Hey, pretty people. This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic and I'm not quite sure how it's going to go yet, but I hope you'll stick around! Thank you for clicking on this. I love you and hope you enjoy this. Yay. Also, reviews make me very happy so, y'know. Feel free.

Chapter One

Blaine Anderson had a daily routine.

His alarm would go off. He would groan, whack the snooze button, roll back over and go back to sleep. Repeat.

Eventually he would rise, shower, select a bowtie, spend much longer than necessary painstakingly gelling his hair to perfection, grab an apple, get in the car and begin the route towards Dalton Academy.

Ten minutes into the drive, he would pass a field with a large chestnut mare leaning over the fence. He would get out of the car, feed the pony his apple core, and move on.

Five minutes later, he would pass the road sign with the crudely drawn cock on the back, which he knew perfectly well was the handiwork of one drunken Wes Montgomery.

Five minutes after that, he would pull into the small car park of his favourite coffee shop. He always parked in that same spot under the tree.

He would head inside, order his medium drip and make small talk with the waitress who never failed to eyefuck him over the counter.

He would take his usual seat in the far corner and busy himself reading a book or finishing some last minute homework as he drank his coffee. Sometimes he would simply watch the people in the shop, wondering what they were going to do with their day, trying to guess their coffee order or just imagining what they were thinking.

The stressed looking brunette impatiently tapping her foot? She was late to a meeting which could change the whole course of her career. If she screwed this up, she would most likely be fired. She really didn't have time to be stopping for coffee. Why would she stop for coffee? Apparently she realised this too, as she left before she reached the front of the queue.

The plump balding man dressed in a suit who ordered a blueberry muffin, then, appearing guilty, cancelled the order? He was on a strict diet assigned by his doctor. If he didn't cut back on the muffins, he was at risk of a heart attack before age 45.

And the young boy at the table in the corner of the room reading the newspaper?

Well. He was as much a part of Blaine's routine as Smooth'n'Shine Styling Gel.

Every morning, he would be there. He arrived before Blaine did and left as Blaine was finishing the last dregs of his coffee. Blaine had begun to instinctively seek out that coiffed chestnut hair each morning over the rim of his cup. Blaine had always been mildly intrigued by him. Sometimes he felt himself almost going over to sit down opposite and ask him why he always cut the front headline out of the paper, no matter what the story. He wanted to know where he bought that jacket he wore so often. He wanted to know what it was on the back page that would occasionally make his eyes crinkle at the corners with quiet laughter.

Once, he had even given into himself and waited until the boy had left, taken his newspaper and turned to the back page so he, too, could laugh at whatever it was the boy had laughed at.

He wondered what his name was. He came up with many possibilities in his mind. His name could be Ethan, or Jack, or Sam, or Jamie, or Gareth, or Seth. It could be something obscure, like Bartholomew. Nothing seemed quite right. Blaine knew he would never guess it.

He wondered what school he went to. Obviously, it wasn't Dalton. Carmel High? Perhaps. Or maybe it was McKinley, or Westvale. Who could know?

On occasion, Blaine would be scrutinising the nameless boy, thinking "maybe it's Josh. Or Harry", when those blue eyes would glance up. For a brief moment, they would meet Blaine's. The boy would smile uncomfortably, and Blaine would look away, embarrassed to be caught staring. When he dared to look up a moment later, he would have gone back to his paper.

After leaving The Lima Bean, Blaine would drive the remaining couple of kilometres to Dalton Academy and begin the school day.

And although he had questions about the boy with the chestnut hair, they were quickly forgotten as he was swept up in a chaotic mass of navy and red blazers, homework and 6 part harmony. Life at Dalton Academy was the most organised mess Blaine had ever, or, he suspected, would ever encounter. He loved every minute of it.

Usually when school and Warbler practise had ended, he would hit The Lima Bean again on the way home. Though he always briefly scanned the room automatically upon entry, the other boy was never there at this time of day.

Blaine would order his medium drip and a latte to go and take them in the car to McKinley High to wait for Quinn to come out of Glee club. He would keep her cup warm by blasting it with hot air from a small heater he kept in the back. He would sip his drink and wait.

After around ten minutes, Quinn would come tripping prettily across the car park towards him. She would get in the car and accept her coffee gratefully. She would chat away to Blaine all about her day as he drove back into Westerville, to the street where they both lived.

When they arrived, Blaine might make some light hearted grumble about the amount he was paying for gas to drive in and out of Lima every day. Quinn might smirk, and tell him that he knew she was worth it. Oh, really? Blaine would say. You know it's true, babe, she would reply. And Blaine might shut her up with a kiss or two. Quinn might invite him inside. He might accept, or he might not. If he did, they would spend an hour or so making out in her bedroom. If he didn't, she would pout playfully and demand to know what could be more important than her. More often than not, it was the obscene amount of work that Dalton Academy piled upon its students each day. Blaine would apologise profusely, and promise to take her out on Saturday night. No, it wouldn't be Breadstix this time. Promise.

Whether he went round Quinn's or not, he would always at some point end up back in his bedroom. He would work, practise guitar or piano, and research new songs for The Warblers to cover. At precisely 10:30pm, he would call Quinn. And, eventually, he would go to sleep.

Yes, Blaine Anderson was most definitely a man of routine. He rarely wavered from it. He rarely felt the desire to waver from it. Routine was comforting. Routine was safe. And if there was one thing Blaine desired, it was safety.

And so, every evening, he would fall into his soft sheets with thoughts of two stepping and blonde bob haircuts, safe in the knowledge that the next day would unfold exactly as he expected to. Which was exactly the same as today. And the day before it. And the day before that.

Blaine would fall asleep content.