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“You have the cutest butt,” Don E. says, and Blaine starts to choke on the bit of brain he’s currently chewing.
“I have what now?” Suddenly the brain is highly unpalatable and Blaine spits it back out onto his plate.
“The cutest butt,” Don E. repeats, making it abundantly clear that he meant what he said the first time. Which makes sense, this is Don E. and he’s an idiot that says just about everything that comes to his mind usually. But maybe not always.
Blaine reaches across from the table, takes the plate that Don E.’s currently eating from and stands with both that plate and his own. They are not eating any more of this brain. He remembers all too acutely what it was like the last time they ate the brain of a brutally honest person and the sooner this wears off the better. Before one of them says something they regret. Don E.’s already blurted out that he thinks The Wire is overrated and that he sings pop tunes of the early 2000’s in the shower, but this has gone too far. Don E. clearly has more completely random things that come to his mind and some of them are about Blaine’s body. And whatever this brain is, it’s bringing everything out.
This brain was supposed to be a good one, too. Humans are far too complicated with all of their dirty little secrets.
“I know it’s polite to complicate the chef, but you do gotta keep the compliments to the cooking,” Blaine says at length, once he’s seated again. He’s made sure to dump the remainder of their food in the garbage disposal, perhaps looking a bit too wistfully down at the swirl of brain and hot sauce and very expensive peppers.
“Your cooking’s not that good, Blaine.”
Now that statement has to be a blatant lie. Blaine knows everything he’s good at (and it’s a lot of things) and cooking clearly makes the short list of things he excels at. Right up there with making lots of money, playing piano, and sex. Anyway, if Don E.’s going to insult his cooking and mean it, he can stop coming by Blaine’s place for dinner.
“Why do you keep coming for dinner, brother, if you don’t want to eat fine cooking?”
The weird thing isn’t that Don E. answers, it’s that he doesn’t. Instead he gives him a look like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, an unspoken thought communicated with a glance. Well, fuck. This could be a problem. Or not a problem. It’s really unclear in those moments and Blaine hates not being in control of his every thought at every moment. (Was he like this before he was a zombie? It could be some primal fear of turning animalistic, losing his last vestiges of humanity.)
“You know, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Blaine answers the unspoken question. “All you have to do is ask.” And shit, that’s the truth of it. They’re partners and honestly Blaine knows he’s staring at the only person in the world he can actually trust. He needs to surround himself with better people next time he reinvents himself. Maybe vampires are real and he can give that reality a spin next go-around.
“I don’t think you seem like that kind of guy. To be emotionally available to another person.”
Whoa. Now emotions are in the mix. Blaine reaches for the mixed drink he’s made himself, vodka and some very expensive hot sauce. Don E. has his own matching drink but Blaine put a little less vodka in that one. Largely because he’s stingy with others. That’s why putting feelings in the mix is a bad idea.
“Have you been watching The Notebook again?” Blaine quirks a brow at him. “Because you said that was the effects of a brain, but you also said that on three separate occasions.”
“I haven’t watched that movie for three weeks. I’m trying to talk to you about my feelings.”
“It’s the brain making you say things.” It is the brain and it is making him say things, but judging by the upfront way Blaine just spoke the things they’re saying are the truth. Maybe the commandos were onto something with their brain tubes, after all.
“It’s the truth, dude. You have a nice butt, I haven’t seen The Notebook for three weeks, I’m in love with you.”
Blaine is immensely grateful that he’s not currently halfway through drinking his drink. He’s also grateful there’s a table between the two of them, because… Well, he’s not sure if he wants to kiss Don E. or kill him more. It’s Don E. so it’s bound to be something in the middle, kissing and killing. He’d probably only kill him a little bit and in a sexy way. Petit mort and all that, right?
What he wants to say is something like “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that and we’re going to continue on as usual.”
What he actually says is: “I think I love you as much as I’m capable of loving another person.”
Which is fucked up. It’s absolutely fucked up. Is it true? Sure. It’s still fucked up.
Don E. looks confused for a moment, like he’s trying to process something. (Don E. doesn’t process a lot of things, he’s sort of a face value man. That’s part of the appeal to Blaine, if he’s honest with himself, which he has to be right now.)
Blaine buries his face in his hands, mumbling curse words into his hands. He’s not going to survive this brain, one way or another. He might just have to lock himself away and let him go to his primal state. That weird fear suddenly seems better than this new sense that he wants to be swallowed by a hole in the ground. The silence is deafening, Don E. stirring a little cocktail straw in his weak mixed drink as he tries to process complicated information for what Blaine suspects is the first time in his life.
That’s not true, and he’s having a hard time even thinking untruths. Don E. has that kind of street smart stupidity where he always lands on his feet. He’s had to have processed something difficult once in his life before, parsed it out in a way that makes it best to move on and cope.
“I’ve got an idea,” Don E. cuts in and when Blaine looks up his mixed drink is completely gone.
If Don E. has an idea it’s going to be one of two things: brilliant or stupid. Actually, there’s a third option that’s a mix of the two and that’s really the genius of Don E. as a person.
Blaine narrows his eyes at him. “I’m listening.”
“What if we just like...make out a bit?” His voice turns a bit squeaky, like he’s hesitating on the thought. “I mean, you did just say some sappy stuff, but I don’t think you want to say more, and the only way to assure you don’t talk is if your mouth is occupied.”
“I-” He shuts his mouth. He’s going to say something foolish about how at first he thought Don E. was sort of ugly but now he’s attracted to him. (Obvious by the being in love with him thing.) Theoretically, Blaine could just kick him out, send him away until the brain is out of their systems, but Blaine is not really someone to deny himself any low risk pleasure. “I think that’s a surprisingly wise decision.”
They move to the couch. Of course it’s the couch, of course Don E. doesn’t know how to do this any differently than a teenage boy trying to cop a feel with some girl who’s way out of his league. Every girl was probably out of Don E.’s league when he was a teenager.
Then the weirdest thing happens. Don E. kisses him. And he’s good at kissing. He puts a hand on Blaine’s face and the other settles on his waist, a reassuring weight. (When did he ever need reassurance? He doesn’t need that, he knows he doesn’t need that because he can’t lie to himself right now. It’s still just nice. ) His lips are surprisingly unchapped and he tastes like the hot sauce and the dinner that got pushed down the garbage disposal a bit too early for Blaine’s liking. He also really, really knows how to use his tongue, without overusing it.
Who the hell has Don E. been kissing all these years? Blaine’s kind of pissed off at the thought of him kissing other people, so he pulls him closer, kisses him harder. It doesn’t really process until it’s too late that Don E. is actually in his lap. The hand that had been cupping his cheek previously is now on his chest, gripping at his shirt. Don E.’s kissing with an eagerness, something that doesn’t really surprise Blaine. See, Blaine plays games, he can keep someone on the hook for days, months, decades even. Don E.’s going to want instant satisfaction, and he’s not going to give in just yet.
Blaine pulls away. Even being fearful of talking he has to have his victory.
“Do you really think my cooking is terrible?” Blaine asks, sliding a hand to grab Don E.’s ass.
“Yes. Fuck. You know i can’t say anything but yes, man.”
“Then you should know that I don’t sleep with people who think I’m bad at anything.”
Don E. groans. “That’s some fucked up thing you need to talk about at therapy.”
Blaine pushes Don E. off of him. He’s in control for now and feelings be damned. They have work to do and everything else can wait.