Not My Type
"Do you have feelings for me?"
Blaine blurted it out before he thought about the consequences. Or the setting. Or their audience. Really, the locker-room was not the best place to ask such a loaded question. In the back of his mind, Blaine knew he'd put his foot in it. The way Sam pulled back and glanced at the guys working out behind them only reinforced the fact that he'd made a blunder.
But how could he help it? Sam was . . . well, Sam. And Blaine was Blaine. And Blaine—well, Blaine was sick of being alone. He'd tried to keep his mind on Kurt, but all of his nefarious plotting with his best friend—his best friend besides Tina, that is—had confused him. It was so much easier to care about someone who was there than someone who was far away.
He saw Sam every day—and as long as he saw him every day, he hadn't be able to keep himself from wondering "what if." After weeks and weeks of "what ifs," he'd reached the point where he couldn't wonder anymore. He had to know. If Kurt wouldn't love him . . . maybe Sam would.
And then Mr. Schue had given that assignment. Guilty Pleasures. And what could be more guilty a pleasure than crushing on your straight best friend. Except for Tina, of course. Tina was cute in her way. But not in the way that Sam was.
Sam even looked cute when he was embarrassed. When he blushed, catching the eye of one of the weight-lifters in the back of the room, even his shoulders turned pink. Blaine could imagine how flushed Sam would get in other situations.
"Blaine—" Sam whispered.
"Do you have feelings for me, Sam?"
"This isn't really the place—"
"We can't ignore this any longer, Sam. You know there's something going on here."
"Yeah. I know. But this isn't the place to talk about it." Sam raised an eyebrow—which made it disappear into his sloppy, floppy hair.
"Where can we go?"
"No one will be there. Except Ryder, maybe. S'fine. We'll find a corner of our own."
Blaine nodded, watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam finished toweling off and dressing, and hefted his bag onto his shoulder.
"Yeah," Sam said, nodding to some of the other jocks, "Let's get outta here."
Blaine tried to make light conversation on the way to the library. Taylor Swift. Spice Girls. Macaroni Kurts. Oh, shit. He probably shouldn't have mentioned that one. Not when he was asking Sam to be honest about their feelings for each other.
Well, if Sam wanted to get mad about that—it was kind of Sam's fault for showing him his artwork in the first place. Maybe the Kurtaroni had even been a test of some kind . . . maybe Sam had been trying to figure out whether Blaine was over his ex, ready to move on.
Not that he was. He and Kurt were endgame, Blaine knew that. But since Kurt wasn't ready to admit it yet, Blaine had to find companionship elsewhere. And here was Sam: Sam the superhero; Sam, who hid behind a dumb facade while helping Blaine bring down the Warblers and Sue Sylvester. Sam, who'd chosen to date Brittany, the most transparent beard in the world.
Blaine could see through all that. And that's why he'd decided to make the first move. It was obvious they had chemistry on and off stage. Sam felt it, too. Look at him: he even held the door to the library open for Blaine.
"Sit," Sam said, having picked a scratched-up table in a distant corner of the stacks. He slung his backpack off his shoulder and settled into a plastic seat. "We need to talk."
"Yeah, I know, that's why—"
"Scratch that, Blaine. I need to talk."
"Ok, but I asked a question—"
"Hey, my turn, bro." Suddenly, Sam didn't seem quite so amiable. He even raised his voice, leading one of the other students to look their way. Sam's eye flicked in her direction. When he spoke next, his voice was more modulated.
"Blaine, do you have feelings for me?"
Blaine's eyes snapped up. "What do you think?"
"Not an answer. That's not cool. You asked me the same thing in a locker-room full of dudes."
Blaine sighed. "Yes. Yes. Of course I have feelings for you. I—I—I've been crushing on you for the last few months."
Sam ran his hand through his hair.
"Yeah, I know."
"'S kinda obvious, Blaine. You're not exactly . . . um . . ." Sam seemed to struggle for the word.
"Yeah, exactly. You're not subtle. Like, at all. I'm glad you didn't serenade me in the locker room."
Blaine wanted to sink into the floor. Public serenading was certainly one of his main tools for seduction. He had thought—fleetingly—of singing to Sam, but then he'd remembered the debacle with Jeremiah. Then, his mind grasped what Sam had just said—really grasped it.
"You knew?" he repeated.
Sam ignored his comment and picked at one of his fingernails. "What about Kurt?"
"What about him? I mean, this is about you and me. Do you have feelings for me?"
For a few minutes, Sam kept his eyes on his hands, the table, and the scratch-graffiti that defaced the library furniture with the detritus of past love-affairs. When he looked up, there was something different in his eyes—something open and unguarded. Something . . . beguilingly innocent. It reminded Blaine of how Kurt looked at him during their first months at Dalton.
Blaine could feel his heart beating faster and faster.
Finally, Sam spoke:
Blaine made a strangled noise.
"No, I don't have feelings for you. I don't want to hurt you, man. You're . . . just . . . not my type."
"And Brittany is?"
"And Brittany is. And Mercedes was. And Quinn was."
Blaine nodded, his throat tight.
"Ok," he managed. "Are . . . we still friends?"
"If you want to be, sure. We still have to take down Sue, right?"
Sam bent over to pick up his backpack. Blaine tried not to notice how the back of his shirt rode up. He couldn't think of his friend that way—not anymore. But . . . but . . . he could have sworn Sam gave off that vibe.
"Was I totally off base? Do you just like girls? I could have sworn you were—um—interested in men, too."
Sam leaned over the table and lowered his voice even more.
"You're not wrong. You're just not my type."
That sent Blaine's mind reeling. "If I'm not, then who is?"
"Man, are you going to make me say it out loud?"
"Just . . . tell me."
Sam sighed and dropped his backpack again.
"Kurt's my type. I even thought he liked me when I first came to McKinley. He wanted to do a duet with me and everything."
"He . . . asked you to sing a duet?"
Sam nodded. "First day in Glee club—first assignment. Kurt asked me to be his partner. I thought it was great of him." He leaned back in his creaky plastic chair. "Of course, then he told me we couldn't sing together, so I figured he wasn't interested. Wasn't long after that that me and Quinn got together."
Blaine blinked. "Kurt's your type?"
"Is there something wrong with that? Isn't he yours? Or is this some sort of screwed-up-jealousy thing?" A beat passed. "If Kurt wasn't my type, why would I spend hours making a macaroni portrait of him?"
Blaine blinked again. "But—I'm not your type?"
Sam sighed and stood up.
"Do you want me to make a macaroni sign?" He pulled his backpack over his shoulders. "Look, let's put this behind us—pretend nothing happened—and take Sue Sylvester down."
Blaine nodded, staring off into the distance. "Sure," he muttered.
"And Blaine? Don't even think of calling Brittany my beard. I care about her. I mean, you're my best guy friend and all, but Brittany gets me. And I guess . . . you don't. Not right now, anyway."
Blaine nodded again.
"Are we cool?" Sam threw the comment over his shoulder as he headed for the library door.
Again, Blaine nodded, but he hadn't listened to the question. Instead, he was wondering how it could possibly be that Sam's "types" stretched all the way from Quinn to Mercedes to Brittany to Kurt.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. So much for that guilty pleasure. So much for that confession. I wonder, Blaine sighed, if there's a song for this . . .
DISCLAIMER: Glee, its universe, and its characters do not belong to me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I just had to write and post this before it gets Jossed in tonight's episode. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.
OH, AND: This is my first foray into the Glee fandom. Up until now, I've only written for Harry Potter.