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The first day Blaine arrives in Paris is spent catching up on sleep, fighting awful jet lag and spending almost the entire afternoon in bed. The second day finds Blaine and his parents walking through museums and art galleries, most of the day spent waiting in line to see famous paintings and sculptures.
His father is on a conference call with Tokyo and his mother is holed up in the hotel spa when he leaves on the third day, slipping his key card and wallet into his pocket. Blaine doesn’t know more than basic conversational French and he hopes the small square in his back pocket isn’t too obviously a dictionary.
The streets are crowded, tourists and Parisians mixing together. It’s warm, the last week of August, and the fabric of Blaine’s shirt clings uncomfortably to his arms and shoulders. He doesn’t know where he’s going, content to just follow the cracks in the sidewalk, picking up bits of French here and there.
The café that he stumbles upon is quaint, set back from the street, a few small tables and chairs littered out front. Blaine walks inside and stands towards the back, scanning over the menu written on a chalkboard behind the counter, entirely in French. He could look in his dictionary to find out how to say his coffee order, but this café is full of locals speaking rapid fire French to the baristas behind the counter, and he really doesn’t want to stick out more than he already does.
People push passed him, eager to get their morning caffeine fix. He whispers ‘pardon’ a few times, slinking further into the back of the shop. He suddenly realizes how silly it was to travel out by himself in the first place; he doesn’t know the city, the people, the language.
He’s getting ready to leave, to find a more tourist friendly café closer to the hotel, when he hears, “Do you need some help ordering?"
Blaine looks to his side, the teenage boy smiling down at him. He’s cute; tall with eyes that could be blue or green or both, his lips curled more into a smirk that a smile. He’s dressed like a local and seems completely at ease, but Blaine didn’t pick up on an accent when he spoke.
"Is it that obvious?" Blaine asks, ducking his head down, a little embarrassed at his obvious bewilderment.
"Just a bit," the boy laughs, placing his hand on the middle of Blaine’s back as he guides them into line. “Besides, you don’t see the bow tie and sweater vest combo around here very often." He brings his hand up and lightly runs his fingers across the fabric on Blaine’s neck. Blaine’s breath catches and he feels a fluttering feeling bubble up in his stomach. Is this boy flirting with him?
"Yeah, I stick out a bit," Blaine admits, a blush starting high on his cheeks.
"Trust me," he says, looking right into Blaine’s eyes. “You look better than every guy in here."
Blaine laughs. It’s not true, not even close, but it’s still nice of the cute stranger to say. The line moves and the two of them go with it.
"I’m Sebastian Smythe, by the way," he says, lifting his hand for Blaine to shake.
"Blaine Anderson," he answers, holding tightly onto Sebastian’s hand.
"So what’s your coffee order?" He asks as they make their way to the counter, his hand finding its way back to Blaine’s back, a few inches lower than the last time.
"Medium drip," Blaine says, and then adds, “With a little cinnamon."
"No shot?" Sebastian asks as they step up to the counter.
"Of espresso?" Blaine asks.
Sebastian laughs, his eyes crinkling as he looks Blaine over. “That bashful school boy thing is really working for you."
Blaine bites down on his lip to keep from smiling. This cute boy is definitely flirting with him.
Sebastian orders both of their coffees, the French falling easily off of his tongue. Blaine reaches into his wallet to pull out some cash, but Sebastian stops him. “It’s on me," he insists, pulling a card out of his wallet.
They take their coffees outside and find one of the tiny metal tables, their chairs tucked side by side in the crowd of people. Blaine feels their knees brush together as they sit and instinctually goes to pull back, but Sebastian only scoots closer, hooking two of their ankles together.
Blaine’s not sure how long they sit and talk. They see the morning rush come and go and Blaine learns that Sebastian is from the states but has spent the last year in France for school. They talk about Blaine’s vacation, how he only has one more day in Paris until his family moves on to London. He tells Sebastian about his school, about glee club, and Sebastian asks him to describe his uniform in detail. They talk through lunch and another coffee, inching closer and closer until their shoulders are pressed together, even though they’re now the only ones outside.
Sebastian tells Blaine his favorite spots in the city through sips of coffee; the best view of The Eiffel Tower at night, where to get the best crêpes, how to cut the line at The Louvre. He compliments Blaine so easily; his clothes, his smile, his blush that makes Sebastian whisper, “how far down does that go?"
It’s not until the sun is hiding behind a set of trees that Blaine looks at the time, his phone chirping with a text message from his mother.
"I have to get back," Blaine says, frowning down at his phone. “My parents finally noticed I’m missing."
"That’s a shame," Sebastian says. And then, even though there’s no need for it, Sebastian leans over to whisper in Blaine’s ear, “Let me take you out tonight."
Goosebumps break out along Blaine’s skin, covering his neck and arms. “I can’t," he says and it takes everything he has in him to turn Sebastian down. “It’s our last night here, my parents already made plans."
"Hmm," Sebastian hums, thinking, and Blaine can feel the vibrations against his neck. “I guess I’ll just have to take you out on our second date when I get back to Ohio."
Blaine pulls back quickly. “What?" He squawks, not at all cool. “Ohio?"
"Oh, did I forget to mention that?" Sebastian says, eyes flicking down to Blaine’s lips and back up to his eyes. “We’re moving to this town in the middle of nowhere. Westerville, I think," he says, flipping his hand in the air as if he can’t be bothered to remember.
Blaine blinks once, then twice, staring at Sebastian, letting the words sink in. “Can I get your number?" He asks, not caring in the slightest at how forward it is.
Sebastian smirks and Blaine feels like he knows that look already, has it memorized into the corner of his memory. Sebastian doesn’t go for Blaine’s phone, instead reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen. He takes Blaine’s hand and turns his palm face up, gliding the smooth ink across the lines in his skin.
"Let me walk you back?" Sebastian asks and Blaine can only nod, pressing in close to Sebastian as they make their way into the crowded street.