in black ink

What now? What now? What now?

It’s all he thinks, even when Ian’s huddling close, his fingers pushing through hair that’s sticky with blood and beer and fuck knows what else, kissing Mickey’s head and holding him.  

What now.

“Let’s go home,” Ian says, like that’s a good enough answer. And it is. It’s the only thing to do.

They’re quiet on the walk back and Mickey can’t stop thinking; can’t allow himself to think too hard, though, running circles around everything that just fucking happened, because if he thinks too hard he’ll probably lose it. Now that the adrenaline isn’t pumping through him anymore, letting him run his mouth and throw his fists, it’s —  different. So he repeats it in his head.

What now? Go home. Ian’s.

He puts one foot in front in the other, Ian beside him the whole time, both of them grunting a little on every few breaths. Their arms brush. People pass by on the sidewalks and Mickey doesn’t notice if they’re looking or not, couldn’t give a shit about that if he tried right now. Some strangers curling their lips in disgust is the least of his problems, and the ache in his knuckles is enough to remind him that he’s not about to put up with anymore bullshit anyway. There’s one less mask he’s gotta wear now, one less front he’s gotta defend.

A few minutes later, lungs burning from the cold, boots scraping on the pavement, they finally make it to Ian’s, where it’s warm and where it smells familiar. Mickey wonders when that happened.

What now?

“Wanna wait in my room while the water heats up for a shower?” Ian whispers while they take the stairs and Mickey nods, goes in Ian’s room where it smells even more familiar. What now? Shower. He shrugs out of his coat and sits down on Ian’s bed, toes off his boots, wincing at the pain in his shoulder when he tries to lean back. He finishes undressing and waits, listening to the shower going across the hall.

Then Ian comes back in and Mickey looks at him again, really looks at all the blood congealing on his face; can’t help thinking of that sweet face when it was younger and scrubbed clean, staring up at Mickey from between his legs, all shocked and excited and knowing that something was about to happen, but neither of them knowing how big — how fucking monumental — it would be. It seems like a lifetime ago to Mickey.

But Ian smiles, looks at Mickey with some kind of soft look in his eyes, and the sweetness comes back.

“C’mon, water’s ready.”

What now? Shower.

It’s not really a surprise when Ian follows him into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, but it does make Mickey pipe up finally, feeling a little less like he’s balancing on the head of a pin now that he’s under the spray of water, lets it take the chill away.

“You tryin’ to tell me somethin’?” he says, arching an eyebrow when a naked Ian steps into the tub behind him.

Ian chuckles. “Just that we’re both a fucking mess.”

Mickey looks down at the red circling the drain, blood that’s his and Ian’s and his dad’s and whoever else’s, all sluicing off their bodies and down, down, down. He reaches for the shampoo bottle on the edge of the tub and passes it back to Ian, who huffs a little laugh.

“Came out, didn’t I? Might as well go whole hog, right? Let you do stupid shit like wash my hair.”

Ian squirts some of the shampoo into his palm and starts massaging Mickey’s scalp and Mickey grunts, it feels so nice.

“Makes it all worth it, huh?”

That makes Mickey laugh, though a second later he starts thinking again, starts getting dangerously close to the too hard place even when Ian’s pushing his fingers through his hair again gently, lathering it up.

“Hey,” Ian murmurs, and he turns him so they can look at each other, both of them standing under the spray of water. “It’ll be worth it,” he says, serious, eyes shining with how hard he wants to believe that. His fingers stop their movement, just holding the back of Mickey’s head now.

Mickey blinks at him. “Yeah,” he nods, doesn’t have the energy to do anything but agree. Wants to hope as fervently as Ian does, at least for now.

They finish washing, soapy fingers trailing over pale skin mottled purple and blue and yellow with bruises, touching each other because they can’t avoid it in the cramped space of the tub, and touching each other just because they can.

“Fuckin’ crazy, man,” Mickey mutters, shakes his head while the back of his hand bumps up on Ian’s battered side delicately. “Taking on my two uncles. Shit was straight out of a Van Damme movie.”

“Really?” Ian grins, leaning into Mickey despite the bruise. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Mickey swallows, not sure if he meant it as one. But he decides not to think about that, so he lets his wet hand trail lower ‘til he’s got Ian’s cock in a soft grip, not much intent behind it yet. Likes the way Ian lets out a heavy breath and leans against Mickey.

“Tryin’ to tell me something?” Ian breathes, shooting Mickey’s words back at him.

Mickey’s mouth twitches, feeling Ian plump up just a little from the touch. “Nah. Sore enough as it is right now. Don’t need to add my ass to the list.”

Ian huffs a laugh and bumps his jaw against Mickey’s, hand wrapping around Mickey’s waist to rest on his hip. He presses kisses to his neck, his shoulder, and Mickey’s not sure if he’s shivering because of that or because the water’s getting cold.

“Yeah, well,” Ian murmurs, pressed up so close against Mickey that he has to move his hand away. It lands on Ian’s back. “Should probably wait before I, what was it? Give it to you good and hard?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey spits out. He doesn’t move though, just stands there and feels drops of water wiggling their way between his lips and Ian’s skin. Finds his shoulders shaking with laughter while Ian’s do.

Then he hears the metallic squeak of Ian turning the tap off and they get out, wrap themselves in the towels Ian brought in. They swill water and toothpaste at the sink, laughing a bit when Mickey gives Ian a look at his broken tooth, and if it weren’t for that and the cuts and the bruises and the way Mickey has that little ache deep in his chest that could either be relief or anticipation, or both, it’d be almost like any other night.

They’re quiet while they return to Ian’s room and pull on clean boxers and shirts in the darkness, only the soft, sleepy breaths of Ian’s littlest kid brother in there to keep them company. Mickey doesn’t even think twice about crawling into bed next to Ian. Ian just scoots over, opens his arms, and Mickey goes, the two of them finding ways to fit together, same as they’ve always done.

What now? he keeps thinking, but he’s just so fucking tired; tired of feeling like he’s still running even after he’s crossed the finish line, the race over and done with. And it’s so nice in Ian’s bed, in his space, Ian’s body keeping him warm and his fingers carding through Mickey’s wet hair. It’s easy in a way it’s never been before.

What now? What now? What now?

“Talked to my boss today,” Ian tells him, once Mickey’s situated at the bar with another glass of bourbon, feeling the burn of it settle in his belly. “You know, he’s not too fond of boyfriends.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah? Why’s he own a fuckin’ gay club, then?”

“I mean he doesn’t like the staff’s boyfriends hanging around. Especially when they threaten paying customers.”

Ian doesn’t sound pissed off, in fact he’s smiling at Mickey like he’s fucking amused by it all, but Mickey frowns and grits his teeth just the same. 

“So, what? You want me to go? I should just let you get roofied by every fat old fuck in here?”

Ian smiles wider. “I didn’t say that. I just meant, you know, cool it a little.” He leans back on his elbows, cocking his hips out, long lines of his body on display and it’s obscene. Mickey spots a couple guys across the room who seem to agree. He scowls at them.

“Let me do my job, make my money,” Ian goes on. Mickey keeps scowling. “You got nothing to worry about, anyway,” Ian adds, swaying towards Mickey and nudging his arm. “I’m not going home with any of them, am I?”

Mickey looks over at him, at all that pale skin and red hair and eyes lighting up with heat and something like a promise.

“Fuckin’ right, you’re not,” Mickey rumbles out, leveling a look at Ian that holds a promise of his own. He sucks in a breath when Ian shifts, leaning in for a kiss, and doesn’t flinch away this time.

Ian’s smiling when he pulls away, teeth biting down on his wet lower lip. “Besides, I like having you here, watching me.”

Watching over you, Mickey thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

Their fingers brush together when Ian takes the glass from Mickey’s hand. Mickey doesn’t flinch from that either, just watches while Ian tips his head back and takes a gulp, the long column of his throat gleaming in the colored lights of the club, holding Mickey’s gaze the whole time.  

He ducks down and kisses Mickey again, taste of bourbon still on his lips, on the quick flash of tongue against Mickey’s mouth.

“I should go,” he says softly, still hovering close, and Mickey has to stop himself from reaching for him.

“Then go.”

Ian’s mouth twitches into a little smile. “Next song’s for you,” he smirks, his breath warm on Mickey’s chin. Another kiss. “Hell, they’re all for you.”

And then he’s gone with a dumbass wink that somehow also manages to be sexy, leaving Mickey all horned up and with nothing to do about it for another two hours but watch Ian shake his ass for strangers. And for him.

“Shit,” Ian mutters, soft and low. “Mick, I’m gonna come.”

Mickey pulls off of him, his jaw already sore because fuck if Ian isn’t unfairly big. He wants to say, “It’s about fucking time,” but he doesn’t get to because Ian’s grabbing the back of his hair with one hand while the other jacks his cock, all red and wet from Mickey’s mouth.

“Wait,” Ian says. Mickey looks at him, at his flushed face and his eyes glued on Mickey’s lips. And Mickey waits, his hands still braced on Ian’s thighs, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, feeling himself get hot all over when he wonders how the fuck he got here, on his knees in front of Ian-fucking-Gallagher, waiting for him to blow his wad on Mickey’s face like it’s some goddamn porno.

Ian doesn’t blow on his face, though. Instead he leans back and rucks his shirt up, spurts all over the flat plane of his stomach. He laughs when he comes, Mickey notices, which he isn’t used to. Ian’s still smiling wide when he lets go of Mickey, but then he swipes a come-covered thumb over Mickey’s lip and lets out a happy noise when Mickey grimaces.

“What the fuck?” Mickey bites out, ignoring the fact that he was ready to get a face-full of it. It just seems like something you should warn a guy about.

“It’s not that bad,” Ian shrugs, laughing again like he’s some kid who got caught misbehaving. He watches Mickey hotly while he pops his thumb in his mouth, and Mickey thinks, Fuck it, and licks his lip, taste kind of bitter and sweet and heavy on his tongue, but not terrible.

“Pineapple juice, man,” Ian says, stretching backward to zip his pants back up. “Drink lots of pineapple juice. That’s the key.”

Mickey straightens up, wincing a little at the bend of his knees. “Yeah? They teach you that at fuckin’ gay stripper school?”

“Nah, it’s common knowledge,” Ian smiles up at him where he’s still sitting on his bed. “Now c’mere.”

“What?” Mickey mutters, but Ian tugs him down again until they’re next to each other. Ian leans in, not even hesitating when he lays a hand on Mickey’s crotch, pressing their bodies close.

“Gotta return the favor.” And Mickey swallows, so fucking ready for it, doesn’t even care how fast this is going, and if he weren’t so fucking horny it would be turning his stomach how eager he is.

“You did good, you know. For a first-timer,” Ian’s saying while he unzips Mickey’s pants and slips a hand inside, gripping Mickey’s cock, feeling where it’s already hard. “You liked it too, huh?”

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters, wants Ian to shut the fuck up, because since when was he a talker? But for some reason Mickey doesn’t want to think about, it gets him harder too.

“You’ll get plenty of practice,” Ian croons, that smug fuckin’ smile still on his face, breath hot on Mickey’s neck when he leans closer, and Mickey’s gone, coming all over Ian’s hand before he can even get his cock out. “Well, look at that,” Ian murmurs.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey groans, his breath not even all the way back yet. “Fuck.”

Ian just laughs again, the fucker. Mickey watches while he wipes his hand on his t-shirt, then strips it off and roots around his duffel bag for a new one.

“You wanna stay for dinner?”

Mickey blinks, breathing hard still. “Uh,” he says dumbly. “What’re you—?”

“Does it matter? You got any dietary restrictions?” Ian says and shoots him a look. Mickey rolls his eyes and they land on Ian’s bedspread, some of those sheets with doodles and scribbles still strewn all over it.

“And that’s—that’s okay?”

Ian nods and shrugs. “Sure, why not? You can stay after if you want, too.”

“Stay,” Mickey repeats. “Like, the night.”

“Yeah, you can crash here.”

Ian gets up then and crosses the room. He opens the door and stands there, looking back at Mickey; and even though Mickey doesn’t say anything, Ian shrugs and smiles again, something smaller and less smug, less crazed. More real.

Later, when the hospital room is filled with two families’ worth of well-wishers and balloons and gifts, one woman turns to the one in the hospital bed next to hers and says, “Maybe it’s contagious.”

The second smiles and laughs, exhausted but giddy. “Like yawning.”

Her baby lets out a soft cry where he’s cradled in his brother’s arms. She can see his mottled, purple little face twisting while he starts fussing more.

There’s an echoing cry from the other bed and everyone chuckles.

“That’s definitely contagious,” the first woman’s husband says, and it’s almost as if everyone knows that they’ll be telling this story for years and years to come, of how both women went into the final stretches of their labor at almost exactly the same time; of how Mr. Smythe’s hands started shaking and Mr. Anderson slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Brace yourself. It’ll be a wild ride.” Of how the Andersons’ obstetrician, a petite woman with kind eyes, almost elbowed the Smythes’ OB in the stomach amid all the bustle of the nursing staff, trying to figure out how to get both women to the birthing rooms simultaneously; of how the first face that Sebastian Smythe ever saw — apart from his own mother’s — was Blaine Devon Anderson’s.

***

They’re six and it’s Thanksgiving and they’re sitting alone at the kids’ table for the first time since Cooper’s put up a dignified argument that he ought to discuss more worldly and mature matters than Spongebob Squarepants if his acting range is to improve.

Blaine’s upset, of course, seeing it as a slight against him. He pouts and shifts his mashed potatoes around. Sebastian tries his best to cheer him up, telling him that Cooper’s just becoming a boring grown-up and they’re better off anyway, and anyone who doesn’t like Spongebob is someone he doesn’t want to be friends with.

“This is the cool table,” Sebastian declares with finality. “We’re both here, aren’t we?”

Blaine looks at him and smiles and that makes Sebastian feel like his chest is puffing up and floating, only he knows it’s not, he’s just imagining.

“If you say so,” Blaine says, happy enough now to start eating his green beans.

“I do say so,” Sebastian says haughtily, sneaking his own green beans onto Blaine’s plate because they’re gross, but Blaine likes them anyway. “And I should know. I’m older.”

“Only by three minutes!” Blaine protests, throwing up three fingers because he’s proud that he doesn’t have to count them one by one anymore.

“Still older,” Sebastian says smugly. “And 'cause I'm oldest I say we should play a game after dinner.”

Blaine’s big eyes shine with excitement. “Operation?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, but then he nods and says, “Okay.”

***

They’re twelve and they’re in Sebastian’s backyard, sitting on the edge of the deck that leads down to the pool, their legs poked through the railing and dangling in the air.

“I have to tell you something,” Blaine says, his voice so quiet and nervous that Sebastian has to look over at him. “But don’t hate me.”

“Why would I hate you?” Sebastian asks, suddenly nervous too, a ball of tingling dread knotting in his throat. He’s moving away, he thinks.

Blaine heaves a deep sigh as though he’s steeling himself and Sebastian gives up trying to get a hold on the wild beating of his heart.

“I think… “ Blaine starts, looking straight ahead at the line of trees on the far edge of the lawn. “I mean, I know that I. That I like boys.”

The last part’s almost a whisper, but it’s suddenly so quiet, the air so still, that Sebastian could never have missed it. He blinks, watching a drop of pool water drip down Blaine’s bare shoulder, trailing a thin, wet line along his summer-browned skin.

“You mean, like…”

Blaine nods, chewing his lip. He tips his head to the side and glances at Sebastian, his still-wet lashes clinging together, black as midnight.

Sebastian shrugs one shoulder. “So? That’s no big deal.” He’s relieved, so he’s still not sure why his heart is beating so fast.

Blaine smiles and ducks his head. “If you say so.”

“I think I do too,” Sebastian murmurs quietly, before Blaine can change the subject and start talking about the latest X-Men movie or something. 

Blaine blinks, his mouth working for a second or two. “Are you — I mean, are you just saying that, or —”

Sebastian bristles. “No. Who would just say something like that?”

“Well, I don’t know! Maybe because you want to be just like me.” Blaine’s teasing now, his lips tilting up into a grin. Sebastian’s thankful for it.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs, reaching an elbow out until it connects with Blaine’s cool skin, still damp from the pool. “More like you trying to copy me. Just like when we were born.”

“Whatever,” Blaine argues, and then they really do start talking about X-Men.

***

They’re sixteen and Sebastian’s late to morning Warblers practice. He rushes into the study lounge and falls into step beside Blaine easily — the perks of coming up with ninety percent of the choreography.  

Blaine gives him a sidelong glance. “Late night?” he asks wryly.

Sebastian clears his throat and his lips twitch. “You could say that.”

Blaine’s eyes linger on him long enough to take in his rumpled tie before they slide forward.

“What was his name?”

Sebastian hesitates. “John,” he says eventually, but it’s too late; Blaine’s noticed — of course he has — because he smiles and shakes his head, still shifting his feet smoothly and snapping his fingers on the beat.

Then Wes has them start the song from the beginning and Blaine starts singing lead on the first verse. Sebastian harmonizes, reaching up to straighten the knot of his tie.

***

They’re seventeen and Blaine’s a virgin. Sebastian isn’t. At least, he doesn’t consider himself one. He’s known the touch of other guys' hands and mouths; has felt them trembling against him in the backseats of cars and in cramped bathroom stalls.

That totally counts, he’d told Blaine, and he stands by it.

Still, when Blaine suggests it, sitting primly at the desk in his room, not one hair out of place and all but presenting Sebastian with pie charts and graphs explaining why they should, Sebastian’s face gets warm and he feels winded.

“I just want it to happen with someone I truly care about. Someone who matters to me,” Blaine says, quiet and so very earnest that Sebastian almost wants to laugh, to upset Blaine’s meticulous plans just a little bit, the way he usually does.

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” Blaine goes on. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

But the truth is that Sebastian isn’t worried about that because he knows it will change them, and he knows he should say no; he should tell Blaine that he deserves more than this, deserves all the romantic notions and dramatic love affairs that fill his head and not Sebastian’s, but he doesn’t.

The truth is that while the thought of having Blaine in that way terrifies him, the thought of not having him — now or ever — terrifies him more.

*

They’re seventeen and when Sebastian pushes into Blaine for the first time, Blaine’s eyes flutter shut, his long, dark lashes — black as midnight — fanned out against his cheek , his soft mouth falling open, and Sebastian's never seen anything so perfect.                         

***

They’re eighteen and they decide on different colleges. They’re outside on the night before Blaine leaves for his orientation, leaning against Blaine’s car where it’s parked on Sebastian’s street. Blaine starts crying when they hug and Sebastian holds him tighter.

“We’ll still talk, okay?” he says, tears stinging his eyes too. He remembers that old story about them.

Maybe it’s contagious.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Blaine nods, his face still buried in Sebastian’s shoulder. “I know we will,” he murmurs, voice heavy and muffled. Sebastian rubs his back and presses a kiss against his hair, somehow knowing that these moments would be numbered from now on.

“Go knock ‘em dead, Killer.”

***

They’re twenty-six and they haven’t spoken in about three years. Between jobs and grad school for Sebastian and auditions and rehearsals for Blaine, it’s just sort of slipped through their fingers, like so many other things. They still keep tabs on one another through their parents and the odd Facebook status, but it’s been years since they’ve actually seen each other.

So when Sebastian hears that Blaine’s getting a break in his touring schedule to visit his parents for a week in the spring, he requests a few days off for himself too.

Blaine doesn’t know he’s in town. Sebastian wonders if he should call or text him before he drops by his house, wonders what to even say after so long. He stops in at the coffee shop they used to frequent while he mulls it over. He’s waiting in line when he hears the barista call out Blaine’s usual order, and sure enough, there he is at the counter.

I should have known, Sebastian thinks.

He steps out of line — latte order forgotten — sneaks up behind Blaine, and says, “Can I please have your autograph, Mr. Anderson?” in a high pitched voice to disguise his own.

Blaine turns around and the smile on his face only grows wider when he sees who it is.

“Sebastian! What are you doing here?”

Sebastian gives a little shrug, all calculated nonchalance. “Thought I’d be a good son and visit the folks for a few days.”

Blaine looks surprised for a second, then a moment later seems to put it together, recognition dawning in his eyes.

“Uh-huh,” he says, a small, private smile tugging at his lips. “Me too, as it happens.”

Sebastian stares back at him and heaves an affected sigh. “Figures. Always the copycat.”

“Hey, careful,” Blaine says, nudging Sebastian with his elbow, and even though it’s been years, it’s just like falling into an old, familiar rhythm. “Or I might not give you that autograph and you won’t be able to hock it on eBay.”

Sebastian shrugs one shoulder, not missing a beat. “Fine. I’ll just sell your coffee cup once you’re finished with it.”

Laughter bubbles up from Blaine, bright and happy, and Sebastian can’t help but grin and huff a laugh too.

“Do you want to —” they both say at the same time, gesturing to the same empty seats nearby.

They laugh again.

***

They’re thirty and Sebastian wakes up to soft lips on his.

“Happy birthday, old man,” Blaine murmurs.

Sebastian groans and even he can hear the whine in it. Blaine just laughs at him, so he slides an arm around Blaine’s waist and rolls them over easily, pressing him into the mattress.

“We’re not old,” he mutters into the warm curve of Blaine’s neck. “Don’t say that.”

“Well, I know I’m not,” Blaine teases, his fingers scratching along Sebastian’s scalp soothingly. “I’m the young one in this relationship.”

“By three minutes,” Sebastian scoffs.

“Still counts.”

Sebastian raises his head to look down at him, at the face he’s known for his entire life, one of the first he’d ever laid eyes on.

“If you say so.” 

“Well, well, well. Looks like the Nightbird flew right into my little trap this time.”

That voice. Blaine knows that voice.

“I should’ve known it was you, Shadow Fox,” he grits out.

Shadow Fox — alias: Reynard Lenoir, and the city’s most skilled and most elusive thief — answers with a low, amused laugh as he nears. From the sound of his breaths, he’s still about five paces behind Blaine when he begins to circle Blaine’s chair, his footsteps soft even against the relative silence of the darkened room.

“Yes,” he says finally. “You really should have. You’ll notice you aren’t hurt, and only I’m nice enough to capture the city’s peskiest, most meddling masked vigilante and not lay a finger on him. For now, at least.”

“You call this ‘nice?’” Blaine grits out, tugging at the rope binding his wrists together, fighting the ache that’s already beginning to pull at his shoulders.

He hears Shadow Fox suck in a breath through his teeth, can see his darkened silhouette still as he watches Blaine for a long moment. “Mmm. Very.”

Blaine takes several breaths to calm himself, knows that he’ll have to proceed with a cool head. He can make out the distant noises of a bustling city outside the walls of the room, but nothing else. And, as the seconds tick by, Shadow Fox remains still, his stare a weighted force that Blaine can’t throw off.

“What is it that you want?” he asks, quieter.

“Now that’s a loaded question, isn’t it?” Shadow Fox drawls coolly, and Blaine can tell he’s moving again, walking one, two, three, four paces to his left. “For starters, I’d like you and your little crime-fighting friends, including the police commissioner you have in your back pocket, off my tail.”

“Just yours?” Blaine counters, suspicious. “Why not ask me to stop altogether?”

He hears Shadow Fox snort. “Well, Nightbird, because you and I both know that you wouldn’t fly the coop. Not entirely. You’re far too good. Just not good enough at what you do to stop me from doing what I do. Plus, it would free up the playground, so to speak.”

Blaine blinks, unsurprised at Shadow Fox’s special brand of arrogance mixed with self-preservation.

“Now that’s just a flight of fancy, of course,”  Shadow Fox goes on, pausing to heave a little wistful sigh. “I’m sure you’re familiar with those. But let’s face it, you would never give up on me, would you? Even if I ask nicely.”

Blaine’s silence seems to provide enough of an answer.

“No, I didn’t think so. So, let’s circle back to your question, shall we? What do I want?”

There’s movement, the sound of a window blind being raised, and suddenly there’s dim, bluish light from outside filtering into the darkness, illuminating the angular features of Shadow Fox’s face until he turns away from the window, and Blaine can see the elegant lines of his tall, lithe body — dressed all in black — pacing in front of him, half-cast in shadow. His grin flashes in the moonlight for just a moment, long enough for Blaine to feel the unwanted flutter of attraction in his belly.

“You see, Nightbird, contrary to what your boorish colleagues may have been saying about me — “

“You mean in your police profile? Or the one from the FBI?” Blaine cuts in. Shadow Fox throws him a sharp look but otherwise ignores him.

“— I’m actually a man of rather simple needs.” He pauses for a beat, his head tilted while he looks at Blaine. “Note that I said ‘needs’ and not ‘taste.’ Because you’re just about the tastiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

He’s stopped in front of Blaine now, staring him down with a teasing glint in his eye and a smile tugging his lips. Blaine can only stare back for a long moment, gaping.

“You — you can’t be serious,” he stammers, laughter creeping into his voice.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Shadow Fox replies, stepping into Blaine’s space and bracing his arms on the edges of the chair behind Blaine’s back.

“Come now, pretty bird,” he says softly, intimately, and Blaine can smell the spicy, familiar scent of his aftershave. “Don’t play coy. We both know we’ve been heading here for quite a while, so why not just give in?”

Blaine’s heart rate kicks up and he can tell by the tilt of Shadow Fox’s predatory smile that he’s giving himself away.

“Give in? To the likes of you?” he spits out, leaning forward and deliberately not breaking eye contact. “I don’t think so.”

A dark look passes through Shadow Fox’s eyes before he steps away abruptly, and for a second Blaine thinks he’s given it up; that is, until Shadow Fox lays his hands on Blaine’s shoulders from behind, his breath fanning out warm and soft near Blaine’s neck.

“It’s a shame that I’m such a gentleman, you know,” Shadow Fox says slowly, his voice low. “Since I have you right where I want you, right in this cozy little cage.” His hands smooth down over Blaine’s chest as he speaks and Blaine’s breath is definitely reedy and quick enough now for Shadow Fox to notice. Sure enough, Shadow Fox’s low chuckle comes right behind Blaine’s ear, the tip of his nose skimming the back of Blaine’s neck, and, before he can think better of it, Blaine’s angling his head to the side, letting Shadow Fox bring himself even closer.  

“That got your attention, huh? I don’t blame you. I think you know already that I’m very good with my hands.”

Blaine feels Shadow Fox press a soft kiss to his neck, affectionate, almost reverent, and he shakes himself.

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

Shadow Fox heaves a sigh at that, his hands sliding off of Blaine before all of him is sliding onto Blaine’s lap, making Blaine grunt at the solid weight of his body where he straddles Blaine’s thighs. He drapes both arms around Blaine’s shoulders in some semblance of an embrace.  

“You really are intent on making this hard, aren’t you?” Shadow Fox says, his smirk overpowering any attempt to pout convincingly. “Think of it this way,” he murmurs, leaning in close to speak against Blaine’s ear. “Spending the night with me means one less crusade you’ll have to don your cape for.”

He shifts his hips then, sinuously and deliberately, practically grinding himself down on Blaine’s lap, and Blaine can’t help but respond, closing his eyes and letting out a choked off groan.

Shadow Fox grins indulgently before leaning back in for a kiss. Blaine dodges it, still grappling for control.

“Oh, Nightbird,” Shadow Fox sighs, clutching Blaine’s chin in one hand and jerking his face forward. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you sing, yet.”

And when Shadow Fox kisses Blaine, not only can Blaine not stop him, but he also can’t resist kissing back, opening for Shadow Fox’s lips and tongue. He gives as good as he gets, battling with Shadow Fox until they’re both breathing hard against one another.

“Fine,” Blaine relents, finally, his mouth wet and tingling. “One night. Just untie me.”

“Hmm, no, I don’t think so,” Shadow Fox says, his greenish eyes hooded but still glinting with something wicked. “I think I like you like this.”

And before Blaine can protest further, Shadow Fox is slinking down to the floor, kneeling between Blaine’s bound and spread legs.

“I have to make sure you won’t engage in any fowl play, after all,” he smirks, his hands trailing up between Blaine’s thighs.

Blaine wants to groan at the joke, but ends up groaning for a different reason when Shadow Fox’s nimble hands tug at his belt, pausing to sweep a few teasing touches over Blaine’s crotch in the process. He closes his eyes again, Shadow Fox’s sly grin etched into his mind, waiting.

And then —

“Um, Blaine, how d’you—?”

Blaine nudges Sebastian with his boot.

“No civilian identities! You’re ruining it,” Blaine whispers harshly.

Sebastian rolls his eyes and sits back. “Okay, fine, Nightbird. Just tell me how to get your stupid superhero utility belt off.”

“There’s a latch that you pull and — here, just untie me, I’ll do it.”

Sebastian gives Blaine a genuine pout then.

“You can tie me back up again,” Blaine promises.

***

Afterwards, when Sebastian has untied Blaine for real and they’re both lying in bed — naked and sweaty and sated, both of their suits lying in heaps of spandex and plastic on the floor — Blaine reaches for Sebastian’s hand, twining their fingers together.

“Aren’t you glad I didn’t put away our Halloween costumes?” he asks, knowing he sounds smug and not caring.

“Hmm, yeah, it was kinda fun, I suppose,” Sebastian answers airily.

Blaine laughs and pokes Sebastian in the side. “You suppose? You were totally into it. Though you went a little heavy on the bird puns. You almost made me break character.”

Sebastian scoffs and nudges Blaine playfully. “Um, comic book villains love their word play, everybody knows that. I was just honoring the form.”

“Uh huh. How’d you come up with so many, though? On the fly?” Blaine asks, smiling.

“I guess you could say I winged it,” Sebastian answers, his lips curling into a smile of his own. “Besides, you were the one who hatched this whole fantasy superhero-villain-sex-roleplay plan in the first place.”

“Oh god,” Blaine mutters, hiding his face in Sebastian’s bare shoulder.

“Hey, maybe we should order in some food. I’m feeling kind of —”

“Don’t.”

“— peckish.”

“Why did I even say anything?” Blaine wonders aloud.

“That whole time I was trying to figure out how to work in ‘swallow’, though…”

“I’m sure you were,” Blaine laughs, kind of giddy from the mutual teasing.

“But seriously,” Sebastian says, more earnest now, and Blaine looks up to meet his eyes. “I could get used to indulging your kinky side, even if it involves silly costumes.”

Blaine moves in to kiss him, oddly touched by the sentiment.

“So does this mean I should leave the suits out of storage?” he asks when he pulls away.

Sebastian licks his lips and arches an eyebrow. “Will Nightbird get his payback in the next installment?”

"Just so you know," Sebastian says, leaning down to speak into Blaine's ear so he can be heard over the music pumping through the packed club. "It's your birthday today."

Blaine blinks, perplexed. His birthday isn't for another three weeks.

Sebastian smirks at him, eyes glittering with some secret intent. "Trust me."

Sebastian leaves him at their little table on the edge of the dance floor, sipping on a drink and trying to figure out what kind of scheme his boyfriend's devised this time.

He catches on when he sees Sebastian approach one of the scantily clad and decently muscled dancers gyrating on a lighted platform across the room; he doesn't need to look closer to guess that it's the one with floppy blond hair, curious blue eyes, and full pink lips.

Sure enough, Sam-the-go-go-boy (as Blaine and Sebastian know and refer to him) returns to the table with Sebastian, drawing the gazes of more than a few guys in the crowd. Blaine can see why, the guy is really fit; and, like he usually is when he's working at the club, he’s nearly naked, wearing nothing but sneakers, a pair of gold metallic hot pants that leave little to the imagination (though Sebastian's done his fair share of imagining out loud), and a layer of body oil that lends a sheen to all that bare skin.

“Here’s the birthday boy,” Sebastian grins — extra wolfishly tonight, Blaine thinks. He moves closer to Blaine and lays a hand low on his back.

“Hi,” Sam says, his eyes intent on Blaine. There’s something coded in his gaze, as well as in the smile curving his lips. “How are you tonight? Having fun?”

Blaine gulps down another swig of his cocktail and focuses on not choking. “Um, yeah, I am,” he replies with a nod. He shoots Sebastian a curious look then glances back to Sam. “Thank you.”

“I think you can stand to have a little more fun, though, don’t you?” Sebastian asks and nudges Blaine’s body with his own. “Sam here agrees with me.”

Sam looks between them for a beat and he gives a little nod of his head.

“Um,” Blaine says.

Sam smiles wider this time, amusement coloring his face. “Would you like a dance?”

Sebastian’s hand moves in firm circles on Blaine’s back while Blaine blinks in surprise and turns towards the dance floor.

“Not that kind, Blaine,” Sebastian says with a snort.

Blaine quirks an eyebrow. “Then what — “

“The kind that costs money.”

Blaine blinks in surprise. Oh. Sebastian’s earlier words come back to him and heat floods his face — and other places.

“Are you — do you even do that?” he asks Sam. As far as Blaine knows, Sam was one of the dancers hired for, well, aesthetic reasons; they usually just dance on the floor, accepting tips and the occasional drink. He’s never seen Sam doing anything else, although maybe he just hadn’t paid enough attention.

“Sometimes,” Sam answers, shrugging one shoulder, his smile turning a little bit sheepish. “On special occasions.”

Blaine can only stare, words failing him, until Sebastian nudges him again, his hand smoothing from Blaine’s back to his hip.

“C’mon, Blaine, it’s bad form to reject a birthday gift. Especially when it’s a lap dance.” He nods to Sam. “Lead the way.”

Sam takes them through to a part of the club that Blaine never knew even existed, down a narrow hallway off of the bar. They enter a dimly lit room with what looks like several booths set into the walls, a spacious cushioned bench in each of them. Sam walks toward one and turns back to Blaine and Sebastian, gestures for them to take a seat.

Sebastian takes Blaine’s hand in his and pulls him to the booth, sits them down on the bench side by side.

“Now,” he says, glancing up at Sam. “Being that it’s Blaine’s special day, I thought he should be the one getting the dance. But would you mind terribly if I stick around and watch?” His hand smooths up Blaine’s inner thigh once before it returns to his side.

“It’s okay with me,” Sam replies, his eyes flicking between them both. He steps towards them and, without any more pretense, straddles Blaine’s lap.

“Oh my god,” Blaine breathes. He can’t quite believe this is actually happening yet, even with the smooth, defined plane of Sam’s abs hovering near his face. Sam’s knees are on either side of Blaine’s thighs, the leather of the cushion creaking as he starts to undulate his body to the beat of the music filtering in from the club’s main room. He reaches his arms up to brace himself on the back of the bench above Blaine’s head, caging him.

Blaine feels winded already. He sucks in short breaths and glances up at Sam’s face, sees him looking down at Blaine with a teasing glint in his eye. And, at the same time, Blaine can feel Sebastian’s gaze on him, hears him take a long breath. It makes Blaine’s gut clench, knowing that Sebastian’s enjoying this too, and heat rushes through him. He feels his hands twitch into fists where they rest on the bench.

“You can touch,” Sam murmurs. “‘S okay.”

Blaine blinks and doesn’t move, so Sam reaches for his hand and brings it up to his own chest, pressing Blaine’s palm to his skin.

“It’s okay,” he repeats.

Blaine reaches out his other hand shakily, smoothes them both down Sam’s torso to the firm, flat skin of his belly and lower, down to the cut of his hips.

Next to him, Sebastian lets out a soft noise and mutters, “God.” Blaine looks over at him, sees his mouth open, staring intently at Blaine’s hands on Sam’s body. The sound goes straight to Blaine’s dick, compounding the arousal he already feels at Sam moving above him, pure sex in the thrust of his hips to the music.

And that increases ten-fold when Sam drops his body lower, his hand coming to rest on Blaine’s chest, rubbing at him faintly through his dress shirt. He brings his face nearer, his breath warm and close.

“Scoot forward for me,” he whispers. Blaine grunts and obeys, sliding himself forward on the leather seat.

“That’s good,” Sam says, and drops down again, this time until his ass is snug against Blaine’s lap, grinding in tight circles against him while Blaine pants and shudders.

“Oh my — “

“Shit,” Sebastian breathes next to them. When Blaine looks over, Sebastian’s watching him hotly, his lips bitten and red. Blaine’s eyes are caught on his, even with Sam grinding against him — and there’s no way that Sam doesn’t feel how hard Blaine is, dick straining in his pants — gaze intense and charged between them. And Blaine knows he’s worked up in part because of what Sam’s doing to him, all that exhilarating contact with that gorgeous toned body; but it’s also Sebastian’s presence, watching him and goading him silently, the promise in his eyes of what he wants to do to Blaine after.

Then Sam’s ass rubs over Blaine’s crotch, and Blaine’s fingers tighten reflexively on Sam’s hips, digging into warm skin before he remembers himself and loosens them.

“Sorry,” he stammers breathlessly.

Sam just keeps smiling, his white teeth biting down over his lower lip. He grinds himself down again and Blaine lets out a choked off moan.

Sebastian's on him in an instant, pressing against Blaine's side, his hand sliding over Blaine's chest.

"God, yeah, baby," he grits out, his mouth hovering near Blaine's jaw. "So hot." Blaine gasps under the double assault of Sam's body shifting against him, still moving in a sensuous rhythm that puts delicious, teasing pressure on Blaine's dick; and Sebastian, touching him and mouthing hotly against his throat.

It's not long before he feels urgent heat building inside of him and he gasps again.

"Oh my God, I'm —"

"Yeah, do it, Blaine," Sebastian mutters, voice low and seductive. "Wanna watch you let go. Show us."

He puts his fingers to Blaine's face, turns it towards him, and Blaine murmurs mindlessly,  searching Sebastian's mouth. They kiss, deep and heated and wet, Sebastian's tongue slipping past Blaine's lips.

He hears Sam grunt in front of them, hears him murmur, "Yeah."

And then Blaine's coming in spurts inside his pants, his hips lifting up against Sam's weight, his mouth dropping open against Sebastian's while he gasps through it.

Sebastian presses soft kisses to his mouth and neck while he comes down. Blaine opens his eyes to see Sam still watching them, his eyes darkened. The corners of his mouth lift up.

"Happy birthday," he says quietly. His large hands rest on Blaine's shoulders so he can push himself off of his lap.

Blaine lets out a laugh, his body lax from his orgasm. "It's not really my birthday," he blurts out, openly staring while Sam adjusts his shorts; and Blaine doesn't think he's mistaken in thinking he sees more to adjust there than before. Sebastian snorts, but stays silent, his hand wandering to Blaine's thigh again.  

Sam inclines his head and gives them a wry little smile, not looking a bit surprised. "Really? When is it?"

"In three weeks," Blaine answers, a blush rising in his face again.

It did get awkward at one point, right after they'd first hooked up, as it were. They'd avoided one another's eyes all morning, both of them turning red when the other so much as breathed loudly. When Blaine couldn't take it anymore, he tried talking about it. Sam didn't, so they didn't.  After that, they went to their favorite breakfast spot to nurse their hangovers, Sam stole Blaine's hashbrowns off of his plate while Blaine finished Sam's orange juice, and just like that, everything was back to normal. Normal for them, at least.

A few months passed like that, this thing hanging between them that wasn't even allowed to become a thing, but was just settling in as another part of them and of their friendship, if only a secret one. It eventually became kind of routine, and the not talking about it was part of that.

Then they came back from winter break, Sam met Quinn, and things finally got weird.

*****

"Hey, man."

Blaine looks up from his task of refilling the sugar dispensers and sees Sam, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet the way he does when he's pleased about something.

"Hey," Blaine smiles, figures Sam's there to walk with him back to the dorm, and figures Sam's excited about their bi-annual Lord of the Rings marathon. Blaine briefly thinks about what tends to follow most movies they watch together (and what sometimes happens during, since the extended editions can get pretty long), when the both of them are pressed together on one of their beds, and tries his best to stem the bloom of heat in his chest. They haven't in a while, not since last term, and a thrill of anticipation runs through him.

"My shift's over in, like, five minutes, " he tells Sam.

"'Kay," Sam nods, already eyeing the biscottis to Blaine's left. "I'll wait."

When Blaine hangs his apron up and finds Sam a few minutes later, he's sitting on one of the squishy chairs near the back of the shop, smiling down at his phone while he types out a message.

"Ready?" Blaine asks, feeling awkward for some reason, as though he's interrupting something private.

Sam takes a moment or two before he looks up. "For Middle Earth? Totally."

They get most of the way through Fellowship before Blaine realizes that something's off, that Sam seems a little distracted, sitting a little bit further away from Blaine than he normally would, as if he suddenly cares about personal space. It's a little odd for them, but it's not exactly something Blaine wants to press him about.

They finish the movie and Blaine hands the DVD off to Sam to put away. 

"So, I dunno if we're gonna make it to Return of the King tonight," Blaine says.

"Oh, um, that's okay," Sam shrugs. He passes another DVD to Blaine and stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

"It's just, I have another shift in the morning. But maybe tomorrow night?" They have been known to stay in on weekends sometimes instead of going out, especially since, well, since they started doing whatever it is they're doing.

Sam pauses, chewing his popcorn. "Um. Can't tomorrow," he replies. He ducks his head, looking down at the nearly empty bowl in front of him. "I kind of, uh," he hesitates, and Blaine looks over at him, suddenly apprehensive. "I kind of have a date."

Blaine blinks. "A date? Really?"

"Yeah," Sam exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I'm sorry, I should've—"

"No, that's—" Blaine starts and shakes his head, feeling warm now. He smiles and reaches out a hand to shove at Sam's shoulder. "Um, who with? Spill, man."

"This girl I met at the Student Book Swap. She was working there and we flirted a little, and then I Facebook'd her, and she Facebook'd me back, and I dunno, we've kinda been talking for the past, like, week or so," he tells Blaine. Blaine nods, putting the pieces together in his head while he listens.

"The Student Book Swap," he echoes. "So she's student government?"

"Oh, um, yeah, I guess," Sam says, huffing a laugh. "Her name's Quinn."

"Huh," Blaine hums, wonders why Sam never mentioned her, though he thinks he probably knows the reason anyway. "So, what else can you tell me?" The smile on his face is starting to feel weird to him, kind of like the way a word starts to look strange after you've stared at it for too long.

"Uh, she's an engineering major, I think, and she has a minor in dance. She's, like, really smart."

"She sounds... well-rounded." Sam gives him a sidelong glance and Blaine rolls his eyes. "Is she a sophomore? Junior?"

"Senior," Sam says, grinning a little when Blaine's eyebrows shoot up. "Here, I'll show you her Facebook picture."

"Oh, no, that's—" Blaine starts, awkward and too warm again.

"Nah, it's cool, I already have it here," Sam tells him, thumbing the screen on his phone. "She's the one in the middle."

Blaine examines the picture of three girls in workout clothes, lingers on the pretty features of the one in the center. His first instinct is to say, "Her?" but he bites it back. It's one Arrested Development reference that might go unappreciated.

"She's pretty," he says instead. "Like, really pretty. Way to go, buddy." He hopes the words don't sound as odd as they feel.

Sam doesn't seem to think so, because he just grins and says, "Yeah. But she's really nice, too. She has kind eyes."

Blaine can't help but snicker at the way Sam says that and Sam laughs with him.

"She does! And this little smile, like a — like a Michelangelo smile."

"I think you mean Mona Lisa smile," Blaine corrects him. "And it's Leonardo da Vinci."

"Yeah, that," Sam murmurs, staring at Quinn's picture again before he puts his phone away. "Anyway, so, yeah. I'm seeing her tomorrow."

"That's cool, Sam. I mean, you know, that's good. For you." Blaine tries not to wince, because as forced as it sounds, he does mean it sincerely. Of course he does.

"Thanks, dude," Sam says, looking at Blaine for a long moment. "I really should have told you sooner, it's just I didn't know, you know..." he trails off.

Blaine shrugs it off, says, "I get it, it's okay."

"And, um, we should probably also put a hold on the... you know..." Sam gestures between the two of them, his voice hushed.

Blaine sucks in a breath, an unwelcome heat flooding his face and sick embarrassment rushing to his stomach. "Oh! Uh, yeah, no, of course, yeah," he babbles. "I mean, it wouldn't be fair."

"Yeah," Sam breathes. There's a long pause, one that reminds Blaine uncannily of that first morning after, all those months ago.

Then Sam says, "So, you still wanna watch The Two Towers?" and Blaine thinks that  maybe it won't be so weird, after all.

*

He's wrong, of course, but he doesn't really want to be that guy. He indulges in his feelings of self-pity and betrayal for all of one minute before he snaps himself out of it. It isn't as though he and Sam are anything beyond friends, even if they did mess around occasionally. Sam's made it pretty clear that he doesn't want to even consider anything like that, and it wouldn't really be fair for Blaine to expect any different.

So he throws himself into his classes, his job at the coffee shop in the student union, a couple extracurriculars he has going. He and Sam still hang out when they can and it's good, just different; kind of like the way they were before, only not. Blaine isn't sure they can really go back to that, in any case. It's like a point they can circle, but never reach.

He meets Quinn when she and Sam stop in during Blaine's Thursday afternoon shift, and she's really nice. Sam was totally right.

"I've heard a lot about you," she tells Blaine, pretty smile extending to her pretty brown eyes. "All good things."

"Oh, well, likewise," Blaine smiles back. There's a lull in the customer flow so he lingers by the sofa they're sitting on, pretending to clean the table in front of it. "So I hear you're in student government?"

Quinn blinks and nods. "Yeah, I'm on the board."

Sam groans next to her.

"Why do I feel like I'm introducing you to my mom?"

Blaine swats at Sam with the towel in his hand.

"Hey, in a lot of ways meeting the best friend is more important than meeting the parents," Quinn laughs.

"Thank you," Blaine nods at her solemnly.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam replies, shooting Blaine a soft look that Blaine's not quite sure what to make of. "Anyway, he's asking because he's interested in running, too."

"Really?" Quinn asks, smiling wider. Blaine gives Sam a warning look and Sam shrugs.

"What? You are." Sam turns to Quinn again. "He already works for a student affairs office."

"Oh, which one?"

Blaine sighs at Sam, who just grins back smugly. "Prism," he tells Quinn. "The office for LGBTQ affairs on campus."

"Of course, yeah."

Sam interrupts. "And he's in charge of putting on all these events, including a huge party in a few months. Go on, dude, don't be shy."

Blaine chuckles, embarrassed, though kind of in a pleasant way.

"I mean, it isn't just me," he explains. "It's for Safe Sex Week, you know, after midterms? We're collaborating with other student orgs for a few events and then we're throwing a costume ball at the end of it. You should come, it'll be great."

Quinn opens her mouth but Sam cuts in before she can answer. "Dude, tell her the theme. I totally gave him the idea. It's all me."

Both Blaine and Quinn laugh this time and Blaine takes in the way Quinn nudges Sam in the ribs with her elbow.

"The theme this year is Nerdgasm."

Quinn laughs brightly again. "Why am I not surprised?" she muses.

"All me," Sam repeats, pointing a proud finger at his head.

Blaine grins at Sam until Quinn speaks up. "And you said it's a costume ball? Oh, dear," she says, smiling and furrowing her brow a bit.

"Well, I mean, we know it's after Halloween and everything, so just do the best you can. We're not expecting much."

"Speak for yourself, dude," Sam says. "I've got my spandex ready. Expect full superhero regalia."

"Again, not surprised," Quinn replies, turning to Sam now. "A little scared, but not surprised."

She and Sam smile at one another silently and Blaine gets that awkward feeling again, figures he should probably get back to work anyway.

"Well, uh, I should probably get back," he says. "It was really nice meeting you, Quinn."

"You, too, Blaine." She smiles, tucking a piece of glossy blonde hair behind her ear. "And I think you should absolutely run for student gov."

"See?" Sam says. "Told you, dude."

Blaine smiles and waves at them when they leave, busy handling a customer's order, but not too busy to catch the easy way Quinn's hand slips into Sam's on their way out.

*

Blaine's in the library, struggling to get through a reading for his critical theory course. He reads the same paragraph for about the fifth time until his phone vibrates, buzzing loudly on the hard tabletop before he snatches it off the surface.

It's a message from Sam that says, venom tonight?

Blaine bites his lip. They'd talked about seeing the new Venom movie pretty much since the first trailer came out, and here it's been an entire two days since it was released and they still haven't gone. Last semester they probably would have gone to the first midnight screening. But that was before Blaine got so busy with classes and work and event planning and committee meetings. And, though he hates to even think it, it was before Quinn.

It's not even as though he can resent her. She's smart and confident and has only proven nicer the more time Blaine spends with her. She even gives him advice on how to make a bid for student government, assures him that he could probably be elected president by his senior year if he plays his cards right.

And she actually makes an effort to like what Sam likes. Sure, the finer points of Nolan's Batman series are lost on her, but Blaine can't exactly blame her — she makes up for it by turning both him and Sam onto Buffy, at least. Still, Sam seems to tone it down around her, just a little, just enough for Blaine to notice, though he'd never call Sam on it.

He's thought about being in Quinn's position, walking in on two people who have a year and a half's worth of in-jokes and shared interests as a head start. Blaine feels silly when he thinks things like that, though, because he knows it's not a competition; it can't be, because there is none. And it's silly to think there ever could be.

He sighs and types out a message to Sam. Can't tonight, Prism stuff. Tomorrow?

Can't. Plans with Q. She wants to see it too but i thought maybe u wanted to go

Blaine frowns, then shakes himself, types, You guys should see it then.

U sure?

Yeah! Blaine dawdles for a second too long on whether the exclamation point is overkill, but he leaves it and adds, Bring me some popcorn :)

lol ok. if it's terrible i'll still see it with u, but only if u pay and buy me a hotdog

Blaine smiles at that, a little sadly. haha sure.

k. see u later then.

Blaine's thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn't know how to respond beyond "see you" so he just sends that and puts his phone away, wonders how he can feel so lonely in a room full of people.

***

"Luke!" Blaine calls out, then, quieter and in a deeper voice, "Luuuke, I am your fath—oh, hi."

He blinks at the guy who's just appeared at the pick-up counter. "Soy latte for Luke?"

"That's me," the guy — Luke — smiles as he picks up his drink. "Thanks, Dad."

Blaine sputters out a laugh and glances to his left to check that there aren't anymore customers waiting. "Sorry, I just, uh... I bet you get that a lot, huh?"

Luke shrugs, hazel eyes still regarding Blaine with amusement. "Not for a while, actually. And it was never as cute as that."

Blaine blinks and falters, feels his face grow a little warm. Luke raises his cup, smile dimpling his cheeks again. "Well, thanks, uh," he says, leaning in little to read Blaine's nametag. "Blaine. As in, major appliance?"

There's a pause before Blaine gets it and he laughs again, warmth spreading in his belly at the teasing.

"Sorry," Luke shrugs and shakes his head slightly, though he doesn't look sorry at all.

"No, no, Pretty in Pink," Blaine nods. "Haven't heard that one in a while, either."

"Well, I just thought, one dated movie reference for another," Luke tells him. They smile at one another for a beat, until Luke shifts the messenger bag strap on his shoulder and says, "Thanks again for the latte."

"Oh, yeah," Blaine answers. "Enjoy."

Luke's a grad student. He studies Renaissance literature, is a bigger fan of Christopher Marlowe than of Shakespeare, is partial to soy vanilla lattes, and has a really attractive smile. Blaine already knew the last part, but he learns the rest gradually, after Luke stops in a few more times at the shop and chats with him when it's not too busy.

"That guy likes his coffee," Tina says to him, eyeing Luke's back as he exits the shop for the second time one Tuesday. She smirks knowingly at Blaine. "Among other things."

Blaine laughs nervously and shakes his head, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe he just needs the energy boost." He wipes down the counter while Tina drums her fingers on the register.

"Please, there's only one reason he's been in here so often lately, and it's not the caffeine. You should go for it, he's totally hot."

"Who's totally hot?"

Blaine turns around and sees Sam, adjusting his backpack on one shoulder and looking bemusedly at him and Tina. "Unless, Tina, you were talking about me," he adds with an exagerrated wink at her.

"Haha," Tina says sarcastically. "You're not bad, I guess. But actually I was talking about this guy who keeps coming back for Blaine's service."

"He is not!" Blaine laughs. He turns to Sam and sees a kind of stricken look on his face, before he quickly masks it with a wan smile.

"Trust me, I know that look in a guy's eyes when I see it," Tina argues, leaning across the register to talk to Sam conspiratorially. "And he's got it for Blaine. Badly. Plus he's smoking hot, in a sexy, young professor kind of way."

"Whoa, hold up, he's a professor?" Sam asks incredulously, turning a sharp eye on Blaine.

"No!" Blaine laughs, busying himself with switching out the coffee filters after throwing an exasperated look at Tina, who just purses her lips and shrugs. "He's a grad student."

"So he's older."

Blaine looks over his shoulder at Sam's face, sees his brow furrowed in concern.

"He's twenty-three, not thirty!" Blaine exclaims. "Quinn's older than you," he points out.

Sam frowns and digs through the basket of pre-wrapped cookies on the counter to find the biggest, like he always does. "Still. Isn't that, like, a conflict of interest or something?"

"Only if he's a student instructor, and only if I'm his student. Which, actually, you might be if you take that 'Fantasy in Literature' course next fall."

The frown on Sam's face deepens.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter because nothing's going on," Blaine continues while Tina rings Sam up. "He just stops in for coffee. He's never asked for anything else, not even my number."

*

A few days later, Luke mentions an upcoming lecture by a visiting professor from Stanford who's just published a book on queer readings of Paradise Lost. He notices Blaine's interest and asks Blaine if he wants to go with him. He also asks for Blaine's number.

*

"So you're going out with him?"

Blaine and Sam are in their dorm room, in one of those rare stretches of time when they actually seem like roommates and not just people who sleep in the same room; usually Blaine can't make it back until evening, and Sam's taken to spending more time at Quinn's when he's not lifeguarding at the rec center pool.

"I don't know, not really," Blaine mutters, pulling on a sweater that he thinks might go better with the pants he's wearing. "It's like a school thing, so..."

He hears Sam sigh and flip another page in his textbook. "What's this guy's name, anyway? You never told me."

"Luke," Blaine answers, sitting on his bed to pull his socks on. He glances up at Sam, sitting at the little desk at the foot of his own bed and frowning at his Stats textbook. Blaine can't blame him; he's heard that class is a killer. He'd probably be the one helping Sam study if he weren't going to that lecture, and he feels a pang of guilt. It seems as though he barely has time for Sam at all lately.

"I, uh — I met him because I quoted Star Wars when I thought he wasn't listening. Well, technically it was a misquote."

Sam snorts, mouth curving into a smile at the admission, and he drops his textbook into his lap to look at Blaine. "Seriously? The I am your father line?"

"Yeah," Blaine nods, grinning sheepishly. "I thought you'd like that."

"Dude, your Vader sucks." Sam chuckles again and shakes his head, his smile dimming after a moment. "But he still likes you."

Blaine slips his feet into his loafers and doesn't answer.

"Do you like him?" Sam asks quietly.

Blaine swallows and chews at his lip, staring down at his knees in consideration. "I think maybe I could," he says finally. "I think it might be worth finding out whether I could. Don't you?"

He looks up at Sam, who's regarding Blaine with a thoughtful expression.

"Yeah," Sam says. "It is."

***

Blaine doesn't get any less busy over the next few weeks, with midterms and the ball growing nearer. He's so busy, in fact, that he misses Sam and Quinn's relationship falling apart.

***

He gets a call from Sam one evening when he's hurriedly walking across the quad, cursing under his breath at the people dawdling in his path — and seriously, who the hell decides that the sidewalk is a good place to study?

"Hello?" Blaine says, sounding more annoyed than he'd meant to.

"Uh, hey, man," Sam answers. "Are you busy?"

Blaine barely resists scoffing; when is he not? "Uh, well, I'm trying to get to the stupid print shop before it closes because apparently no one proofreads anymore," he mutters. "There's a pretty glaring typo on the flyers for the ball and if I don't fix it we're not gonna hear the end of it."

"Oh," Sam says, subdued. "'Cause I was thinking of maybe going to Blimpie for dinner."

Blaine listens distractedly before he pauses. Sam usually goes to Blimpie Burger when he's sad; always orders the same thing, too, a triple with triple cheese and an order of onion rings.

"Um," he hesitates. "Uh, sure, yeah. I just — I just have to go take care of this first."

He hears Sam let out a long breath. "No, it's okay," he says, voice low and somber. "Just — do what you need to do, okay? I'll bring you back something."

"Sam, wait —" Blaine starts, but he's met with silence, the call already ended.

He sighs in frustration and doesn't realize he's stopped walking until someone bumps into his shoulder from behind and angrily mutters something about people standing still on the sidewalk.

***

Quinn thought they'd work better as friends, apparently. Sam says he agrees; says he knew it had only lasted a little over ten weeks, so it shouldn't be that big a deal; says it was pretty obvious that it was just a fling for both of them, but especially for Quinn, since she was already set to graduate at the end of the semester; says she was out of his league anyway.

"That's not true," Blaine tells him vehemently, looking up from the paper he's supposed to be writing. "Don't say things like that. You're great, Sam."

Sam huffs a sardonic little laugh, his little desk chair creaking when he leans back in it, his own paper going ignored. "Is this where you tell me that I deserve someone who sees how great I am?"

It's been about a week, and though Sam's still not as quiet and sulky as he was at first, Blaine can tell he's still in a bit of a funk.

"No," Blaine replies. "It's the part where I tell you to forget studying for a little while and to come to this party Tina told me about."

There's a thud when Sam lets the front of his chair drop back down. "I guess I could do that."

*

It doesn't go quite how Blaine expected it to. Well, the party does — the house is predictably packed with people and alcohol, everyone looking to have a little fun before midterms really sink their teeth in. But Sam seems to take Blaine's suggestion that he let loose a little too much to heart. He's already downed three cups of cheap beer by the time Blaine finishes one, and when Tina finds them and gives Blaine a lingering hug — Blaine suspects she's already tipsy herself — he loses track of Sam completely.

A couple hours and a half-dozen unanswered texts later, Blaine excuses himself from a conversation between Tina and a few other mutual friends, hoping that Sam hasn't gotten too carried away and isn't lying unconscious somewhere.

When he does find Sam, he kind of wishes he hadn't. Blaine turns into the hallway off of the bathroom and sees him backed up against the wall, attached at the mouth to some girl Blaine's never seen before.

He feels kind of sick all of a sudden, watching what should be a private moment; Sam's hands at the girl's hips, her hands threaded through his blond hair, making it stand up messily. He probably watches for a second too long because Sam breaks away from her, his lips red and wet and curving into a tipsy grin when he spots Blaine.

"Blaine!" He calls out. "Heeey, bro. This is, um, this is — who are you?"

"I'm lost," the girl says, slurring just a bit. She flips her brown hair over her shoulder and steps away from Sam. "I was on my way to the bathroom, actually."

"Oh, it's just right over here," Blaine offers, pointing to his right. She leaves and he turns back to Sam.

"Having fun?" he asks.

Sam slumps against the wall and smoothes a hand over his face. He shrugs noncomittally.

"I think I'm gonna go home," Blaine sighs. He usually does okay at parties, but he feels jittery and uncomfortable here in this strange house, filled with so much noise and loud music that he doesn't even like. He wants to get away from it. And, worse, he kind of wants to get away from Sam.

"Well if you're going, I'm going," Sam says, definitely slurring his words together. He pushes off of the wall and walks toward Blaine on wobbly feet, stumbling until Blaine stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"How much did you have to drink?" he asks, equal parts annoyed and concerned.

"Dunno," Sam shrugs with a humorless smile. "Don't care."

Blaine rolls his eyes and ushers him down the hall.

They walk back to the dorm, Sam stopping every few minutes to groan and walking so unsteadily that Blaine finally just drapes Sam's arm over his shoulders to help prop him up. Blaine dimly realizes that it's the first time in weeks that they've had so much bodily contact, and his fingers tighten in the soft material of Sam's hoodie before he can think better of it. They make it about half the way home when a dark sedan turns onto the street and slows down near them, the glare of the headlights shining in their faces. Sam grumbles again.

The person inside the car lowers the passenger side window and Blaine warily slows his pace.

"Blaine? I thought that was you."

"Luke?" He ducks and confirms that it's definitely Luke, his face only partially obscured by the darkness, though Blaine can still see the dimples.

"Oh, perfect!" Sam calls out loudly. "Of course, it's Luke!"

Blaine shoots Sam an irritated glare and nudges his hip before he turns back to Luke. "Um, this is my roommate, Sam. Don't mind him, he's drunk." Sam just grunts.

"Hi," Luke nods. "Listen, you guys want a ride? I'd be happy to."

"If it isn't any trouble," Blaine answers at the same time that Sam says, "No, thank you, Luke," in a garbled version of his Darth Vader impression.

Luke smiles hesitantly. "So, yes?"

"Yes, yeah," Blaine nods, urging Sam towards the car. He opens the door to the backseat, deposits Sam, and takes a split-second to decide that he'll ride in front. Sam tugs at his sleeve when he makes to leave, though.

"No, don't go, sit back here with me," he whispers loudly. Blaine catches sight of Luke's eyes watching them in the rearview mirror and he stutters out a laugh. "You'll be fine," he mutters to Sam, gently moving his hand away, shutting the door, and moving to the passenger seat.

"But I don't even know this guy. What if he's an axe-murderer and he wants to murder us. With his axe," Blaine hears Sam say accusingly, not even bothering to whisper now. "He'll get you first."

"Ignore him, please," Blaine says to Luke. "And turn left at the end of the street."

"It's a valid concern," Luke replies, putting the car in drive and pulling away from the curb. "But I promise I'm not a murderer, axe or otherwise."

"Hmmph," Sam huffs. "Bet they all say that."

Sam's much more subdued when they reach their dorm, probably lulled by the short car ride. Blaine helps him out and thanks Luke profusely.

"It's no problem," he assures Blaine, then eyes Sam amusedly. "Bye, Sam. It was nice to meet you."

Sam's eyes are closed, but he raises his hand in a wave, leaning on Blaine heavily.

"Well, I guess I gotta go get this guy into bed," Blaine quips, recalling somewhere in the back of his mind that those words once carried a double meaning in situations a lot like this one. Sam tightens his hold around Blaine's neck, rests his forehead on Blaine's shoulder. "Goodnight."

Luke waves and smiles, a bit of a questioning look flashing across his eyes. "Goodnight, Blaine."

*

Blaine stirs awake when he feels his mattress dipping under the weight of another person. Then he feels a hand curling around his hip.

For one disorienting moment, he thinks it's okay, that it's a year ago and this is totally normal. He turns his head and Sam's right there, his breath warm and smelling of toothpaste instead of stale beer, and Blaine remembers where he is, where they are.

"Hey," Sam murmurs, so quietly that Blaine almost misses it.  And, for another moment, Blaine dares to think that this could happen, that he could have this, and that it could all be okay again. But when Sam moves his mouth closer, Blaine turns away. His hand covers Sam's on his hip, halting instead of encouraging.

"Sam, we shouldn't," he says, his voice tight. "We can't."

He hears Sam lick his lips and feels him sigh against Blaine's back, where their bodies are still pressed together.

"Is this about Luke? Because you said nothing's happened, yet, right? You guys are just, like, talking or something. That's what you said."

Blaine grimaces at that. He knows Sam's still drunk and probably not all there yet, but irritation bubbles up in him all the same. "So it doesn't matter, then? Because you seemed to think so when it was you and Quinn."

"What?" Blaine turns again and Sam sits up, running a hand through his hair the way he does when he's frustrated. "This isn't even about that —"

Blaine scoffs, his mouth running almost on autopilot now. "Yes, it is. So, what, it's not enough that you messed things up with her, now you have to mess things up for me, too?"

Sam blinks down at Blaine, looking nonplussed and a little bit irritated now. "I thought — I thought you'd be glad," he says softly.

"Glad?" Blaine repeats, anger rising bitterly in his throat. "Right, because I'm the one who's always waiting, aren't I? I'm just the gay guy waiting for his straight roommate to forget that he's straight for a night, when there aren't anymore girls available, is that it? And now you're here, so I guess I should count myself lucky."

He's met with silence, heavy and tense in the dark of their room. Sam hangs his head and seems to just breathe in and out for a few seconds.

"Is that what you think?"

"Well, Jesus, Sam, what am I supposed to think? Tell me."

Sam's silent for several long moments again, until he huffs out a breath that sounds mad and defeated and flummoxed all at once. "Okay," he mumurs and pushes to his feet.

Guilt mixes in with the indignation in Blaine's chest while he blinks in the darkness, but he just turns over in his bed, waiting for sleep to overtake him.

***

It's weird again. Sam and Blaine have had their fair share of spats and arguments before, but not like this; never like this.

Things are tense between them in a way that's unfamiliar to Blaine, both of them polite to the other, though still distant. Guarded.

Midterms week hits and Blaine's almost grateful for the distraction, the excuse to bury himself in books and notes and papers, so he doesn't have to look at Sam not looking back. And then, of course, there's the flurry of preparation for all those Prism events Blaine's involved in, and the Nerdgasm ball.

Blaine puts up the flyers (now, thankfully, fixed) announcing it in the student union, reads the words arranged in comic book-style graphics several dozen times, and wonders if Sam still even plans on going.

He was so enthusiastic about the ball, even though he's not at all involved in Prism or any student organization like it. Sometimes Blaine even thought that Sam's enthusiasm was a sign of his interest in the office as a whole, that maybe he'd seen how the workshops and discussion groups could be of help to him. But, Blaine supposes, he was only kidding himself thinking that.

Still, it seems like a shame for Sam to miss something he had an indirect hand in putting together, so Blaine broaches the subject one day when they're both in the dorm room, before Sam can make an excuse to avoid him.

"So, how's your costume for the ball coming along? You haven't mentioned it in a while."

"Oh, um," Sam stalls, stuffing some notebooks into his backpack. "It's kind of a surprise," he says, a smile playing around his lips. "I mean, not a very good one if you know me, but..."

Blaine smiles and laughs, a little more forced than he'd like, but he's happy that Sam's still going, at least. "Um, so I'm still between Wolverine and Cyclops," he muses aloud. "I mean, Cyclops would probably be easier, but... what do you think?"

Sam blinks down at his backpack while he zips it, his brow furrowed. "I dunno, man, it's up to you," he answers lightly and turns to leave, even though his afternoon class doesn't start for another half hour. Blaine deflates when his back is turned, but then Sam stills at the door, looking over his shoulder at Blaine and considering him earnestly for a moment.

"I'd go with Wolverine, though," he says.

***

The night of the ball arrives and it goes off pretty much without a hitch, to Blaine's slight surprise and total satisfaction. He and some other students spent pretty much all day and part of the night before decorating the ballroom in the student union, and he has to admit to himself that the work really paid off. He piles into the makeshift Tardis-shaped photobooths, along with some of the other students and adults who helped plan the previous week's activities. They congratulate each other, and then the director urges them all to have fun and enjoy the fruits of their labor, so Blaine does.

He drinks punch and dances with Tina when she shows up, assures her that hers is the best Khaleesi costume out of the ten or so already in the ballroom. And he chats with other friends and classmates who also made it, makes small talk and laughs with them and pretends that he isn't keeping an eye out for someone else.

Around twenty minutes later, he looks out onto the dance floor and finally catches sights of Sam, talking and dancing with a girl in a pink dress. He looks closer at the yellow crown on her head and guesses that it's a Princess Peach costume. He looks closer still and he sees that it's Quinn. He watches them for a moment, swaying together under the colored lights, looking like a wholesome prom photo despite the costumes. Then he decides that he doesn't need to watch that, so he stops.

That's when he feels someone else come up to him and turns to see Luke, decked out in an old tweed suit and cap.

"Hi!" Blaine exclaims. "You came."

Luke nods. "I did, yeah. Though I think I may have done this wrong. I don't know, someone said I should have dyed my hair dark and worn a scarf?"

"No, I like it. It's classic." Blaine taps the magnifying glass sticking out of Luke's breast pocket. "Victorian Holmes. Some people just nerd out over different things, I guess."

"Precisely," Luke replies in an affected English accent, brandishing a pipe and sticking it in the corner of his mouth. "Also, this was the only thing I could find at the thrift shop that was a step up from a lame Spiderman t-shirt."

Blaine laughs. A beat passes and then he asks, "Do you want to dance?"

Luke hesitates, considering. "Well, I would, but I think that maybe you're waiting for someone else to ask you," he says carefully and looks over Blaine's shoulder at the dance floor. He gives Blaine a sad kind of smile. "That's what my not inconsiderable powers of deduction have led me to believe, anyway."

Blaine bites his lip and doesn't bother pretending not to understand what he means. He just tells Luke to enjoy the festivities and that he'll see him around, and Luke departs with a friendly nod.

Though he'd hoped for it, it's still kind of a surprise when Sam taps him on the shoulder some ten minutes later, when Blaine's sitting at one of the tables along the sides of the room.

"Hey, man." Sam smiles and takes a seat next to him. "Nice claws."

"Thanks," Blaine says, smiling wryly down at the "blades" he'd fashioned out of cardboard and duct tape, and which he's taken off and laid down on the table, along with his black mask. He'd opted for comic book Wolverine because he wasn't sure that the could pull off the movie hair and the mutton chops — hell, Hugh Jackman barely managed it.

"Maybe not movie quality, but I tried." He looks Sam up and down, takes in his tight-fitting blue longsleeved shirt with red and white stripes and a star sewn in. "Steve Rogers, huh?"

Sam shrugs. "I asked my mom to help me out with the sewing. I nixed the headpiece, though. And I lost my shield somewhere..."

"It's still really good. And you're right, it's kind of perfect for you."

Sam's mouth twitches and he jerks his head towards the dance floor. "Wanna dance?"

Blaine blinks, taken aback. "Okay," he says.

They walk out to the floor together and Blaine's stomach flutters with sudden nerves when Sam reaches for his hand and settles his own low on Blaine's back. They're far from the only same-sex couple dancing, of course — two girls dressed as Hogwarts students are dancing right next to them — but it's still something they've never done before. Blaine rests his palm on Sam's back as they start moving together to the music.

"D'you think Captain America and Wolverine ever dance in The Avengers?" Sam jokes.

"Iron Man would probably make too much fun of them," Blaine answers. "But he'd also be secretly jealous."

Sam huffs a laugh and holds Blaine's hand a little tighter in his grip. "You know, I'm glad you went with Wolverine. It suits you."

Blaine feels Sam's eyes on him and he looks up.

"I mean, Cyclops is cool and everything," Sam goes on. "He has that crazy awesome optic blast thing, right? But he always has to hide it behind his glasses. He always feels like he has to contain it, so he doesn't hurt anyone. It's like he's afraid of it sometimes."

Blaine swallows, listening.

"And Wolverine, I mean, yeah, he has the badass blades. But his true power, the healing... It's just so much a part of him that he doesn't hide it, because he can't, you know? Anyone can see it if they pay attention."

Sam's blue eyes shine down at Blaine, some uncommunicated thought in them, and Blaine's fairly certain he gets it.

"You know, pretty much all of X-Men is like a perfect allegory for —"

"Yeah, dude, I know," Sam snorts. "I'm not stupid."

Blaine ducks his head while they sway side to side. He feels as though a dam is lifting inside of him, and he decides to let it.

"Sam, I'm sorry," he says heavily. "I shouldn't have said those things to you —"

"I kind of deserved it," Sam cuts in. "Blaine, I — I'm the one who should have said something. I should have talked to you, from day one I should've, I just. I was scared. Of how I felt. So I thought maybe if I ignored it, it wouldn't be as big a deal. But, I mean, if I can't talk to my best friend, who can I talk to, right?"

Blaine heaves a long breath, his throat tight at Sam's admission. "I wasn't being fair to you, though. I should've been there for you and I wasn't." He wants to confess more; that he was too caught up in his own wants and expectations; that he should have helped Sam out when he was hurting; that he should have been a better friend. "I know I've been weird, lately, and I know it must be confusing..."

"Blaine, my stats class is confusing." Sam sighs and draws Blaine in closer. "Actually, you're pretty much the only thing I'm not confused about."

Blaine blinks up at him. "Sam," he begins, but doesn't know what to say after that.

"Look, Blaine, I don't know what I am. Where I fit in on the whole spectrum or whatever. But I think it might be worth finding out, with you." Sam pulls Blaine in even closer with the hand on his back, until their chests are almost pressed together, and Blaine's distantly aware that they've stopped moving. "If you want to," Sam adds, his breath fanning over Blaine's cheek.

Blaine can only stand there and breathe for a second, happiness blooming in chest and tingling his lips. "Sam, of course I want to —"

And then they're kissing, and Sam's arms are wrapping around Blaine's waist, and Blaine's are fitting around Sam's back, and it's almost like they were before; only now, without any secrets, it's better.

*****

several months later

*****

A cloud of steam follows Blaine out of the bathroom. He walks down the hallway to his and Sam's room, wet flip flops squelching on the hardwood floor, and he sighs contentedly. His muscles are still sore from moving their things into the house they've leased with Tina and a couple others, but the shower really helped, as did the feeling that he could shower in a bathroom  that he shares with only one other person.

"Dude, I'm not gonna lie," Sam says when Blaine enters the room, his hair still wet from his own shower. "I'm so glad we moved out of that dorm. Look at how much extra space we have. For activities."

"Yeah, two more square feet goes a long way," Blaine nods, teasing.

"Shut up, it's more than that," Sam argues with a smile. He pulls Blaine in by the front of his bathrobe. "Plus, I'm pretty sure that rooming with your boyfriend in a dorm is a conflict of interest."

Blaine smiles and Sam kisses it off his lips, warm and lingering.

"Hmm," Blaine hums while Sam's hands find their way into his robe. "I don't think it's conflicting. Just interesting."

"And awesome," Sam adds.

Sebastian sighs and arches his back, fingers of one hand scratching at the cotton sheets of Blaine’s dorm bed. He thinks, crazily, that he can feel each individual fiber under the pads of his fingertips. He inhales and smells Blaine’s blood, scent thick and cloying and intoxicating as ever, only there’s more: he can smell the blood drying where the wound is stitching itself closed low on Blaine’s collarbone, different from the rest of him, and the tiny beads of sweat pooling on Blaine’s skin; he can hear Blaine’s breathing and his heartbeat slowing to normal, steady thrum of blood pumping through his veins; and he feels things, things far beyond the room they’re in, like the lure of soft earth beneath his feet and the crisp night air that seems to call to him; to Blaine.

“Like — like there’s just so much more. Of everything.”

Blaine huffs a little laugh and Sebastian distinctly feels the warm puff of it against his skin. He turns and looks at Blaine, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming in the afternoon light, a bright spot of blood smeared on his chest. He’s gorgeous, and Sebastian wants him all over again.

“Before the full moon? Pretty much, yeah,” Blaine says, looking down at Sebastian curiously.

Sebastian watches the soft curve of Blaine’s smile before he decides he’s had enough of watching and writhing by himself on Blaine’s bed. He moves, lightning-quick, but of course Blaine’s waiting for it, could probably be just as fast this close to the moon.

“So you’re telling me you’re as worked up as I am right now?” he whispers, bare chest pressing down on Blaine’s and shifting until their hips meet. “Want it just as bad?”

He hears Blaine’s heartbeat kick up again when he bends his head to lick at the drying blood at the base of Blaine’s throat, puncture wounds in the shape of his fangs already woven shut with delicate tissue.

“What do you think?” Blaine asks playfully, though it rumbles out of him like a growl. The sharp drag of his fingernails up Sebastian’s back isn’t exactly playful, though, nor is the way he bucks up against his body, and Sebastian loves it. Loves Blaine like this, all unguarded and unpolished, the lines between his groomed schoolboy human and his wild wolf blurring.

Sometimes Sebastian thinks they’re even more alike in those moments.

“So can they hear us out there? Since everyone’s wolf-y senses are tingling?” Sebastian teases, skimming his lips over Blaine’s neck just to make him squirm.

“Like that’d stop you,” Blaine sighs, fingers digging into the skin at the small of Sebastian’s back.

“Mmm, you’re right,” Sebastian murmurs, tongue teasing, taste of Blaine’s warm skin flooding his mouth.  “Guess that’s to be expected when my boyfriend lives in the Wolf Wing.”

It's meant as a jest, since Wolf Wing is sort of the jokey, unofficial term for the block of dorms that "coincidentally" are only filled by upperclassmen weres. Blaine doesn't laugh, though. He sucks in a breath and holds it, his hands tensing on Sebastian. He blinks, golden eyes bright and searching, and Sebastian knows exactly why.

It’s the first time he’s said that word aloud, about Blaine, about anyone. Boyfriend. It had always meant something Sebastian wasn’t ready for, some murky, tenuous thing that had also somehow erupted into a barrier he didn’t think he could scale. It’s not any less scary now, really, but Blaine’s there; smiling at him and kissing him —  feeding him, even.

Sebastian gazes down at him, blinks against the intensity in Blaine’s stare, but doesn’t look away. He knows it means something big for Blaine, too.

Blaine’s the first one to break, though, eyes going half-lidded and tender before he tilts his head up for a kiss. Sebastian takes a moment to marvel at how even his lips are extra sensitive before he loses himself in it, mouth moving against Blaine’s plush lips hotly. It starts slow, but builds quickly, until their tongues are tangled and their breathing is ragged.

“‘S far as they know, we’re in here studying,” Blaine murmurs against Sebastian’s mouth, resuming their earlier conversation. “Or going through the list of proposed Warblers numbers. That’s all they’ll admit to knowing, anyway.”

Sebastian snickers and sucks at Blaine’s tongue, one arm stretching down to grasp the back of Blaine’s thigh through his uniform slacks.

“Besides,” Blaine pants when Sebastian returns to mouthing at his neck, always drawn there like a moth to flame. “I’d be more worried about them smelling us.”

Sebastian pulls back at that in shock, scrunching his nose. “Really? Dirty,” he says with a grin, tongue peeking between his teeth. Color and heat pool in Blaine’s face, but he laughs conspiratorially and nods.  

“Don’t know why I’m surprised,” Sebastian drawls in a hushed voice, once he lowers himself again and Blaine pulls him closer. He noses against Blaine’s jaw. “Even I can smell it on you. How much you want me. Bet they all can.”

He hears the whine in Blaine’s throat and grins wickedly.

Blaine's nails scratch again, lines on his skin that are just on the right side of pain, sending a thrill down his spine.

"I can smell it on you, too," Blaine grits out, growl creeping back into his voice. "I can smell myself. My blood inside you."

And shit, that shouldn’t be as hot it is, Sebastian thinks. He's the one to let out a low growl now, hips grinding down into Blaine's deliberately.

"I think we should study some more," he says, mouth seeking Blaine's again.

Blaine nips at him, eyes dancing. “That list of songs is pretty long, too."

“Oh, god, don’t stop,” Blaine gasps, breathy and wanton.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Sebastian tells him, hips snapping rhythmically against Blaine, driving into hot, wet heat. He leans over him, chest covering his back, grates his teeth over Blaine’s jawbone and licks at the bite while he moans.

“Nnnngh, feels so good, S’bastian,” Blaine mutters. “Always feel so— oh, wait what—?”

“Hmm?” Sebastian hums, bracing himself on one hand so he can reach under Blaine with the other, smoothing over the damp skin of his chest and belly.

“Think someone’s knocking,” Blaine says dazedly. “Maybe we should— oh, god, right there.”

Sebastian grins, bites his own lip and thrusts harder, groans when Blaine pushes his ass back against him.

“Right there, right there,” Blaine chants, and Sebastian knows he’s far gone when he starts babbling. “‘m so close.”

With that, Sebastian closes a fist around Blaine’s cock, stroking him with intent. “I’ll get you there, babe,” he promises and pumps his hips, fucking Blaine with the hard, deep thrusts he needs to put him over the edge.

Blaine comes not a minute later, shocked breath punching from his lips and ending on a long moan. Sebastian’s chest flutters at the sound. He’ll never get sick of it, he thinks.

The sound of sharp knocking on the other side of the bedroom door is, however, something he can live without, as is the muffled voice that comes after it.

“Smythe, finish up or don’t, but get out of him! I’m not dicking around, here. You have two minutes.”

Sebastian groans, more out of frustration this time, while Blaine stirs, confused.

“‘s that—?”

“Shhh,” Sebastian shushes him. He leans over for a kiss which Blaine grants, licking into Sebastian’s mouth while Sebastian thrusts inside him, delicious friction and heat ratcheting the pleasure up his spine. Blaine murmurs his name against his lips, clenches down on him, and Sebastian goes taut, orgasm overtaking him in a sudden wave. 

A few moments of panting, both of them coming down, and then Sebastian lays a soft kiss on Blaine’s shoulder in apology before he pulls out carefully. He pads over to the ensuite bathroom, tosses the condom in the little trash can beside the door, grabs a fluffy hand towel to clean himself up a little, and returns to the bedroom.

Blaine’s a lost cause, of course, still lying prone on the bed, his eyes closed and a blissed out smile on his face. He always gets dopey after a good fuck.

The knocking resumes before Sebastian can find his pants, so he drapes a sheet over Blaine’s ass and answers the door naked.

“Oh, good, you— Jesus!”

“No, just me,” Sebastian grins while Santana rolls her eyes and storms past him. Sam appears in the doorway after her, takes one look at Sebastian, and grimaces.

“Dude, c’mon,” he says. Sebastian ignores him.

“I’ve been trying to reach you two for a fucking hour now,” Santana goes on, even while she types furiously on her phone. “The interview and the photoshoot have to be moved to one o'clock. They’ll be here in a few minutes to set up.”

Sebastian sighs and glances around for his pants. Sam points silently to the dresser and Sebastian spots them, flung over the ornate mirror.

“In my suite?” he gripes, tugging the material over his legs without bothering to zip or button.

“You guys have the nicest room,” Sam says, busying himself with rummaging through the mini-bar and fridge and pointedly not looking at Blaine on the bed.

Sebastian barely resists smirking at that. It’s kind of cute, really.

“It’s the penthouse suite and you don’t deserve it,” Santana snaps. “Okay, let’s speed this up here, shall we? Marley’s on her way to do hair and makeup. It takes ten minutes for her to do Trouty’s lips alone—”

“Hey!” Sam grumbles around a mouthful of chips. Santana ignores him.

“— Which means you and Blaine have just enough time to get your fucking asses into the fucking shower with absolutely no time left over for fucking, got it?”

Sebastian waves his hand towards her and bends to pick up his jacket.

“Who’s coming again?” he asks, searching the pockets for a pack of cigarettes. 

“Trent Nixon. Journalist from Rolling fucking Stone, does that ring a bell? Though I use the term ‘journalist’ loosely...”

“Trent!” Blaine pipes up, pulling the sheet further over himself. “I know him,” he murmurs around a yawn, then grins happily. “He’s super nice.” Sebastian sits down on the bed next to him and Blaine drapes an arm over his waist.

“Oh, god, he’s all sex-stupid!” Santana complains, scowling down at Blaine before aiming it at Sebastian. “See what you’ve done? Are you happy now?”

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Sebastian nods. Santana snatches the cigarette he’s about to light from between his lips.

“This is a non-smoking room. Asshole.” She glowers at the bedroom door. "Where the fuck is—" 

Then, as if on cue, Tina appears in the doorway. “Oooh, who’s sex-stupid? I nominate that for the next album title, by the way.”

“Blaine is,” Sam answers from a chair near the window, tongue twisted up while he chews some fifteen-dollar jellybeans noisily. “Santana and I got in here and they were bumpin’ uglies.”

Blaine doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed at that; he just laughs sleepily.

“Technically, we’d just finished after being rudely interrupted. And I’ll have you know that neither of them are ugly,” Sebastian says. “Blaine happens to have an exquisite—”

“Good Christ, I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” Santana mutters, holding her phone up to her ear.

Tina grins saucily. “Let me see, I can be the judge of that.” She goes to the bed and tries to lift up the covers. Blaine laughs again, burrowing closer to Sebastian’s side.

“Hey, no groping our frontman!” Sebastian scolds. “Save it for the show.”

“You're no fun,” Tina pouts. She goes and sits down on Sam’s lap, absently smoothes her thin fingers through his hair while she peers out of the window behind them.

“Hey,” she says. “I think there are fans out there.”

“Really?” Sam asks, finally looking up from his candy.

“All right, listen up, children!” Santana interrupts. “Marley’s here so let’s rock ‘n’ roll, get the show on the road, et cetera, et-fucking-cetera, let’s go!”

- - -

After the shoot and the interview — and after they've washed their makeup off again — they all decide to go out to dinner and drinks before they leave for the next gig (Sebastian and Tina having already conspired to get Santana fucking plastered and, preferably, laid). And of course they run into the small group of fans camped outside the hotel.

They stop to sign things and to say hello, all of them smiling through it because it hasn’t quite gotten old yet, and Sebastian hopes it never does. It's a high all by itself, a rush, second only to one other thing he's ever known.

Tina and Sam grin giddily when they get into the car several minutes later, Tina gushing about a girl who said she’d driven eight hours just to see her. Sebastian looks through the tinted window at Blaine, who always takes the longest to get through the line because he always wants to meet every last one; all the boys and girls with stars in their eyes, clamoring for an autograph, a grainy picture on their cell phones, relics of just a moment of Blaine's attention.

Sebastian watches the smiles fondly, as well as the few elated tears. Even without his feathered jackets and glittered makeup, without the lights and flashes and stage magic and rock persona, they all still love Blaine; love what he does for them.

The bar’s packed full of people, full of smoke, and the first thing Sebastian does is take out his own cigarette case; some flashy silver thing his father had given him as a graduation gift, engraved with a Latin proverb. 

Vincit qui se vincit.

Sebastian doesn’t like to have it out for very long. It feels pretentious, especially in this crowd; it's mostly for the clients. He pats his pockets for matches, curses to himself because it’s a lost cause, pockets the cigarette, and heads to the bar. The mood in the place is a little younger than he would usually opt for, but, he decides, he might as well try to enjoy himself.

Once he manages to get the harried-looking barkeep's attention, he orders his usual, and grimaces when he tries it. Maybe he ought to stop requesting cocktails, he thinks; drink all of his liquor straight-up and in copious amounts, like the rest of the executives in the office.

That’s when he spots a familiar head of black hair across the room, shiny and slicked back with a generous helping of Brylcreem; a sweater the color of an Easter egg; and a pinstriped bowtie. His lips twitch into a smile before he can help himself and he takes a large sip of his godawful Old Fashioned before he heads over.

"Blaine Anderson, junior copywriter."

Blaine turns and smiles when he sees Sebastian, bright white teeth gleaming even in the dimmed light of the bar. "Yeah, um, yes, hi," he replies with a nod. There’s a pause, during which Sebastian wonders whether he’s ever formally introduced himself to the kid when Blaine tilts his head and says, "Sebastian Smythe, accounts."

Sebastian flashes a grin. “So it says on the business card.” Blaine smiles again.

"I suppose congratulations are in order,” Sebastian tells him, leaning closer and angling his face down so Blaine can hear him over the chatter and the music. “On the Sylvester campaign. Word is you dazzled her.”

Blaine blinks, as if in surprise. But then, Sebastian thinks, he’s probably not used to being congratulated on his work — the running joke among the business side of the agency is that Creative is where the souls of artists and thinkers go to die, only to have someone else’s name put on the gravestone.

“Gee, um, thank you,” Blaine says, golden-brown eyes connecting with Sebastian’s for a moment before he shrugs and looks away, down at the beer he’s holding in his right hand. “It might have just been dumb luck, though.” He gives a sardonic little smile and quirk of his eyebrows. “Lucky that Will was still in Washington on the Motta account.”

Sebastian huffs an amused breath. He’d heard about the bad blood between Sue Sylvester and their creative director, born out of some kind of sordid and convoluted history between them. It was pretty hard not to with all the secretaries tittering about it at all hours that week, despite Quinn’s best efforts to rein them in.

And if Quinn divulged the whole thing to Sebastian over a smoke in her office, well, that was between them.

“That too,” Sebastian acknowledges. “But you shouldn’t sell yourself short. It was just as much your ideas as the pretty face delivering them.”

Blaine shoots Sebastian a sharp look, surprise on his face giving way to apprehension. He seems to examine Sebastian for a moment or two before he smiles uncertainly and takes it for the compliment it was.

“I— thanks. Thank you. So, um, if you don’t my asking, what brings you here? I thought you were over on the East Side.”

Sebastian arches an eyebrow at that. It seems he’s not the only one who spends time in Quinn’s office.

Truth is, Sebastian had wanted a drink that isn’t served in a crystal glass or anywhere near a silk tablecloth; where he isn’t likely to run into one of his parents’ friends; where he can loosen his tie and clock out of work. Somewhere that doesn’t remind him of the silver spoon in his own mouth. But he doesn’t say that.

“A bit of my own celebrating, I suppose, and this happened to be the first place I ducked into. Just had dinner with Hunter Clarington, of Clarington and Sons.”

“Oh? How’d it go?”

Sebastian sucks in a breath and clicks his tongue before he answers. “Strangely. The man's my age, already the head of a national brand, and his practices are interesting, to say the least.” He can see Blaine’s brow furrow in curiosity, but Sebastian decides it’s too soon to elaborate, lest the gossip make its way through Dalton McKinley before Clarington can. “But it would seem we have new business, so there's that.”

“Oh!” Blaine exclaims, alight with interest. “Well, that's great, well done.”

Sebastian nods his thanks and takes another swig of his drink, which actually seems to taste marginally better now. Or perhaps it’s the company.

“How about you, Blaine? Here alone?”

“I'm here with my friend, Sam. Or, I was.” Blaine glances somewhere to his left and Sebastian follows his gaze. He spots a tall blond man who's busy chatting up another blonde girl in a pencil skirt, both of them leaning against the jukebox.  “The blond?” he asks and Blaine nods.

"But he seems to have...”

"Done all right on his own," Sebastian supplies. He turns to look at Blaine, still regarding Sam and his new female companion, and finds the expression on Blaine’s face immediately more compelling. He takes a few moments to linger on that expression, quietly cataloging it, before breaking the silence.

"So what about you? Already have a girl?"

That seems to startle Blaine out of his reverie. "Me? Oh, um, no. No, no girlfriend." He sounds casual, but his smile, Sebastian notices, is small and forced.

"Hmm. Why's that?" Sebastian knows he doesn't imagine the slight wince tightening Blaine's eyes, or how he swallows before he answers.

"Just too focused on work, I guess," he shrugs. There's another pause. Blaine looks down at his drink before he looks back at Sebastian. "You?"

Sebastian chooses his words carefully, knows there's something significant riding on what he says if his suspicions are on track, and makes sure to look right into Blaine’s eyes as he speaks.

“No girlfriend. Same reason,” he says, slowly and deliberately. “More or less."

He holds Blaine’s gaze for a moment, then, a long moment. In his experience, business and otherwise, the look in a person’s eyes is paramount; it speaks to him quicker than the mouth can, tells him yes, no, or maybe before speech ever enters the picture. In some cases — and he’s fairly sure this is one of them — a look can tell him everything he needs to know.  

And if that weren’t enough, the way Blaine’s mouth drops open the slightest bit when Sebastian reaches between them and takes Blaine’s empty beer bottle from his hand, their fingers brushing together — well. That speaks volumes.

Sebastian smiles at him. “Can I buy you another drink?”

---

"You know, for someone in the business of schmoozing people, you seem awfully... opinionated."

Nearly an hour and a round of drinks later (beers this time; Sebastian wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice), he and Blaine are still talking, and they’d even managed to get a booth to themselves.

The remark makes Sebastian laugh, because he knows “opinionated” is just Blaine being generous.

"I spend my working hours dealing with megalomaniacs who are too doltish to realize that's what they are, and dolts who are almost maniacal in denying to themselves that they're idiots. Can you blame me for being a tad more discerning in my personal life?”

It’s Blaine’s turn to laugh, his eyes practically sparkling with mirth, pearly-white grin stretching his face.  

“Look, point of fact,” Sebastian continues, “I only talk to people I find interesting.”

Blaine blinks at him, smile dimming, but turning into something different, more private. “And you find me interesting?”

Sebastian takes a drag of the cigarette he’d finally managed to get a light for, gazes back at him. “Very.”

Blaine’s mouth twists and he shrugs. “I find that hard to believe.”

Sebastian licks his lips and watches Blaine track the movement. “I find your unwavering humility hard to believe. Also the fact that you don’t smoke. It’s suspicious, you know.”

Another chuckle. “I, um — well, don’t laugh, all right?” Blaine starts, casting his eyes low, and Sebastian’s curiosity is definitely piqued now. “I’m in a men’s choir with some college friends. It’s mostly for fun and an excuse to meet up, though we perform at hospices and the like. So, that’s why I don’t smoke, to preserve my voice.” He heaves a dramatic sigh, gestures a hand toward Sebastian. “Okay, you can laugh now.”

“Who said I’d laugh?” Sebastian counters, though he realizes he’s grinning from ear to ear. Blaine ducks his head, hint of a flush on his cheeks.

“Actually, I was in a choir. At Dartmouth.”

“Were you?” Blaine looks at him as if through new eyes, and Sebastian tries valiantly not to preen under the attention.

“Yes. So if you’re ever in need of a tenor,” he says, accompanied by a plume of smoke. He sees Blaine still watching him when it dissipates.

“Even if it means you’d have to quit smoking?”

Sebastian blinks. “Well, I’d have to think about it. You drive a hard bargain.”

Blaine laughs again and Sebastian comes to the conclusion that it’s a sound he very much enjoys; it’s far better than the saccharine pop song about — of all things — surfing coming from the jukebox, that’s for damn sure.

“Say, Blaine, how would you like to get together for lunch next week? If you can escape Will Schuester’s clutches, that is.”

“I think I can manage that,” Blaine nods. “We’ll probably have to discuss the new account, anyway.”

“Oh, God, a working lunch,” Sebastian mutters around the cigarette, and Blaine tilts his head, puzzled. “Then how about supper later in the week, too? Maybe some drinks?” He tips his head forward. “Between friends.”

Blaine blinks in surprise again, but quickly masks it with a smile.

“I know a few places in the Village,” Sebastian adds. “Where I think the atmosphere's a little more... our speed.”

“What, with the beatniks?” Blaine grins, teasing, but Sebastian detects more in his eyes, something like a tentative question.

“No,” Sebastian answers, careful to keep his expression measured. He flicks ash off the end of his cigarette into the ashtray sitting between them, fixes Blaine with a pointed stare. “Not beatniks.”

He sees recognition dawning in Blaine’s eyes and he smiles to himself; another deal sealed.

“I— I guess I’d like that,” Blaine says, the look in his eyes completely unmistakable now, an open book.

---

Blaine gets the next round of beers, insisting on it, and Sebastian can’t refuse him. It offers the perfect opportunity to stare after Blaine, anyway, a view he’s enjoyed more than once at work.   

Once Blaine seats himself again, he raises his bottle in a toast.

“Here’s to new business and new friendships,” he says, shooting Sebastian another of those private little smiles.

Sebastian smirks indulgently, watching avidly at the blush spreading across Blaine’s face.

  “— I swear, I’m the only one who ever speaks up in that class. Why even call it a discussion section if there’s zero discussion going on?”

“That’s your 8:30 class, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but still. I mean, people show up. And then just sort of it there in awkward silence and presumably wait for me to answer the TA’s question. And I’m pretty sure they hate me for it. The other students, I mean. The TA loves me, which only makes it worse.”

Sebastian chuckles at that, walking past another row of study carrels in the stacks of the library they’ve been navigating for the past five minutes or so.

“— But honestly, it’s not my fault I’m the only one who does the readings. Unless I’m just completely off-base in thinking that homework actually involves doing work. Are you sure the books you’re looking for are over here?”

Sebastian glances to the nearest shelf on his left and catches a glimpse of titles that make absolutely no sense to him.

“Uh huh, just a little bit further.”  

They walk on for a couple more minutes, deeper into the maze of bookshelves, their twin sets of footsteps echoing off of the linoleum floors, until Sebastian finally finds what he’s been looking for.

“I think here’s good,” he says — quietly, even though he’s pretty sure this floor is secluded — and he opens the narrow door on the next set of study carrels. He ushers Blaine in and closes the door behind them.  

“You think —?”

“Mhmm,” Sebastian hums while he unzips his backpack in the cramped space (barely room enough for one person to study in, just a small desk and a chair) and pulls out a copy of that day’s campus newspaper and a roll of tape. It isn’t until he starts taping the paper over the little window on the door that Blaine seems to catch on.

“What’re you —? Oh my god, you’re not serious—”

Sebastian drops his backpack on the floor and turns to look at his boyfriend. “As a heart attack,” he drawls, unable to contain his grin.

“Here?” Blaine hisses, incredulous, but with a telltale pink staining his cheeks. Sebastian takes it upon himself to steer him until his ass hits the edge of the desk.

“Come on, B, it’s a time-honored tradition,” he says. “Sex in the grad library stacks is one thing every senior has to experience before graduating. Where’s your school spirit?”

Blaine just gapes at him a little, equal parts adorably flustered and adorably confused.

“But we’re sophomores,” he whispers. Sebastian smiles and leans in to press his lips to Blaine’s.

“Well, then, consider this a practice run.” He sits down in the chair and any protest Blaine might have had dies when Sebastian goes for the fly on his jeans.

“Sebastian, what if someone — uuuungh ohmygod.”

Sebastian pauses what he’s doing to blink up at Blaine, face flushed now and looking wrecked already, and Christ, he’s barely even gotten started.

“You do think you can keep it down, though?” he says, mock scolding. “This is a library.”

“Ohmygod, Sebastian, shut up and just get on with it.”

Sebastian shoots him a wicked smile before he does.

    Later, once Blaine’s returned the favor — rather enthusiastically for someone purported to be so nervous about getting caught, Sebastian thinks — and they’ve straightened their clothes, Sebastian retrieves the black Sharpie marker he’d brought.

“What’s that for?” Blaine asks curiously, still self-consciously patting his hair down where Sebastian had mussed it up.

“Posterity,” Sebastian replies and gestures to the wall. “Check it out.”

Sure enough, near the corner of the desk and the partition of the next carrel are several notes scrawled in different handwritings, most of them referring to some other past trysts in less than flowery language. Blaine and Sebastian get a kick out of reading them for a bit, before Sebastian bends to make his own contribution.

“B plus S fucked here?” Blaine reads. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, so Sebastian counts that as a win.

“Perhaps not entirely accurate,” Sebastian says, gathering his stuff and grabbing Blaine’s hand to lead him out of the carrel. “But maybe next time.”

A sudden thud on the floor wakes Blaine. He has a brief moment of panic, thinks, crap, what happened to the alarm?, before he remembers that it’s Friday, which means he doesn’t have class until two o’clock, which means he can nestle into his bed beneath the toasty warmth of his comforter for just a while longer, which is exactly what he does.

Then there’s another thud and he blinks his eyes open blearily to see Sam shucking his wet boots near the doorway, which is, consequently, only a few feet away in their tiny dorm room.

“Hey, man, sorry,” Sam says, voice muffled behind the thick woolen scarf still wound around his neck.

“So early,” Blaine mutters sleepily. “Why?” he croaks, still unable to form complete sentences, but Sam seems to get the gist.

“I know, but I had to go to office hours with Professor Alvarez. It was the only time she could see me. I’m sorry,” Sam explains while he takes off his scarf and gets started on his coat buttons. “You can go back to sleep now. Even though it’s not that early, dude.”

Blaine makes a hmmph noise and he can feel himself pout, more than a little petulant. He’s too tired to argue, though, so he just blinks through droopy, slitted eyes at Sam undressing layer by layer, right there between their two beds.

He knows he probably shouldn’t, because Sam likely thinks he just went back to sleep, but Blaine can’t not look at the flex of Sam’s body when he reaches to take off his sweater, his t-shirt underneath riding up to bare the flat, smooth skin of his abs, muscle stretching up under the arch of his ribcage.

He can’t even look away when Sam turns to the side and sees Blaine looking — and Blaine knows he does because the corners of Sam's mouth quirk up, a dark red curve in the dim morning light filtering in through the closed blinds — but then Sam's not looking away either, at least not right away. He waits a beat before he tosses his sweater in the vicinity of their hamper and straightens, pale fingers reaching for the buttons on his jeans; and even through his sleep-haze, Blaine feels an all too familiar heat bloom in his belly. That's when his better judgment finally kicks in and he takes a last look at Sam, bending over now to step out of his pants — and while he probably should (shouldn't) be sneaking a look at Sam's bare thighs, he ends up catching sight of his cheeks, flushed a dark pink with what has to be cold. Then Blaine turns over, sheets rustling around him. He closes his eyes again and wills his sudden nerves to just settle down so he can get a couple more hours of sleep.

But his nerves snap to alertness when he feels a draft as his comforter lifts up. He sucks in a sharp breath when the mattress dips, and then he feels the weight of Sam settling behind him.

"Dude, scooch over."

Blaine smiles at Sam's hushed voice and he scoots further onto his bed, but he frowns a second later at the touch of Sam's clammy skin.

"Mmmrgh, you're cold," he grumbles when Sam rubs his chilled nose against the back of his neck, just above the neckline of his t-shirt.

Sam laughs quietly and settles a large hand on Blaine's bicep, shakes him gently.

"So warm me up,"  he murmurs, voice low and soft against Blaine's skin.

Blaine can't ignore the thrill that shoots down his spine at that, nor the way Sam's bare legs rub up against his under the covers. In fact, he can't seem to focus on much else other than the places they’re touching, especially the soft drag of Sam's lips on his neck.

They don't talk about this part. The one time Blaine had tried to make sense of it, Sam had just shrugged, uncomfortable, and said, "Can't we just, you know, let it... be what it is?" And he'd given Blaine such a helpless, confused look that Blaine couldn't help but drop it. He certainly didn’t want to pressure Sam into having a conversation he clearly wasn’t ready to have, and he figured it would just be a one-off thing that didn't have to affect them if Blaine didn’t force it. It could just be, like Sam had said.  

He didn't expect for it to happen again after that first night, when the both of them had stumbled into the same narrow dorm bed after a few too many beers at a party. But it did happen again, and it kept happening; sometimes after another party, sometimes after a late-night Netflix marathon, sometimes just like this, in the quiet moments between classes and midterms and floor meetings, when they could just relax into one another. It’s just sort of become one more thing they do together.

So when Sam pulls at Blaine's shoulder in a silent request, Blaine turns, knows exactly what he’s asking for. He blinks at Sam, warmth pooling low in his belly when he sees Sam's gaze caught on his lips. And when Blaine reaches for Sam to pull him closer, Sam goes, moving and shifting until his body blankets Blaine's, their legs slotting together, sharing body heat even before they share a kiss.

It’s soft when their lips do meet, easy and slow like it always is. But Blaine knows there’s something different about this time, because even though they don’t talk about it, Sam was the one who came to him with cold skin and hushed murmurs. Warm me up. The thought makes Blaine’s blood run hotter, makes him press closer. Sam catches on quickly, his tongue teasing along the seam of Blaine’s lips until they open for him.

They stay like that for a few minutes, trading wet, lazy, open-mouthed kisses. And, yeah, of course it’s occurred to Blaine before that maybe making out and doing other stuff with your roommate would normally be a bad idea, but it’s Sam, and right now it seems like the very best thing to do at whatever o’clock on a Friday morning.

“Hold on,” Sam breathes and pulls away before Blaine can stop himself from chasing his mouth. “Just gonna—”

He manages to pull his t-shirt off without leaving the warmth of the covers and he shakes his hair once it’s free, gives Blaine a shy hint of a smile, full lips shiny with their spit and still so red. Blaine reaches for him again and his palms slide up along Sam’s bare skin, fingertips trailing up Sam’s broad back and up to grip his shoulders. They’re pressed so close beneath Blaine’s comforter that it should be stifling, but it’s not; it’s thrilling and intimate and them, and Blaine doesn’t want it to be over anytime soon.

He can’t deny that he’s definitely getting more worked up now, though, especially with Sam pressing wet kisses to his throat and jaw. He sinks his head back into his fluffy pillow and utters a low moan, gives himself over to how good it all feels. His fingers slide through Sam’s soft hair and he tugs gently.

“Mmm, c’mere,” he breathes, mouth seeking Sam’s again. Sam shifts his body again until he’s lying between Blaine’s spread thighs and Blaine lets out a hum of approval, one arm winding up around Sam’s bare shoulders while the other slips down the long curve of his back. Blaine blames the lingering sleepiness for making him bolder than he usually would be, because he hardly thinks before pressing down on the base of Sam’s spine, urging him to align their lower bodies.

“Like this,” he whispers against Sam’s mouth.

Sam groans this time when their crotches rub against one another and a flare of heat shoots up Blaine’s spine at the noise, adding fuel to the dull throb of pleasure already pulsing through him. They’re both wearing underwear but it still feels amazing, the friction just right where Blaine needs it most. His legs spread further and lift in invitation, and Sam pushes forward and it’s perfect, their hardening dicks rubbing together. Blaine takes big gulps of air when Sam starts thrusting against him, his face tucked into Blaine’s neck now and panting hotly into his skin, letting out little grunts almost continuously, and that turns Blaine on so much he thinks he’ll go crazy with it.

It’s so good, the way they’re grinding their hips into one another, and Blaine can feel Sam hard against him, rubbing his cock against Blaine’s, the firm drag of it catching on his balls every so often and making him gasp; it gets even better when Sam rears back just a touch, hooks a hand under Blaine’s thigh, and hikes it up over his hip.

“This okay?” he asks quietly, and Blaine blinks at him, his face so close that Blaine can hardly see anything other than his flushed skin, blush spreading across his face and neck from arousal now — he’s seen it enough to know.

Blaine wets his lips and nods, makes an affirmative noise because it’s more than okay. The angle changes so Sam’s cock slides against the curve of his ass and Blaine pants and shudders, his heel sliding along the back of Sam’s thigh until it digs into his ass, urging him on. Sam’s thrusts get wilder, but still languid, hips rolling against Blaine so forcefully that Blaine’s body moves up and down on his bed, and Blaine can only hold on and arch his body against him, his cock grinding up against the firm muscle of Sam’s abs.

The heat and tension build between them until Blaine feels he’s close; and judging by the hot, hard line of Sam’s cock still pulsing against him, and the noises spilling from his mouth, Sam isn’t that far off either.

“God, Sam, m’gonna—”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes into his ear, hips still grinding in slow, tight circles. “C’mon.”

Sam’s quiet coaxing is what puts Blaine over the edge. He comes with a muffled, whining moan, limbs clutching the heat of Sam’s body to him while he pulses and jerks inside his underwear. Then he’s being kissed before he can catch his breath, Sam’s mouth hot and wet on his while he continues to rock against his body.

It takes Blaine half a beat to get his bearings before he kisses back, tongue slipping into Sam’s mouth. His legs tighten around Sam’s hips, too, fingers of one hand clutching the silky strands of his hair.

Sam’s mouth drops open when he comes, breath hitching and his body tensing against Blaine. Blaine shakes with him, his heart racing. He gives Sam a moment before kissing him again, lips and tongue working slowly and luxuriously against his mouth until they’ve both come down.

“Oh man,” Sam breathes out heavily, before his body goes completely lax on top of Blaine’s, his face mashed against Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine hmm’s in agreement and closes his eyes; he feels so loose and warm, even under the weight of Sam’s body pressing him into the mattress, and he’s floating in that inviting space between wakefulness and sleep before he knows it.

And, for the second time that morning, Sam brings him out of it; this time by shoving the comforter down to their legs while he mutters, “Too hot.”

Blaine grins sleepily, his eyes still closed. “Mission accomplished, then.”

There’s a pause before Sam huffs a laugh. “Dude,” he says simply. Then he moves off of Blaine, but maneuvers them until Blaine’s on his side and he’s pressed along his back.

“Hmm, we should probably get cleaned up,” Blaine murmurs, his breathing already getting deep and slow. And the thought of having to leave the warmth of Sam and his bed to go down the hall to the showers seems next to impossible. 

Sam sighs against the back of his neck, nose nudging there again. “Later.”

“We’ll be all gross later.”

“Worth it. Sleep now.” He drapes an arm over Blaine’s waist and squeezes him once.