Knock on the door. Loud and decided. "Last call guys, better come out now or I'm getting the master key! Smythe, wrap it up." the bartender yells.

Sebastian snickers bitterly. Sure, the one time he isn't screwing a random twink against the wall, he gets hushed out for that very reason. Figures. While he still has the nerves to control himself, he pulls himself up, turns around. Carefully avoiding his reflection, he grabs his now-worthless phone and shoves it in his pocket.

It's harder outside of the bathroom. It's the real world, not just the memories. Bars are places to make you forget. It turns out, in the end, that this one is the exception, for Sebastian at least. He can't escape David here. The walk back though the club and to his car, he's barely aware of it, but every snippet he sees, it's, well, hurtful.

That hallway, where Dave stripped him bare, so to speak.

That barstool, where he sat when they met.

The dance floor, where the one accident that started it all happened.

The parking lot, where he abandoned him.

Safely behind the wheel of his Porsche, hands gripping the smooth leather, it should feel like home. Should being the operative word.

He wants to call, his hand actually reaches for the phone before he remembers that it's been rendered useless. Furiously, his foot pushes down on the accelerator. He searches around for a few minutes, while speeding on the deserted boulevard, when it catches his eyes. A relic: a telephone booth. The car stops in a screech a few feet of it.

He runs to the booth, leaves the door wide open, just rips the phone of its handle and pours whatever change was in his pocket in the slot. For a long time now he's known Blaine's number by heart, for whatever reason, he doesn't want to ponder. It's quickly dialed. He rests his forehead against the dirty glass, miles always from minding it. An unexpected cooling breeze swivels around him, an invisible solace, liberating a deep sigh from his clenched mouth.

It rings, and rings, and rings. He doesn't hang up. He'll let it ring forever if needed. All the time in the world baby.


He almost apologizes when he hears the sleepy voice. Then he remembers that he doesn't explain himself, ever. Well, not to Blaine anyway.

"Just tell me he's gonna be fine." he murmurs.

"Sebastian? Is that you?"

"Fuck Blaine, yes it's me! Will you just answer me?" Sebastian screams. Close your eyes, yell, sure, it'll make everything better…

"I-I don't know. Kurt called the hospital; they could only tell him that he was stable. The rest is up to him I guess." He hears Blaine talk back faintly in the receiver.

Stable. Close enough.


Instinctively, he's hanging up without so much as a thank you. He's got what he needed to hear.

Clasping his hands on his nape, he reminds himself, again, that one Sebastian Smythe does not do certain things.

Like crying, like worrying for a guy.

Like caring.

He keeps telling himself that when the tears stream down his face, when his heart stings with relief. A hysterical peal of laughter comes out of his mouth.

Damn Dave, you better make it through. Or I'll have to come down there and make sure you do.

Maybe that's what he does. Maybe it's time to take a risk. Maybe it's time to see Dave outside of Scandals.