Dreaming of You

Chapter 7

By the time Blaine opens his eyes to the bleary morning sun and ice, he's already gotten about five texts from Kurt sitting patiently in his phone like neatly written death sentences. 'Can't wait to go antiquiiiiiiiiing!!' and 'Text me when you're awake. Good morning in advance! Hope you slept well, Barney' and 'What does one wear when shopping with new friends?' , etc.

They all contain emojis. They are all endearing. And they all center around today's emotionally detrimental activity: antiquing.

And Blaine is so, so incredibly fucked.

Fucked enough that he can't text him back, not right now, so he instead just locks his phone and groans dramatically, rolling his cold, miserable body out of his bed, his feet landing on the scratchy carpet with an uninspired plunk. His phone stays resolutely out of his clutch, his morals are well in check, and his only current priority is Nick—who is currently asleep on his couch and who he is totally and completely going to bring breakfast to. (Not for any subconscious guilt reasons, obviously. It's just because Blaine loves Nick.) (Obviously.)

Might as well get this day of...antiquing started. The right way.

**

"I feel like complete and utter shit," Nick growls over his cup of morning tea about half an hour later, sinking into the cushions of Blaine couch. His hands are a pleasant shade of grey and the bags under his eyes are larger than the ones sat in his mug. "I think I'm going to die."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather die than do what I'm doing," Blaine grumbles in response, sniffing his black polo; it's not too repulsive. Totally acceptable to wear again. He stuffs it over his cold, goose-pimpled torso without another moment's hesitation, too tired and bitchy to care about what he looks like today at work.

Since, you know, it was supposed to be his day off.

A few things have happened this morning:

Nick's woken up unreasonably ill and petulant, looks the color of sour cream, and has no immediate plans to leave the sanctity of this house. While splashing ice-cold water on his flushed, bedsheet-crinkled face, Blaine received a lovely phone call from none other than the Starbucks.

"Blaine?" Wes' voice grunted over the line, gravelly and unfocused. Wes rarely works mornings and when he does, no amount of caffeine can make up for the precarious state of his emotions. Or body.

"No," Blaine clipped immediately, already sagging dejectedly against his white porcelain sink that perpetually smells of rose water and rust. "No, no, no." He shook his head violently with each sound, hoping it would convince the universe that he does, in fact, deserve his day off.

No such luck.

"B, dude, come on. We're short-staffed and we need you to come in. You're the last person I called but we need you bro, please." It was said with such irate exhaustion that Blaine couldn't even find it within himself to whine.

Sighing (and somewhatly thankful for the excuse to avoid antiquing with Kurt goddamn Hummel and his rippling back muscles and very warm smiles and very ugly jacket that Blaine is slowly, begrudgingly growing fond of) he finally pressed a cool palm to his eyes, frown lines set deep. "Fine. I'll come in. But I hate you and I hate what you're made of."

"Cool. See you in thirty." Click. It was a heart-warming conversation.

And now the day is shit.

"I feel bad. I wish I could work for you," Nick mutters, wrapped up in blankets and shivering like a Chihuahua. Disney's Robin Hood is playing on Blaine's TV, volume pitched to the lowest setting, snow flurrying past the white, ice-framed windows. Their cups of tea are sat on the coffee table, steaming and inviting and tinted the most beautiful shade of mahogany. "I feel like you're working all the time lately. And usually because of me." Frowning, Nick's lips pout, shiny and off-colored.