Chapter Text
The days have become monotonous. After the steroid incident (which he did not take, that needs to be made clear), everything reached a breaking point that should have left him a nervous wreck. But maybe he crossed the bridge into something closer to psychosis because… he feels nothing.
He may not have taken the steroids, but he didn’t stop those who did either. And it’s not like everyone needed them. The Warblers didn’t need them. They were a strong, talented group. Fuck. Just a few days ago, remembering it would’ve made him punch something on his way down the hall. Today? Today he just walks through the corridors, ignoring the critical looks of everyone who watches him pass. He doesn’t even bother intimidating them with a glare. Honestly, he doesn’t care.
He’s so tired of trying. Or, in his case, of not trying hard enough. He remembers telling Blaine that he’d turned over a new leaf, that he’d changed, or at least that he was trying to. And yes, he wasn’t the one leading the choral terrorism anymore, but he also didn’t do anything to stop it. So if he had any credibility or support left among the Warblers, it went straight down the drain. Along with Hunter, which, honestly, is the only good thing to come out of all this.
Either way, it’s for the best. He’ll go to class, win the lacrosse championship next March, keep his perfect GPA for any Ivy League school in the country, and if that doesn’t work out, he’ll go back to Paris. But one thing is certain: there’s only half a year left before he can leave Ohio and all this drama behind. He doesn’t plan on ever coming back. It’s not like there’s anything keeping him here.
He heads toward the cafeteria. He has a free period he plans to use to study a bit and read.
He’s always liked reading. His grandparents’ house in Paris feels like a solid historical library. He grew up surrounded by pages and old things. So no, Sebastian isn’t just blackmail, aggression, alcohol, and some kind of slut.
When he walks in, he heads straight for the dessert section without even scanning the room. The Warblers are probably there, claiming the table in the back. Or at least the ones left after the group’s dissolution. Some are still suspended, but Jeff, Trent, and Meatbox are back after Thanksgiving break. Jeff… well, apparently Sebastian is guilty of that. As if he’d forced him to inject himself at gunpoint.
Sebastian got detention for a month, and that didn’t make anyone happy either. At least the comments about his dad have stopped in the hallways. Though now that he thinks about it, his father probably did have something to do with the lack of real punishment, even if this time Sebastian truly didn’t participate actively.
Deep down, he wishes he had been punished, suspended, even expelled. Because the thorn of how he got away with it last year digs deeper into his chest every day.
He sighs. He needs to stop thinking about things that already happened and can’t be changed or fixed.
He grabs a chocolate cupcake and takes a bite. Not the healthiest choice in the morning, even if Trish, the cook, insists they’re vegan and gluten-free. Sebastian wonders if she even knows what those words mean when he takes a second cupcake and starts walking toward the exit.
He’s distracted for a minute, his system coated in chocolate and frosting that already matches the decorations that have started popping up all over the school.
Christmas has always felt depressing in some way. Even with the hundreds of gifts he’s received his whole life. He’s always bouncing from continent to continent because “this year you’re spending time with your father,” or “you’re your mother’s this Christmas.” This year, he decided not to belong to anyone.
Or at least, that’s what he’s trying to do.
And yes, as he walks and eats his second cupcake, he knows he sounds like a brat. Because he is. His mother’s charity organization seems to scream it into his ear. Because he knows his problems aren’t exactly problems. Or at least not ones without solutions. He has parents. He loves them, and they love him, and they support him even when he deserves it the least. He sighs. Maybe he needs a lobotomy to stop overthinking sentimental bullshit.
He opens his mouth to eat the creamy, delicious top of the cupcake, but just as he’s about to bite, a hit knocks into him and nearly knocks the air out of his lungs. Everything happens in one catastrophic second. The cupcake is smeared all over his lips, chin, and part of his nose.
He feels his blood boil. He’s reached his limit on how much shit he can take in one day. He prepares to verbally tear into the idiot, but swallows his words when Blaine appears in front of him, frowning and trying to regain his balance.
And Sebastian has to step back too, because what destabilizes him more than the hit isn’t the impact. It’s the fact that Blaine is wearing the Dalton uniform.
He can’t help it when his heart starts racing and his skin prickles at the back of his neck. He might even say his mind goes foggy, if that fog didn’t stop him from thinking clearly.
He hurriedly wipes at the creamy mess on his face with his hand, only making it worse because he forgets the half-eaten cupcake is still in that same hand. So now he’s smearing it all over his face too.
He curses internally and, for one second, hopes like a naïve subconscious idiot that this is one of those movies his dad watches with his new wife. That someone will magically help him clean up while laughing and apologizing, and just like that, the best love story will begin. That wouldn’t be out of character for Blaine.
But apparently not this Blaine. Because he just stands there, still frowning, eyes shooting imaginary daggers at him.
Sebastian swallows, not knowing what to do, say, or even think. He even holds his breath, as if the slightest movement or sound might make Blaine evaporate. Or punch him.
Because he’s there, looking at him in that way Sebastian knows he deserves, even if not for one single reason (because there are many). But yes, Blaine is angry. And he doesn’t seem to be taking it well that Sebastian is the one welcoming him back.
Because he’s back at Dalton. Fuck. He’s back at Dalton.
“Blaine.” He exhales in disbelief. It’s all he can manage right now.
Blaine blinks and adjusts his bag on his shoulder, looking everywhere but at him.
Footsteps echo behind them, and Sebastian knows his chance to speak is over before it even started.
“Blaine!” Trent shouts loudly.
Sebastian wants to roll his eyes and cut him off with a comment, but then he remembers he’s turned over a new leaf. Or something like that.
“What the hell?” Nick joins in, pulling Blaine into an overly tight, suffocating hug.
“Shit! Is this really happening?” Jeff bounces around them, hugging everyone. Oh. So he’s back too.
Then Nick’s gaze lands on him, left awkwardly behind with no idea what to do.
Nick’s frown twists, and he’s giving him that look he’s perfected since they were caught two weeks ago. Sebastian snorts and rolls his eyes. Why is he everyone’s target? It’s true he didn’t stop Hunter’s terrorism, but neither did they. Nick and Jeff took the steroids. And as far as he knows, and as everyone seems to conveniently ignore, Trent was the one who betrayed them.
He’s so lost in his thoughts, locked in a silent stare-down with Nick, that he doesn’t realize everyone is watching him. Even Blaine. And he feels so judged under their gazes that he doesn’t even have to ask. They’re all screaming at him with their eyes.
He tries to open his mouth. Even takes a step, trying to get closer to Blaine, hoping for something better than what he’s getting. Blaine doesn’t step back, but he does shift his position so that if Sebastian planned to grab his arm, he won’t be able to. And Sebastian would lie if anyone ever asked how his stomach drops to his feet and probably straight through the floor.
For a second, anger floods his mind. Is he supposed to be the villain? Who, like them, did nothing to stop it? Who didn’t take the steroids? Who didn’t rat them out to help another choir get back into competition even though, with or without steroids, they would’ve lost because they were garbage? Yeah. Blaine doesn’t exactly have much right to judge him here either.
“Stay away from him,” he hears Trent mutter as he pulls Blaine by the arm.
The others agree, taking tentative steps and forming what looks like a protective circle around Blaine.
Blaine, who doesn’t look particularly comfortable with them around him either. Which makes sense. They betrayed him last year too. And yes, that time Sebastian was to blame, but he didn’t force anyone to do anything. Or not do something. Like staying to help Blaine after the slushie. So yes, it’s bullshit that they dump all the blame on him to dodge their own guilt and responsibility.
Sebastian snorts and rolls his eyes. He turns on his heel and strides away down the hall, anywhere but there.
He walks and walks until a door finally leads him into daylight. He forgets about the cupcake now crushed between his fingers. He sighs and tosses it into the first trash can he finds.
He reaches his car and buckles his seatbelt. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he curses softly at the cream beginning to dry on his smeared face.
He roughly uses the lacrosse hoodie sitting beside him, rubbing too hard until his skin is free of whipped cream but also red, like his bloodshot eyes.
And he hates it. He hates how sensitive he’s become over the past year. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until his palms sting. He lets out all the air in his lungs and blinks more than ten times until the awful burning in his eyes fades.
He starts the car and drives until he’s on the road.
His subconscious takes over, guiding him toward the city library. Though “city” is generous for Westerville. Cities are Paris or New York, and he can’t wait to be in one of them. Far away from judging looks and blame, and from feelings for people who are no longer what they once were. He supposes that part is his fault.
He curses when he hears the car door slam. Whatever. He rolls his eyes again and adjusts his bag. He has more important things to do. Like studying to keep a perfect GPA that’ll take him to Harvard or Columbia. He’d prefer Columbia, if he’s honest. He hopes his father doesn’t make things difficult when the acceptance letters start arriving.
He shivers slightly as he heads toward the library doors, reminding himself of what his mother has told him countless times. “An angry mind rarely pays attention to what truly matters.” And well, he was so consumed by his anger that he forgot to grab a coat. So he has to make do with the red sweater under his blazer. At least the striped scarf hasn’t left his neck all week.
He opens the door, and the bell rings above him as he steps inside.
The place is large, considering the part of the country it’s in. Two floors, mostly covered in decent-sized bookshelves. Fantasy and young adult take up at least half of the first floor, biographies and self-help share half a shelf. American and British history, because apparently speaking the same language is reason enough. He rolls his eyes as he passes that one. Toward the back, health and medicine take up just under half the space, and right next to them, something about flora and fauna.
He keeps walking toward the back, where the classics sit alongside foreign languages. But he stops short before reaching them, because in the aisle labeled Egyptian and Pre-Hispanic History, there’s a spine he would recognize anywhere.
He pulls it from the shelf, and sure enough, a copy of like Water for chocolate by Laura Esquivel is in his hands. He grits his teeth and takes a heavy breath in.
Exhales, deciding he can just put it back where it belongs. But then the idea that his mother’s favorite book has been shoved into Pre-Hispanic American history feels alarmingly offensive. Did they put it here just because it’s in Spanish?
His chest rises and falls in a worrying rhythm as his feet seem to move on their own, carrying him straight to the front desk.
“Excuse me,” he says to the guy behind the counter. Some college-aged kid with golden curls tucked under a beanie. The name tag on his chest reads Jeremiah, and on any other day Sebastian might’ve made a move, because the guy is hot.
But not today. Today he’s one misplaced book away from throwing it at someone’s head. And, frankly, the curls don’t help. Curls are his mortal enemy.
He’s practically growling as he shakes the book in front of Jeremiah’s face.
“This was in the wrong section.”
Jeremiah looks at him, bored. “Yeah. People take books and don’t put them back where they belong.”
“Isn’t it literally your job to organize them or something?”
Jeremiah stares at him blankly. “It’s just a book. I’ll put it back later.”
“Well, someone decided it belonged in Pre-Hispanic American history just because it’s in Spanish.”
Jeremiah peers at him over his glasses, unimpressed.
“It’s offensive,” Sebastian adds, when he gets no response.
“Just leave it there. I’ll deal with it later. I’m doing inventory.” The guy says it after a long pause, during which he looks Sebastian up and down. Not sexually. Just invasively.
Sebastian scoffs and takes the book back. He turns and storms toward the correct section.
“Hispanic Classics.”
He slides the book into its proper alphabetical place. And yes, he spends another fifteen minutes organizing the rest of the shelf, because no one here is judging him.
And then…wait. What’s that?
He frowns and crouches down low enough that his knees immediately protest. He pulls a book with a violently bright red spine from the shelf.
It’s strange. He turns it over. The back is blank. Just red. Same with the front, except for glittery black letters painted in the center.
Do you dare?
“Dare to what?” he mutters.
He growls under his breath and marches back to the front desk.
“So. I organized the entire Hispanic classics section. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Congratulations,” Jeremiah says, not looking up, scribbling something on a clipboard.
“And this was there,” Sebastian adds, holding the red notebook up high.
Nothing.
“Hello? It’s not even a book.”
He huffs, nearly stomping like a child when he still doesn’t get a reaction.
He walks away muttering curses in French.
The notebook feels heavier than it should as he tries to find a place where it might fit, even though it clearly doesn’t. He spends the next fifteen minutes wandering aisles until his last option is heading upstairs, to the sections most people are too cowardly to browse.
He forces himself up the stairs, fighting against half-frozen limbs with every step. At the top, a sign reads Sexuality and Voyeurism above the back shelf. Well. At least he’s found interesting things here before.
He figures he can dump the notebook in the no-place-for-this basket by the window. Old magazines and paperbacks, the kind an old man would read on the toilet.
He does exactly that. Then drops into the chair next to the table, tossing his bag onto it, watching the snow fall outside the window.
It’s not a bad view. A little dense. The snowfall’s gotten heavier since he drove here, but still nice. He almost understands the meaning everyone assigns to snow in those Lifetime Christmas movies.
He knows he should pull out his own notebook and study. That’s the actual reason he’s here. Well. That, and getting as far away as possible from his mistakes, now conveniently shaped like a person.
Apparently, he’s not only haunted by the memory of Blaine anymore, but by Blaine himself. In the flesh. With a severe look that doesn’t match the Blaine he used to know.
And it sucks. Not because Blaine doesn’t have the right to be angry. Or even hate him. But because Sebastian still cares enough for Blaine’s indifference to hit him straight in the gut and make him feel nauseous.
His leg bounces nonstop. He bites his nails, already hearing his mother’s voice scolding him. It’s like the red notebook has a countdown ticking in his ears.
He side-eyes it.
No.
It’s just a stupid notebook. What does he expect to find? The secrets of Area 51?
He rolls his eyes and pulls out his Spanish notebook instead. If he’s in a library, he might as well use something better than a dictionary. There are hundreds of books here that would actually help.
He manages ten whole minutes of concentration before snapping his notebook shut and reaching for the red one.
He opens it, annoyed that it’s stolen his attention.
The first page is blank. Except for a drawing of a bee. With a smiling face.
He scoffs but flips the page.
To turn the page, we have to play a game first!
The handwriting is too neat to belong to a guy. He assumes. Then remembers his own handwriting is pretty decent too. He doesn’t dwell on the writer’s gender. He doesn’t really care.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
77/6/3
No cheating!
He freezes.
This suddenly feels like he’s being watched. He looks around. No one. Of course.
He rereads the page. It’s obvious what he’s supposed to do.
Against his better judgment, he heads downstairs to the bestseller section. He grabs a copy and stares at it. He’s read Harry Potter more times than he’ll admit, so he knows it’s not a date.
It clicks quickly.
Page. Paragraph. Word.
Page 77. Paragraph 6. Word 3.
Are you willing to…
“To what?” he mutters aloud.
He swallows and flips the page.
Please write your first discovered clue on this line:
______________________
Stunned, Sebastian returns to the second floor. He sits back down and pulls out a pen. He doesn’t know why, but he does exactly what the notebook asks.
Great! Now the second word. Or part, I guess ;D
2 – Gay sex and its pleasures
6/9/6
Subtle, he thinks.
Still, he walks over. At least the notebook, or the person behind it, isn’t homophobic. Even if it’s for laughs, a homophobe wouldn’t touch this section.
He opens the book.
To play just for the thrill…
Flip.
Write your answer here:
____________________
He does.
Flip.
His breath catches when he reads the next title.
Like water for chocolate
Laura Esquivel
88/3/2
Yeah. That one’s courtesy of my mom ;)
He laughs.
What are the odds?
Definitely a girl. No guy has taste this good. Except him, obviously.
He practically runs downstairs, ignoring numb limbs as he grabs the book that caused an ethical and emotional breakdown half an hour ago.
Page 88. Paragraph 3. Word 2.
Irresistible desire?
He snorts. Very telenovela.
Flip.
You did it!
Thanks for playing with me!
I guess I owe you something now, if your answer was yes.
He frowns but keeps reading.
Hi! I’m B̶— I’m Bee! 🐝
My big brother told me to do this, but not to share my name with strangers. I guess we can talk and be friends and then I’ll tell you my name! That way we’ll both be safe.
You don’t have to tell me your name either until you’re ready. It’s okay. Really.
So my brother sent me here because I was being too annoying. I’m 14, so I hope you’re another teenager. If not, sir, you should probably put the notebook back where you found it. Sorry for the trouble!
If you’re still reading, you’re a teenager, so it’s okay!
Sebastian exhales.
He’s not fourteen, but he doesn’t feel like a predator either. A little disappointed. He’d assumed the writer was his age. But who his age would do something like this?
He keeps reading.
My brother told me to find a friend here while he studies for his new role. Okay forget that, that’s too much information. And if you’re a serial killer, that wouldn’t be very convenient for me :D
He rolls his eyes.
Who still uses smiley faces?
So I saw this in a movie and thought I could try it. I don’t have many friends. At least not ones I can trust. And I guess if you judge me, at least I won’t see you :D
You can make your own clues like mine! We can talk, and I’ll come here every week to read what you write. And maybe someday, if you feel safe and want to, we can meet! For now, this is okay.
I’ll wait for your answer, dear friend.
Love, Bee 🐝
Sebastian laughs under his breath and shakes his head.
It’s stupid.
He’s about to close the notebook when he notices ink bleeding through the page.
There’s more.
He flips it.
Entire pages filled with writing.
Dear friend, I understand if you’re hesitant. That’s okay. I guess you don’t like games either.
That’s okay too.
There’s a date scribbled in the corner.
12/11/2008
He does the math.
Same age.
More pages.
My brother called yesterday and said someone might’ve torn pages out. That’s okay. I just wanted to tell you I know. You can keep writing if you want.
Love, Bee!
04/01/2009
His stomach twists.
Dear friend, it’s getting worse and I don’t know if I should tell my parents. I’d like to know a little about your life. Maybe I could forget mine for a minute.
10/01/2009
Dear friend, I made a friend today! I think things are getting better. We ate lunch together and no one’s bothered me in days. What’s school like for you? I bet you’re really popular. Do you play a sport? Maybe sing? The kids here say singing is for girls, but I don’t think so.
Anyway, I hope you’re having an amazing week like I am!
P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day! It’s my favorite holiday. What’s yours?
love- Bee💕
14/02/2009
Dear friend, I’m going to the dance with my new friend! I don’t want to get my hopes up. We’re just going as friends. But I can’t help it. It’ll be so much fun! Do they do Sadie Hawkins dances at your school too?
Love, Bee
14/09/2009
That’s where it stops.
He flips through the pages again, but there’s nothing else. Just blank space. He assumes Bee got tired of waiting for a response that was obviously never coming. He feels bad for them. It’s hard not having friends at that age. And well, that hits a little too close to home because all it takes is looking at him.
It’s not like he cares that much. His life isn’t over. There will be other people. Even if they’re not him.
His former best friend.
At least he knows what to do now. Or what not to do. Like not trying to blind him, for example.
He closes the notebook and sighs, absently playing with it between his fingers, spinning it like a pendulum between his index finger and thumb.
And suddenly, it’s no longer in his hands.
It’s flying over the railing, straight down to the first floor.
Sebastian gasps in shock.
Idiot.
Well. He has to leave anyway.
He grabs his bag and rushes down the stairs, scanning the place until he spots the notebook lying open, face-down on the floor. He picks it up, ready to close it and put it back where he originally found it.
Until he sees new words covering the page.
Messy handwriting. Scribbles. Words
crossed out.
I know no one has been reading me all this time. But my therapist said it would be okay if I wrote what I feel. It’s been a while since I came here. I was too scared.
You see, dear friend who doesn’t exist, something happened at my school. And I can’t say it yet. Not in words. Not spoken or written. So I know this might be confusing.
My friend is gone. And I think I’ll never see him again. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being scared.
14/11/2009
Sebastian turns the page, heart racing. Not more -love Bee
Dear friend who doesn’t exist, my parents are changing my school. I’m scared. But I also know I might stop being scared if everything goes well.
- Bee
01/12/2009
Ok they’re back.
Dear friend who never existed,
I have friends! I’m barely scared anymore.
Thank you for everything.
- Bee
01/03/2010
He frowns as he flips through the rest. Crossed-out words. Scratches everywhere. Only those three dates are legible.
He assumes Bee regretted sharing their life. That’s fine.
But it does something to Sebastian.
And for a second, he considers that turning over a new leaf might include something like helping someone.
He scoffs. It’s a stupid idea. Two years have passed since this person wrote any of this. So why bother?
And yet, he does.
Because if writing helps Bee, maybe it helps him too.
He’s not buying a diary. Not because of some misogynistic bullshit about journals being for girls. His mother would be the first person to throw it at his head if that were the case.
No. It’s pride.
Considering he doesn’t do feelings. Or that kind of shit.
He climbs the stairs back to the table by the window and pulls out his pen again.
And he starts writing.
On the page right after the last date Bee ever wrote.
Half an hour later, he’s rushing downstairs. He puts the notebook back where he found it, on the lowest shelf of the Hispanic Classics section, and leaves the library, waving a distracted goodbye to a stunned Jeremiah who had no idea Sebastian was still there.
When he gets back to Dalton, he earns detention.
Because he’s not supposed to leave campus during school hours.
He explains himself to his father by telling the truth.
Half of it.
“I was at the library. You know the Spanish teacher is a joke. I needed books written by native speakers,” he explains to a less-than-pleased Hugh Smythe.
He hears his father sigh. “Fine. But please check your watch next time. You’ve earned another punishment and you haven’t even finished the last one.”
“I will. I’m sorry.” He means it.
“All right. I’ll see you at home tomorrow.”
Sebastian nods, even though his father can’t see him. They hang up, and he resumes his walk toward the dorms.
He’s almost at his hallway when he finally allows himself to slow down.
His room is the last one at the end of the hall, and he could really use the privacy a single dorm provides. Since he arrived, he’s never had to share a room with anyone. Sebastian was the new kid, and he assumes whoever had been meant to be his roommate was now at another school.
When Hunter arrived, he used the authority that came with his military school background to demand a single room for himself. Sebastian doesn’t know what arrangements administration made, but he’s grateful.
By the time he reaches the end of the hall, the lightness he felt at the library (forgetting his own drama for a while) has completely vanished.
Now he’s covered head to toe in anxiety, the kind that feels like it’s choking him.
He stops in front of his door, which usually only bears his name.
But now, underneath Smythe, another name has been added.
Of course.
All the air leaves his body at once, like he’s been punched.
He braces himself. But how prepared can you really be in three seconds?
He turns the knob and pushes the door open.
His heart races as he takes his first step into the dorm room of
“Smythe & Anderson.”