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Blaine startles awake, his upper body shooting up, rigid. For a moment he’s disoriented, unsure what pulled him from sleep so suddenly. Then he hears it again—a loud shriek that makes him jump. He sighs, sinking back against his pillow, mumbling, “Not again…”
He’s glad his neighbors’ relationship is going well, really, and that they’re having such an active sex life. But he doesn’t understand why he has to be an unwilling witness to their sexcapades. It started out harmless enough—a few muffled moans Blaine could hear (and ignore) when he walked past their door. But lately? It’s like something straight out of a horror movie. Honestly, every time it happens now, Blaine’s only about fifty percent sure it’s pleasure and not the beginning of a murder investigation. He’s always a little surprised when he leaves for work in the morning and doesn’t find yellow crime scene tape across the door and a detective in a brown trench coat asking if he noticed anything unusual.
Another scream makes him roll his eyes and reach for his phone. It’s 10:47 p.m., but he knows the person he’s about to text will still be awake.
[Blaine Anderson]: “They’re at it again…”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “I told you what to do…”
Blaine snorts.
[Blaine Anderson]: “I’m not knocking to ask if I can join. I’m not into threesomes.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
[Blaine Anderson]: “With a woman?”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Fair point.”
Blaine sighs and shoves his pillow over both ears.
[Blaine Anderson]: “Maybe they’re actually killing each other this time. I hear it happens all the time—they’re not the youngest anymore. At least then I could finally sleep in peace.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “But what a way to go…”
[Blaine Anderson]: “Cause of death: intercourse. Of course you would be into that…”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Intercourse? What are you, eighty? Who even says that?”
[Blaine Anderson]: “Dr. Temperance Brennan.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Wait, did you secretly start re-watching Bones again?”
[Blaine Anderson]: “Not secretly, no.”
What he gets back is just an exasperated emoji. Blaine rolls his eyes.
[Blaine Anderson]: “What? It’s a comfort show.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “It’s disgusting. Half-decomposed corpses, fluids, bugs—ew.”
[Blaine Anderson]: “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say bodily fluids are disgusting.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “They are from corpses, Blaine. With the living, I do quite enjoy the fun ones. ;-)”
[Blaine Anderson]: “Now I’m disgusted.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Haha. No, you’re not.”
Blaine can’t help but smile—right before another particularly high-pitched wail cuts through the wall. He groans into his pillow.
[Blaine Anderson]: “I think they’re almost done.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Mm, shame. I was about to ask you to record the soundtrack for research purposes.”
[Blaine Anderson]: “Well, do you’re own research then. I’m trying to sleep.”
He types it automatically, only realizing after he send it what it could mean. Did he just… tell Sebastian to watch porn? There’s a pause, longer than usual, and Blaine’s thumb hovers over his screen as if willing Sebastian to type something normal. But then he sees the white dots dancing and the message that follows:
[Sebastian Smythe]: “You know… if I were there, I could help distract you. Make you forget the noise entirely.”
Blaine frowns at the phone, shifting in bed. He knows exactly what Sebastian means—or at least, he thinks he does—but his brain stumbles over the words.
[Blaine Anderson]: “You’re ridiculous.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “I’m just saying… I’m very good at distractions. The kind that leave you breathless. The kind where you wouldn’t even remember the neighbors exist.”
Blaine swallows, throat suddenly dry. His pulse thuds faster, and he rolls onto his back, glaring up at the ceiling as though that will help keep his thoughts clean. It doesn’t. He types, erases, types again. Finally:
[Blaine Anderson]: “You can’t just write stuff like that.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Why not?
[Blaine Anderson]: “We’re friends.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Friends tease each other.”
[Blaine Anderson]: “None of my friends tease me like that.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Well, I just happen to be better at it than most.”
Blaine gnaws at his lip, his thumb lingering over the screen. Another bubble appears. He wants to come back with something sharp, something that closes the door Sebastian keeps nudging open—but he can’t quite form the words. Instead, his body betrays him, heat curling low in his stomach.
Another buzz.
[Sebastian Smythe]: “You’d be surprised how easy it is to make someone feel good, Blaine. A brush of fingers here, a soft word there… it doesn’t take much. You’d melt before you even realized it was happening.”
Blaine bolts upright, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks are burning.
[Blaine Anderson]: “Sebastian…”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Relax. I’m not asking for anything. Just painting a picture. Besides… don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what it’d be like.”
Blaine freezes. His chest tightens like he’s been caught, though he hasn’t done anything— hasn’t even admitted anything, there’s nothing to admit!
[Blaine Anderson]: “I haven’t.”
[Sebastian Smythe]: “If you say so.”
As if on cue, a loud, drawn-out cry shatters the silence from the other side of the wall—his neighbors finally reaching their climax. The sound is obscene, raw, impossible to ignore. Blaine flinches so hard he nearly drops his phone, heat exploding across his face. His body tenses, traitorous, as a rush of embarrassment and something hotter prickles down his spine.
It feels like the noise is echoing inside his own chest, forcing him to acknowledge the very thing he’s trying to deny. He squeezes his eyes shut, muttering under his breath, just friends, just friends —but his pulse pounds in his throat, quick and needy, and the ghost of Sebastian’s words curls through him like smoke.
His phone buzzes again.
[Sebastian Smythe]: “Sweet dreams, Blaine.”
Blaine stares at the words until the screen fades to black. Every nerve still hums with tension, every thought tangled in Sebastian. He burrows deeper under the covers, desperate for sleep, for silence, for anything that could ground him again.
But the truth won’t be silenced: he wanted those words. He wanted the way Sebastian said them. And worse—Sebastian knows it.