Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or have anything to do with it! Besides being a loyal fan, of course. No profit made, no copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers: No explicit spoilers, but if you're curious, I'd place this as an outtake from the beginning of Original Songs, before the Kliss.
A/N: As he himself has said, Blaine is totally clueless. But very sweet. Currently a oneshot, but I could write more if you guys like it... :3
In my headcanon, Dalton is still a boarding school (damn you, Ryan Murphy, goin' all Joss on us), and there are four boys - two bunk beds - per room. Title taken from Tegan & Sarah's "I Know I Know I Know."
I wasn't sure what had awakened me, but as I swam through layers of consciousness I was aware that something was a little off. Wait – there it was again, a piteous little whimper. Wondering where it had come from, I opened my eyes onto the darkness of my dorm room. I made out the dim outlines of Nick and Thad's bunk bed across the room, then gradually focused in on their peacefully sleeping forms. Both were breathing gently and deeply. Couldn't be them.
Kurt, though, had been known to mumble in his sleep occasionally. Maybe a bad dream? A sound less like a whimper and more like a moan floated to my ear, but it didn't seem to be coming from the bunk above me. Worried, I knelt in my bed and reached up and over the edge of Kurt's mattress overhead. Empty.
Fully awake now, I became aware of a sliver of light under the door to the common room. Another moan from that direction, followed by the sound of shifting couch cushions and muffled panting, told me all I needed to know: that was definitely Kurt on the common room sofa, and from the sound of it, he was in considerable distress. Maybe the Chinese takeout had turned against him. Yet rather than bothering his roommates, he'd just gone into the common room to suffer alone.
I shook my head – Kurt was so stubbornly self-sufficient – before Kurt absolutely groaned and thrashed on the sofa, wiping the affectionate smile off my face. This sounded bad. Kurt probably needed help.
As if on cue, Kurt mewled my name. I leapt out of bed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake up the other two: Kurt had called me. I padded across the room and swung open the door silently, peering around it to see just how bad Kurt's situation was.
Oh.
Oh.
I caught a brief glance of the whole scene – dear God, glowing-white skin – before wrenching my eyes away and forcing myself to focus on Kurt's face. He was sprawled lengthwise on the sofa, head thrown back onto the armrest. His soft, clear skin was delicately flushed from the collar of his pajamas to the roots of his for-once-disheveled hair; his fine lashes were splayed across his cheekbones; and his plump lips were parted for the sigh escaping them. All in all, this was not the face of a boy in the throes of a stomachache.
Quite different throes, actually.
Oh.
As I eased the door shut, my ears burning with the intensity of my blush, I thanked every saint I could name that Kurt's eyes had stayed closed.