Chapter Text
It is not Blaine’s usual habit to stop for a drink, but the stock market has chosen this particular day to trip him, kick him a few times in the ribs, liberally use the baseball bat and spit on his Armani suit for good measure. So it is with weary and slightly short-tempered disposition that Blaine Anderson makes his way into Plonk Bar, the most expensive and perhaps most unfortunately named establishment in the neighborhood.
Blaine doesn’t even bother heading straight for the counter; instead, he finds a small table tucked away in a dimly lit corner, far from any other patrons. He doesn’t need companionship. He drops his briefcase with a thud, wincing when he remembers his laptop is in there, and sinks into the booth, burying his head in his folded arms.
He is so busy listing the reasons to commit hari-kari over plummeting stocks that he doesn’t hear the stranger approach until he has sat down across from him and cleared his throat. Blaine raises his head, startled, only to be met by the sight of soft green eyes, murky in the low light.
“Need a drink?” The man ignores Blaine’s shock and slides a glass across the table, leaving a wet trail behind on the wood. “Of course, I wasn’t sure what you wanted, but hell—a beer’s a beer, right?”
“Um…right.” Blaine takes the drink, lifts it to his mouth without actually swallowing and stares at his new companion through the foggy glass. Messy chestnut hair (which for some unknown reason has specks of red in it), slightly pale skin, wearing tight jeans and a knit sweater—certainly not the usual uptown bar customer. He has a purple sharpie tucked behind one ear, and heavy smears of charcoal on his face. He looks younger, around Blaine’s own age, and he moves his shoulders every few seconds as if trying to work out a kink in his back. He’s fucking gorgeous too, not that Blaine spends much time gaping at the way his neck disappears into the taunting looseness of his collar, or the high set of his cheekbones.
“My shoes cost twenty-five bucks, by the way. On sale. Are you done?” The man smiles, only slightly mocking, and Blaine lowers his glass sheepishly. “I didn’t spike it or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Then why give it to me?” Blaine asks. He has no obligation to be polite to a stranger, after-all.
The man shrugs, hands curling around his own tall glass of amber liquid. “Looked like you could use it, and weren’t planning on ordering any time soon.”
Blaine frowns, and takes a small sip of the beer. It tastes normal, or at least not extraordinarily different. “Still…why?”
“Why a random act of kindness for a complete stranger?” The man shrugs again. “Maybe I wanted to be an anomaly. Break the mold.”
Blaine ‘hmms’ and takes another sip. That can’t be it. People don’t work like that. He tries to study the man once again, more surreptitiously through his eyelashes. But he’s watching Blaine right back, the beginnings of a smirk spreading across his impish face.
“Or maybe…” the stranger continues, “I want to somehow atone for something I’ve done. Maybe I killed someone. Stole from an old lady. Kicked a puppy. And I’m just trying to balance out the karma.”
“Maybe you’re just trying to fuck up my head even more,” Blaine grumbles, but he can’t stop his own smile. Just who is this person?
“There’s that.” The man laughs easily before lifting his glass and taking a large gulp of his drink. He thumps the glass back down and presses his lips together. “Actually, truth be told, I came into a bit of money recently, and wanted to see if rich beer somehow tastes better than the dirt-cheap crap. And you know what?” He makes a face. “It doesn’t.” He frowns, pushes the drink away, and props his chin up on his hands, studying Blaine’s face in a way that makes the other squirm. “Tell me, why did you bother becoming rich if the beer is all piss anyway?”
“What?” Blaine asks, startled by the question.
“Just wondering,” the man says, still staring. “I’ve always had a fascination with the idea of wealth, for obvious reasons. It just seems sort of pointless really. I mean, yes, having a steady paycheck would be a definite bonus in my life, but after that…it just seems like money would get in the way. And where do you even spend it all? Seems like a huge waste of time, waste of energy, for something that you don’t really need, not if you live right. So why bother?”
“I…” Blaine stops. Why did he bother becoming rich? He takes another sip of beer to buy himself time, because despite the other man’s opinion, it still tastes like a normal beer to Blaine. But the extra moment doesn’t help. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know.
Why be rich?
Because his parents had taught him that’s what he was supposed to do?
The stranger gives a small, understanding sigh when Blaine remains silent, lips pouting in a way Blaine should not find as attractive as he does. “You know that’s the thing. No one I talk to ever seems to know the answer to that question.” Blaine feels an odd spark of jealousy at the idea of him doing this with other people, other men. But the stranger is right here, talking to Blaine when he continues. “It just seems to me that dressing in a starched suit every morning and spending your day sitting in an office watching numbers on a ticker would be a one way ticket to a glass of cyanide, but then again that’s just me.” He traces patterns in the table with one long finger. “But that’ll be why you’re here right now, I guess. Drinking a less concentrated form of cyanide.”
Blaine lifts one eyebrow and his mouth jerks into a small grin. He’s never met someone like this before, so blunt. They’re not like that, not where he works. And, beyond everything else, it’s rather true, now that Blaine comes to think about it. Starched suits every day, cubicles, fingers sore from banging on keys. Nobody at work ever complains about it, and his family is supportive, but suddenly…it all seems sort of boring. Pointless. “Just who are you?”
“Me?” The boy’s hand pauses. “I’m just some random twenty-something bar goer who likes engaging random people in economics discussions. Nothing special. Who are you?” He surprises Blaine then by swinging his body around sideways and drawing his knees up to his chest, hunkered in the booth like a spry woodland fairy, eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Rich family? I bet so. Did your daddy want you to become a big business man? I’m sorry. It’s tough to live up to those kinds of expectations.”
The tone of his voice is more revealing than his words. “What were your expectations?” Blaine asks, setting aside his glass. The question allows him to avoid the truth in the man’s statement. Did your daddy…
The man rolls his eyes and sighs. “Oh. You know…the usual.” Blaine opens his mouth to reply but doesn’t have the chance before the other man has started talking again and managed to steer the conversation away from himself once more.
“So, you got a family?”
“No,” Blaine says, shrugging off his suit jacket. “Not yet.”
“I figured.” He raises an eyebrow when Blaine stares, pointing at his own left hand and wiggling his finger. “No wedding ring. And guy like you, you’re proper. You’d put a ring on it first.”
“Maybe I’m divorced,” Blaine says, trying to catch him off guard, be on top for once. This is almost frightening, being steered like this.
“Yeah, I guess. Oops.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. It doesn’t do Blaine any good being right if the man doesn’t fight against it.
Usually that’s all people do. Fight and fight and fight until they’re exhausted and can’t possibly function anymore. But to…admit that he might be wrong, yet not seem to care…
“Significant other, at least?”
“What?” Blaine snaps back to the present.
“I asked if you have a person of significance, preferably of the ‘other’ variety,” the stranger explains, hand returning to the water on the table.
“Oh.” Blaine pauses, frowns, and decides there’s no point in lying, really. “No.”
“Hmm. That’s a pity.” The man runs a hand through his red-streaked hair. It looks almost like paint, though Blaine can’t tell in this lighting.
“Why?” Blaine asks, taking another drink. He’s half hoping for a flirty response here.
The stranger shrugs. “Well…not having someone. Sounds difficult. Working all day being a faceless pencil pusher in an office, and then going home to an empty home. It would be very lonely, I imagine. I’m sorry.”
Strangers aren’t supposed to say stuff like that. They aren’t supposed to pity you.
It’s unnerving. It throws Blaine off balance, and he doesn’t know how to react. He feels weak, fragile, and he hates it. He hates it because his life really is nothing—just numbers, tickers, and endless lonely nights—and this complete stranger can tell so easily, and just reduced it to the nothingness it is within a matter of moments by being so alien, so different.
For the first time in his entire life, Blaine has no idea what to do. And he’s jealous. He’s jealous of this boy sitting with his feet up on the seat with smudges of charcoal on his cheeks and twenty-five dollar shoes. He’s jealous because he wishes he could be like that, easy and smiling and care-free.
Why does his life suddenly seem like such a friggin’ mess compared to this man? It’s all completely pointless, isn’t it?
Isn’t it? Realization hits hard.
He needs to take back some control. Blaine stares at the boy across from him, wanting hoping needing to prove to him that Blaine is worthwhile, that he’s something other than a soulless modern machine. He needs to make this boy care, watch him fall apart and become human and vulnerable with gentle caresses and lips on skin and Blaine doesn’t even know if this man’s like that, but Blaine has been out since ninth grade and suddenly something so trivial as possibility doesn’t seem important. He needs it. He needs him.
But he can’t. Because he doesn’t even know this person’s name, and those are not acceptable thoughts to have about a stranger.
But even as Blaine comes to this realization, the man’s feet are back on the ground, and he’s standing up, leaving his barely-touched drink behind. “God, that was some bad beer. See you around, Dapper Dan.” He begins to walk away back to the bar, rolling his shoulders as he moves and tapping a rhythm against his thigh. As if this doesn’t matter. As if Blaine doesn’t matter, as if he’s just another face, another memory, another stepping stone. And Blaine can’t accept that. Images flash into his head—of this boy waiting for him when he gets home from work, eating dinner with him, falling asleep with gentle breath on Blaine’s face, somehow turning all the nothingness into something and it’s so tangible Blaine can taste it. He gapes for a moment, shocked by the sudden onslaught of desire, before standing up and scurrying after him.
“Wait!”
He turns back with an amused smile. “What? Did I forget something?”
“Yeah. I want your number,” Blaine says, forcing the words out before his own cowardice and common sense can suck them back down.
“Why?” He laughs. “I’m just some guy.”
“I want to talk to some guy again then. Someone not like me.” Someone who can show me I’m not worthless. That I matter.
Someone that I can maybe create something out of nothing with.
The stranger bites his lip, rolls his shoulders, and stares at Blaine for a moment before cocking his head to one side. “Fine,” he says. “Gimme your hand.”
Blaine reaches out a hand unthinkingly, and before he can pull away the man has pulled the sharpie out from behind his ear and scrawled across Blaine’s skin.
“Hey!” Blaine yanks his hands back and glares at the purple now stained onto it.
“What? It’s my number.” He recaps the pen and smiles. “I’ll be expecting you to call then.”
“It’s Blaine!” Blaine blurts out. “My name’s Blaine.”
“Good for you.” He laughs again, before his face straightens, takes on a pondering expression. “Well, see you later Blaine. Have fun watching your Wall Street ticker.”
He spun around and pushed at the door, Converse slipping on the smooth tiles of the bar for just one moment before he’s gone.
Blaine glances down at his hand, and then glances again.
Instead of numbers, all that’s there are a bunch of pointless doodles.