares at the doors, stumped, but not by that cheesy tagline. He thought this was going to be a private consultation. How private is it if a whole team is assigned to his case? He suddenly feels even less confident about this decision, if that’s possible, but he’s already given them his charge card, and they’ve put a non-refundable deposit on hold. Besides, this is supposed to be for his own good, the solution to his problems. He has no intention of leaving.

He’s just eager to get it over with.

Blaine turns away from the doors to discover he’s right. He is in a conference room, and it’s overwhelmingly blah considering the décor of the waiting room – wood paneled walls, travertine carpet, an ovular wood table surrounded by high-back office chairs. He walks across the room and takes a seat at the far end, sitting in a plush brown chair that looks like it should be comfortable but is anything but. He reclines, but the chair pushes against him, resisting any effort on his part to relax, so he’s forced to sit bolt upright. He takes out his phone, opens his Flappy Bird app, and starts playing, mindlessly tapping his screen and focusing on the tedium of digital flying avian to relieve the anxiety he feels congesting his chest. He’d return to his book, but he doesn’t think he can concentrate on reading right now, because reading will remind Blaine of him, and that’s not the kind of distraction he needs.

He’s already antsy as it is.

Blaine doesn’t have to wait long. His little pixelated bird has only died seven times before the doors open again. Four men and one woman dressed in white coats over stylish business attire walk in. Blaine watches them fill five empty chairs at the opposite end, talking in low voices to one another and taking glances at him. They wait till they’re all seated, then the four men and one woman turn to look at him.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” the first person to sit - a man with intelligent but judgmental green eyes - says. “My name is Dr. Sebastian Smythe, and I am the director here at The Healing Hands Institute. Your therapist, Dr. Schuester, made this appointment with us because he feels you can benefit from the services that we offer.”

“Do you work with Dr. Schuester often?” Blaine asks, folding his hands, then unfolding them and laying them flat on the table. Three of the five doctors watch him. One makes notes.

“We have a long-standing working relationship with Dr. Schuester, yes,” Dr. Smythe answers dryly, not sounding too impressed. “He refers many of his clients to us.” He leaves it at that, cut and dry, as if the insinuation that he and Dr. Schuester actually ‘work’ together is offensive to him. “Let me introduce some of my colleagues. To my left is Dr. Adam Crawford and Dr. Jesse St. James. To my right is Dr. Carl Howell and Dr. Holly Holiday. We’re going to be your care team, Mr. Anderson.”

“Wow,” Blaine says, fidgeting while fighting not to fidget, “that’s a lot of people for one me and all my problems.”

“Well, we’re all experts in varying fields, as Dr. Schuester must have explained to you,” Dr. Crawford answers.

“He did,” Blaine says, folding his hands again.

“We like to treat the whole patient,” Dr. Howell adds. “Concentrating in different areas equally to determine the best course of action and the right treatment for each specific case.”

“We use many traditional as well as unique methods,” Dr. St. James adds. “Some technics that many centers like us won’t even recommend.”

Blaine’s eyes open wide. That sounds interesting…and ominous.

“Actually,” Dr. Smythe cuts in, “we are expecting one more gentleman, but he seems to be running a bit late.” He takes out his iPhone as he talks and checks his messages.

“Oh, really?” Blaine asks. “And who is that?”

“His name is Elliott Gilbert,” Dr. Holliday answers. “He’ll be your sexual surrogate.”

“Forgive me,” Blaine says, leaning forward in his chair. “My…my what now?”

“Sexual surrogate,” Dr. Crawford picks up. Someone who will help you re-establish your connection with your body and your sexual self. Someone who will take what you learn in therapy and continue with the practical application of it.”

“Practical application?” Blaine repeats. “So…do you mean that I’m going to…have sex with this person?”

“You and your surrogate will negotiate the parameters of your relationship when you meet,” Dr. Holliday says with a wink.

“Do I…need that?” Blaine asks, instead of asking the question that’s really on his mind, which is, ‘Is that legal?’

“You’re definitely within your rights to refuse if you don’t feel that you’ll be comfortable,” Dr. Smythe assures him. “But we’ve found that many of our patients who suffer from PTSD do have a great deal of success dating after interacting with one of our surrogates.”

“Yes,” Dr. Crawford says, his smile much kinder, much more genuine of the bunch. “They’re specially trained, they’re professional, they’re discreet…”

“I don’t know,” Blaine says. “I’m just not sure that I’d feel comfortable with…”

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice sounds outside the door before it even opens. A jingle of keys and the dull thud of a bag hitting the wood precedes the knob turning. “I got trapped a couple of blocks away when some guy’s scarlet macaw went crazy after it ran into another guy’s boa constrictor at Starbucks. Only in New York, right?”

Dr. Smythe turns quickly in his seat, obviously aware of the identity of the man behind the door before it opens, and he doesn’t seem pleased. His reaction makes Blaine curious beyond belief, but when the door finally does open, Blaine’s jaw drops.

It’s the man. The man from the train.

Elliott? That name doesn’t really suit him, but okay.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Dr. Smythe says, glaring at the man entering the room. “We were expecting Elliott. I specifically assigned Elliott to this case.”

The expression on Dr. Smythe’s face seems to communicate that he thinks what he says goes with this man, without argument, but the man smiles sweetly and rolls his eyes.

If Blaine had to guess, he would say that there was some history between these two.

Great, because this couldn’t be any more uncomfortable?

“Yeah, I know, I know,” the man says with a wave of his hand, “but he’s stuck in the High Desert. Something about an extreme yoga retreat, the Four Runner he rented overheated - it’s apparently a huge mess. He called early this morning from a rest stop and asked if I’d take his place. Do you mind?”

Dr. Smythe clenches his jaw - tendons standing out, a vein pulsing – and while the occupants of the room sit quietly and wait, he shakes his head. When he turns back to Blaine, he doesn’t look quite as congenial as before, which, frankly, isn’t much of a change.

“Kurt Hummel,” Dr. Smythe says through white teeth and a strained smile, “this is Blaine Anderson. Blaine Anderson, this is Kurt Hummel. And as of today, I guess, he’ll be the surrogate assigned to your case.”

Blaine stands as Kurt walks around the table toward him, depositing his bag into a chair and his book on the table beside Blaine’s, purposefully lining them up together.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” he says, extending a hand as he approaches. “May I call you Blaine?”

Blaine looks at the hand, then at Kurt’s smile, and those eyes. How could Blaine say no to those eyes?

“Yes, yes, of course,” Blaine says, taking Kurt’s hand and shaking it.

“So, what do you say, Blaine?” Kurt asks, keeping a hold on Blaine’s hand, and God if his hands don’t feel amazing? Soft and warm and…soft. “Do you mind me being a part of your team?”

“Actually,” Dr. Smythe says, rising halfway to his feet, looking like he’s about to come over and separate them, “Mr. Anderson says he doesn’t feel comfortable with the idea of a sexual surrogate, so we were thinking of just eliminating that from his treatment profile.”

“That’s too bad,” Kurt says, lowering his voice. Behind them, Blaine sees Sebastian stand an inch more, leaning their way, trying to hear Kurt’s voice. “I know you must be nervous about all this, but I promise, I won’t do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable, Blaine. Quite the opposite. I’m here to help you be more comfortable with yourself so you can get on with your life. And I have a feeling that you and I would work well together.” Kurt’s eyes dart over to the books sitting side by side on the table, then back at Blaine. “So, what do you think? Would you be okay with me on your team?”

Blaine blinks at Kurt, stunned, floored, overwhelmed, but mostly with the thought of ‘How in the hell did I get so lucky?’

“Will you let me help you?”

“Yes,” Blaine says, barely glancing back at Dr. Smythe seething behind them. “I think…I would very much like to work with you, Mr. Hummel.”

“Please,” Kurt says, stepping in close, so close that Blaine can see those magical blue eyes sparkle with hints of hazel and green, “call me Kurt.”

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