𝑉𝐼𝐵𝑅𝛢𝑁𝑇 - B.D.

Cheer Up Buttercup

//Lexi//
"Hey, hey Lexi honey don't cry, it's okay." Blaine leans over the bar to comfort me, his fingers gliding up and down my arms softly and I'd be lying if I said it isn't calming me down but he can't be enjoying it. My skin is wet, cold, I wouldn't want to touch me right now. I'm a wreck. Not to sound crude but I must look like shit. Loose strands of my hair must be clinging tight to the sides of my face, other strands dangling down the nape of my neck, mascara must be dragging down my cheeks, closely followed by the broken wings of my earlier perfected eyeliner. Though if he is repulsed by what he sees in front of him he isn't letting on. His brows are furrowed to a crease with concern, his eyes wide with worry, I want to jump across the bar and sob into his arms but I know better than to embarrass myself more than I already have.

"It's okay?" I mutter It came out weak, like a stray puppy's helpless yelping -- God I sound like shit too. "It's not, it's not okay Blaine, it's not." I want to pull myself together, I do but I can't seem too. With each sob, my chest tightens and my body shudders, heaving from the pressure of me trying to hold it all in. I need to be held. He sighs and retracts his arms, which hunt for something under the bar. He grabs his phone, he's texting someone I think, has he just given up on me like that?

"Lexi he's a dick, " he lays the phone down on the bar, "he was drunk and probably won't even remember what he did in the morning. He isn't worth crying over. How about you let me see a pretty smile on that pretty face huh?"

I look at him, in the eyes. He has the kind of eyes authors compare to clear, serene oceans in literature or empty summer skies, but I don't see them like that, they aren't clear or calm, and they certainly aren't empty. There are clouds in his sky, you can see it, as clear as day -- or not, when you look into them. They aren't serene or tranquil, wouldn't that be boring? No there are streaks of the sun in his sky, fighting the clouds in a muddled yet gorgeous swirl of emotion. Those pretty golden Japanese fish you see on poetry in the ancient museums you're forced to visit as a child are winding through seaweed and coral in his ocean. He isn't plain and simple, he's something else entirely, he's a work of art. Of course, it's insane to say I can tell that from just his eyes, but what is it they say? 'The eyes are the gateway to the soul'? I can believe that now. None of this really matters though, what matters is that he's still here. He's still stood in front of me telling me everything will be okay, even if he has no real idea what everything even is, because he knows its exactly what I want to hear. He knows. He barely knows me but he knows. That's what matters, the man in front of me right now, he knows.

Before I realise what's happening someone else is behind the bar, someone I don't recognise and Blaine is beside me, his hands resting on my shoulders. Is that who he was texting? He went to the effort of getting someone else to manage the bar so he could talk to me? They got here quick, he clearly didn't give them a choice. He did this for me. He cares. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe he's the good guy in all of this.

"Let's go back into the office alright? I'm sure you're not a fan of how much tighter your dress must be now its soaked up all that water, it already looked like it was restricting your breathing. Maybe I can help you out of it." Nope, still a dick. My face betrays me and I smile, he's just trying to cheer me up, I'm too critical. He's been nothing but nice to me, he wouldn't try anything. He grins back at me, maybe he thinks he's won something by painting a smile on my face, maybe my happiness really is all he is trying to gain. Maybe he's just playing me, that's what men do. They never really care. Still, if this is a game I'm betting on him to win.

I try to stand but he pushes me back into my stool, a little more roughly than needed, he doesn't seem to acknowledge it. What is he doing?

"I thought you said we were going to your office?"

"You're not going anywhere in those heels darling." He smirks, fuck that smirk. He's right, though, I should know better than to try to walk, I can't remember how much I've drunk, which usually means I've drunk a lot. I feel like 'a lot' should be an official unit of measurement, remembering numbers isn't easy. Nothing ever is.

I make a point to roll my eyes as he begins to help slide off my heels. I'm not a child, a child wouldn't be able to speak after that much wine. I can speak, sort of.
With one hand holding the straps of my heels, dangling them carelessly and the other wrapped firmly around my waist, Blaine walks me to his office, it's not the first time, though I don't remember the last. He sits me on his couch and drops the heels to the floor beside me, I'd tell him he should show more respect for those heels, that they were expensive but I don't want to risk slurring my words. He'd mock me for that, he'd mock me for anything he could think off, he's not afraid of how I might react, I think I might actually like that about him. Every thought crosses his tongue as soon as it does his mind, if not before. There's a chance I hear all his words before he does himself, it'd explain why he finds his own jokes so funny.

"Don't move."

Does he really think I'd get far if I tried? He walks out, subconsciously pushing his rolled up sleeves further up his arms before playing idly with the fabric. He always needs to be moving his hands, I realise that now, he always has to be touching something, tapping, skimming, smoothing. He needs something to occupy his impatient grasp, I'm sure I could do a good job of that. When he walks back in he holds out a towel to me, it's plush, white, I've never seen a towel that looked cleaner. What use does he have for full body length towels in a bar? Do they have staff shower? I'd kill for a shower.

"Are you sober enough to dry yourself off or do I have to do that for you too?" He jokes -- it must be liberating, not thinking before you speak, I don't have that luxury.

"I'm fine," I say, careful not to stumble on my words, "You didn't have to do this."

He scoffs, "right, I was just going to leave you sat at the end of the bar alone and ignore you for the rest of the night." He sits down beside me, "you sure you don't need help with that?" he gestures to the towel I make a feeble attempt to dry myself with, to let him towel dry me would be the worst humiliation I could think of.

"No, thank you, I'm sure I can handle a towel."

"If you say so." He smiles softly, watching me, this is embarrassing enough, his eyes burning into my skin. I still haven't seen myself, I don't need a mirror to tell I look like hell, he really doesn't care.

"So, what does a guy have to do to cheer a beautiful girl like you up?"

Calling me beautiful again might work.