“After work?” Lynsael asked as Blaine threw his coat over his shoulders.
“I promise.” Blaine leaned in, and kissed Lynsael's forehead. “Remember, you can watch TV or something other than ransacking my magazines.”
A smile spread on Lynsael's lips and he watched Blaine close the door behind him.
It would be a long day of waiting, he knew, and he would just have to make the best of it. The morning had started with breakfast; a warped veggie wrap that he tried to make following Blaine's procedure from the night before, but he'd ended up cooking the flatbread in the microwave too long, and scorched the broccoli.
After that, he plopped down on the couch and meddled with the television. He changed the channels, stopping on a few somewhat interesting shows, but ended up turning the TV set off and settling back with a magazine instead.
Something about the slick, colorful pages intrigued him. He'd flipped through every article in the issue of Men's Health, before turning his attention on the Sports Illustrated. He'd always wanted to know more about people, what exactly made them tick, and about how they lived. The sports they played or the cologne they wore interested him. So many rich scents drifted from the pages of Maxim as he turned the pages.
By the end of the day, he'd gone through almost every single magazine but that particular one Blaine instructed him not to. Instead of disobeying Blaine's orders, he found himself lying on his stomach across the width of the bed, thinking about Blaine and the night before until he drifted into peaceful sleep.
“Hey,” Blaine's voice broke through the calm.
Lynsael popped his head up from the comfortable mattress. “Hey! Welcome home.”
Blaine unhooked his name tag from his shirt and threw it on the dresser. “What did you do all day?”
“I couldn't find anything to watch, so I read your magazines,” Lynsael answered, sliding off of the bed and strolling close to Blaine. He wrapped his arms around the man's neck, craving his warmth and his touch. “How was your day?”
“Better,” Blaine said, before brushing his lips against Lynsael's. “Did you even turn on the television?”
Lynsael nodded. “But there wasn't anything on.” He turned to retrieve something that he'd happened to find while digging deeper under Blaine's bed. “Is this what you needed last night?” He tossed a small, clear bottle to Blaine.
“Yep,” Blaine answered as he caught the bottle and examined the red lettering on the side. “Lube.”
Lynsael chuckled. He'd known it as soon as he saw the label. Excitement took over and he couldn't wait for Blaine to get home. Now that Blaine was here, and the bottle readily there, he felt a tremble sink down in his legs.
“Think we could—“
Blaine tipped his head. “Let me get that real quick.”
The smile on Lynsael's lips wavered as Blaine rushed out of the bedroom. He cautiously followed Blaine out into the living room.
“What?” Blaine's voice went from excited to dismal in a brief second. “Fuck!” Lynsael could barely hear the chirp of another voice from the speaker. “Don't fuckin tell me that Katy. Yes, we got the spot at the club, but what the hell are we going to do without a guitarist?”
Lynsael froze in place.
“Hell no, we're not giving up on this,” Blaine commanded, then silence as the voice on the other end spoke. “You think anyone could learn the set in three days?” Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “Yeah... and I can try to head downtown and see if I can find someone.”
There was no way this could be happening to Blaine. As much as Lynsael wanted this to be one sick, cruel joke, it seemed as if Blaine's bad luck was back in full force.
An ending beep sounded, and Blaine lowered the phone back to the counter top. “I... I'll be back, Lyn. I gotta deal with this shit.” He slid his hand through his short, brown hair. “God, damn it!” He kicked the side of the counter, the wood panel cracked with the force.
“Blaine...” Lynsael breathed. He'd wanted to comfort him. Somehow.
“I'm sorry. I just... I gotta go find another damn guitarist.” Blaine flicked his eyes at Lynsael. He grabbed his coat from the back of a kitchen chair and disappeared out the door.
Lynsael lowered his head, his long hair drifted into his face. He'd never seen Blaine so upset before. If only Blaine could have stayed, he would curl up against him and relieve his tension. But this was what Blaine had worked for, the chance to play at this so called club with his band. Lynsael couldn't get in the way of that.
Instead, he raced into the living room towards the base of the statue. There had to be something that he could do to help. Something about the statue, about Augustus, that he could determine himself.