Disclaimer - I don't own it.
Kurt lifts the collar of his Gucci shirt to his nose.
The smell of his sheets, the soft smell of laundry detergent and Blaine's cologne mixed together, clung to the two-hundred dollar cotton.
He closes his eyes.
He can almost feel the fumbling fingers against his skin.
He can almost taste his lips, taste the flavor of liquor on his tongue, taste the warm skin stretched across Blaine's neck, across his chest, down his taut stomach.
He can almost hear Blaine whisper, hear things like "you're beautiful" and "I've wanted you for so long".
His teal eyes flicker open.
Blaine sat a room's length away from him, his full lips wrapped around the plastic top on his coffee. Kurt feels a tightness in his chest that doesn't go away.
Because he knows Blaine can't remember any of it.
He can't almost feel Kurt touching him, tasting him, hear him whispering back.
But if Blaine lifted the collar of his casual shirt to his nose, he would smell Kurt's cologne.
He might remember, if he did.
But he doesn't.
Blaine wonders if Kurt knew he remembers.
Remembers the kiss that he, drunken Blaine, had initiated.
Remembers that Kurt had let out a little, muffled sound of surprise and immediately pulled back, saying, "You've had too much to drink."
Remembers denying this wholeheartedly and taking Kurt's face in his hands, ever so gently, and stealing Kurt's lips again.
He remembers.
He just doesn't want to.
Because what if, what if, Kurt hadn't brought it up for a reason?
What if the countertenor doesn't want him to remember at all?
He takes another sip from his coffee, feeling the liquid wash away the headache that all the alcohol had caused.
It didn't taste nearly as good as Kurt's skin had, under his tongue.
He steals a glance upward. Across the room, Kurt is deeply interested in his thumbnail.
Blaine bends his head just enough to take a deep breath of the cologne that had found its way onto his cardigan. He savors it, let it fill his lungs, and sips his coffee again.
Because he remembers everything.
He just doesn't want to.
Kurt pulls up his shirt, just a little.
A finger-shaped bruise blooms at his hip bone, purple and menacing.
Kurt remembers himself gasping, arching his back, relishing the feel on Blaine's fingers against his skin.
He glances up at himself, into his mirror.
Kurt wants to feel Blaine's body against him again. He wants to feel Blaine's lips on his skin.
He reaches, a finger smoothing over one of the three bruises at the soft part of his neck.
There's a sharp knock on his door and he doesn't have time to button his shirt, because Blaine bursts in the door without invitation.
There's a very awkward silence while Blaine's eyes travel down his exposed abdomen and then rest, very carefully, on the bruise coloring his hip.
His eyebrows disappear into his curly hair.
Kurt hastens to button his shirt again.
"I...Uhm...I..." His tongue stumbles over the thick words stuck in his throat, just like his thin fingers stumble over the slick buttons. "Did you...Did you need something?"
Blaine's eyes won't stop moving. They find the bruises on Kurt's neck before he has time to cover them. He clears his throat. "Rough night?"
"What?" It drops out of his mouth before he can even register what Blaine said. "Oh. Yeah. I...Finn was...We played hockey."
He wonders if there's a lamer excuse in existence.
"Hockey." The word rolls off Blaine's tongue like he knows Kurt is lying. Like it's obvious.
Kurt ducks his head and struggles with the last few buttons on his shirt. There's a moment when he pokes himself in the stomach and lets out a little squeaking noise and, even though he tries to cover it up, Blaine smiles.
"Here..."
And then Blaine's fingers, long, reach out and fasten the remaining buttons with expertise.
Kurt wonders if he even notices when his index finger slips and brushes Kurt's chest, just barely smoothing over the surface of his skin.
And there's a second, a split second, when Blaine's bright eyes catch his, that Kurt thinks maybe, just maybe, he remembers.
Remembers the deep kisses, the moaning, the warmth of each other as they fell asleep.
But Blaine looks away and clears his throat again. He steps back, leaving the last button on Kurt's shirt undone. "I should go."
Kurt looks down at his feet and waited, patiently, until the door closes.
When it does, when he's alone and the smell of Blaine's aftershave lingers in the air, he hugs himself and sighs.
The next time Kurt finds him, he's sucking down the last of the vodka that had somehow made it into his hand and standing just a little too close to Rachel.
Rachel, who's chatting on about Barbara Streisand and will not, even when Blaine tries to walk away, let him leave.
The next time Blaine sees Kurt in the crowd of New Directions and Warblers, he's being chatted up by a very amiable looking blonde kid.
Blaine tries not be jealous, but the blonde kid gets close. Too close.
His hand is smoothing circles into Kurt's shoulder, his eyes locked onto Kurt's face.
There's a drink in Kurt's hand, and he looks like he's on the verge of tears.
So Blaine seizes enough drunken courage to stumble over to them, to push Sam's hand off Kurt's back and proclaim loudly, "We fucked!"
Everything - the music, the laughter, the chatting - seems to halt. Kurt's cheeks bloom a bright red and Blaine looses his footing. He falls onto the floor.
Finn is blinking at him, little stress lines forming on his forehead.
Blaine wonders if he's spilled a huge secret.
He wonders if it actually happened.
Kurt grabs him under the armpits and lifts; he comes off the floor and his head is buried in the crook of Kurt's soft neck. He hears Kurt whisper, "Blaine, you've had way too much to drink," and the music starts again.
He can hear Kurt convincing Finn, "He's just had to much to drink" and he can hear Finn believing him.
But the nape of Kurt's neck smells like Blaine's collar.
"Kurt."
There's a little huff of annoyance; Blaine can feel Kurt's chest heaving against his as the countertenor struggles to drag him down an unknown hallway.
"Kurt."
"What is it?"
"I love you."
"No, you're drunk."
That hurts. There's a little stab in his chest, a fist around his intestines.
He makes sure to lean away from Kurt when he pukes.
Kurt isn't gentle when he shoves Blaine away from him and they both slide down the hallway wall. The Warbler watches with heavy eyes as Kurt drags his knees up to his chest and presses his eyes against the denim.
In seconds, Blaine can hear the beginning sounds of sharp sobs.
He tries to drag himself upright, to lift an arm of lead and drape around his friend's shoulders.
He can't.
He feels helpless and sad, but he doesn't know, exactly, what he said or did wrong.
Because all he did was tell Kurt the truth.
Kurt cries for a few minutes (or maybe it was longer, but the alcohol had quickened Blaine's internal clock) and then, with a sharp sniffle and a wipe of his eyes, he pulls Blaine upright again.
"Blaine, do me a favor."
He presses his lips into Kurt's collarbone.
"Stop drinking."
The last thing he remembers is Kurt placing him carefully under the covers and, when he thought Blaine was asleep, slipping beneath them and wrapping his thin arms around the Warbler.
He never let go.
REVIEW.
Just something new.
I'm having serious writers block with all my other stories...It's awful. Anyone know a cure?