Honestly, Kurt barely knew where he was.
For sure, he was kind of feeling way too much blood rushing into his head, making his temples throb slightly in time with his heartbeat, but he still couldn't find in himself the strength to actually get up and sit straight. There weren't many straight things about him in general, and even fewer when he was absolutely wasted. Which, he was.
The lying upside down on the couch factor – long legs sticking out obnoxiously and hair merely inches away from the carpet, his usually pale skin red because of the blood rush paired with sweaty skin on his forehead – kind of rendered him a trashed mess of limbs and sticky clothes, something out of an abstract painting. Or worse, out of a dumpster.
However, a mess inside a mess looks completely at ease – or so he convinced himself while considering this situation, given the bunch of other people strayed onto different surfaces of the apartment smelling like alcohol, pot and (weirdly) like coconut. That one was probably Rachel's fault.
"Please," Mercedes' voice, feeble for once in her life, said from somewhere on Kurt's right side. Or was it the left? Kurt couldn't tell anymore. The world was flipped upside-down and wildly spinning and he was afraid it wasn't gonna stop for a while. "Please somebody remind me how the hell did we end up in this situation".
"You mean you being drunk and drooling on the chair?" came Sam's voice, drowsy and distant.
"All of us being drunk, high, and drooling on my things, actually" she snapped back, then winced.
"I blame it on the Nyada" Rachel chimed in, looking somewhat pained, probably replaying something crazy her teachers did. Kurt forced himself to move his gaze upwards and meet her figure, only to find his friend lying on her back upon the carpet, a couple meters away from him, hands dropped on her stomach and wide, unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers in the world.
"I think I'll just blame it on the alcohol" Santana said, her face partly covered by a pillow, and nobody contextualized. She was the kind of person to get drunk without a real reason to do it, but just because the alcohol was good – and mostly free. Nobody judged her anyway, it'd be at their own risk.
"Kurt". Being addressed, Kurt moved his eyes again, looking back at Rachel and meeting her expectant gaze to discover she had abandoned the ceiling in favor of staring at him in an alienated way, like she was seeing him for the first time. "Is it me or is it you that is lying upside down".
Kurt blinked slowly, thoughtful. It was him. Wasn't it? Hard to tell anymore. "No, it's you. You're lying on the ceiling".
She considered him wide-eyed, then looked back at the ceiling. "Shit".
"Rachel just swore".
"We heard".
A giggle, and then silence was cast for a couple minutes.
"I blame it on Lord Tabbington. He sold the apartment for drugs. The elf living under our carpet told me".
"I don't think your cat's the only one on drugs, Brittany".
"I blame…." Sam closed his eyes and started humming like he was deep in thought, except he probably wasn't.
"I blame it on Blaine" Kurt blurted out absentmindedly, without even realizing he was speaking. He was still feeling submerged deep into a clouded haze, unsure whether it was because he was still drunk or because it was the beginning of an inevitable hungover. Tomorrow was going to be a long-ass day. A flash of his once-forgotten high-school friend's naked back and butt crossed his mind. Being an artist was tough. "Yeah. I blame Blaine".
Mercedes clicked her tongue. "You cant blame a stranger, Kurt".
"He's not. Well. Not…really". Kurt blinked a couple times, thoughtful. It tasted funny on his tongue. "It sounds funny though".
"What does".
"Blame…" Kurt repeated, his voice distant and weird. He should probably get up already. "…Blaine".
Rachel just hummed, like she agreed, or maybe she just wanted to hum.
"Blame Blaine. Blaine blame. Blamain" he murmured dumbly, mostly to himself, feeling content like he just invented the best of puns when it wasn't even a pun at all.
Sam clicked his tongue. "I need some water".
"Don't say water, I've been needing to pee for over an hour"
"Ruin my carpet and you're – ah fuck, my head – you're… so fucking dead"
If the arguing evolved somehow, Kurt didn't know, because he blacked out soon after. Hours later he remembered a glimpse of himself jerking awake and falling– face-first and scared shitless – on the floor, then hands touching him and voices laughing high-pitchedly and way too loudly. At that point, everything returned to be black and confused again.
When he woke up several hours later, he was surprisingly at home, in his bed, on top of the covers, fully – or mostly, at least – clothed. Always a good sign; experience taught a lot. He still smelled like sweat and alcohol but, incredibly, no signs of vomit. Nor anything worse.
Sighing, Kurt held his head between his hands, massaging his temples and helplessly willing away the headache and the vague nausea, a whiny complaint on the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of "I ain't gonna drink ever again", but he had lost count of how many times he had told himself so and punctually failed for a reason or another. So he just gave up and stayed silent, trying instead to lift himself up very, very slowly into a sitting position, his vision spinning wildly and his limbs aching. He was probably sporting some kind of livid on his forehead, too, thanks to his drunken determination on staying upside-down on Mercedes' couch, which he really hoped he didn't ruin or he would never hear the end of it.
He wondered if Sam eventually did ruin the carpet in the end, but it was a fleeting thought.
His apartment was pleasingly silent, just the sound of little drops falling somewhere in the bathroom and the muffled chaos of traffic from the street below, seemingly far-away yet still so close.
Kurt closed his eyes again, wishing for the hundredth time he could magically be transported somewhere else where it could be really, totally silent, just for a couple minutes. Somewhere where humanity didn't reach, with no light and no time and no responsibilities, just…peace. Some other place where he would be able to think or not think at all, while breathing in clear, unpolluted air and just be, just exist.
He wished he could paint something like that. Something that deep, primal and philosophical, meaningful yet meaningless at the same time.
Idly, he wondered if he should just…take a canvas and paint it with a dark, thick layer of black.
Idly, he realized it was too early and he was too hungover to think about this kind of stuff. So, he shoved it in the back of his mind for later contemplation.
The matter at hand was getting up, change his clothes (because he didn't think he would be able to survive in this outfit any longer), wash his teeth and shower thoroughly and then drink and eat something. Honestly, he had no idea what time it was but the thought of looking for his phone and power up the screen already hurt his eyes, so he chose against it and decided that, whatever the hour, he wanted breakfast so he was going to have it.
His home, his life, his rules.
He felt like eating pancakes, and while stumbling toward the bathroom, he hoped a hot shower would take away the rest of his headache and general dizziness, so that he could cook himself something without burning his apartment down.
Before he reached his destination he grabbed a change of casual clothes and decided that he was not going to style his hair up like he usually did because, after all, today he had no reason to leave this house, so nobody was ever going to know. Whatever.
His phone decided to go off on that same moment, starting to vibrate (it stayed on vibration or on silent, no other option. He couldn't stand obnoxious ringtones) somewhere in his bedroom, and Kurt wasn't sure whether he was sad or happy at the idea that he hadn't left it at Mercedes' apartment. He definitely wasn't a loner, not per se, but there were times when Kurt wished he could be the last human being on Earth, for at least a couple of days. No one calling him, no one wanting things from him, no one looking at him weirdly if he randomly decided to run down the street in his underwear. Or naked.
Don't misunderstand him, he loved clothes and fashion and he was nowhere near a nudist or other weird shit like that, but an Art student life was hell and so very stressful, and there were situations that made him want to give up everything and shed himself off of every weight he could feel, physically and mentally, and then run away and scream profanities in front of people. There was something incredibly therapeutic just in the thought alone.
His phone went silent, and Kurt realized he hadn't moved from his spot to even try and locate the thing and maybe answer, or just see who the caller was and then maybe, just maybe, answer.
Blinking rapidly, Kurt sighed once again and went to look for the damn object, eventually finding it simply abandoned at the end of his bed, partially hid between the creases of his sheets. As soon as he took it in his hand, it went off once more, flashing Rachel's name and a ridiculous pic of her he took their first day in New York, but he startled and dropped it. Luckily (right?) it just feel back on the soft bed, bouncing slightly.
Frowning, Kurt contemplated whether to just leave it be and go for the shower, or take it back up despite his frustration. Did Rachel deserve his voicemail? That was a tricky question. Depended on the day.
At length, Kurt sighed one more time and answered the call. "I hope this is important" he said groggily, opting against a casual Hello because he was childish and nervous and he smelled. Checking if his change of clothes was still around his other arm, Kurt started moving towards the bathroom and the hot water calling seductively for him.
On the other end of the line, something rustled and Rachel said "Kurt", in a reflective, pensive way, like she had been thinking about something for some time. Also, she wasn't in the mood for Hellos too, apparently. Her voice was weak and for once it didn't sound like the voice of a singer at all. She probably was still pretty hungover, too, Kurt remembered distractedly.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Kurt saw he kind of looked like a mess himself, hair sticking up in improbable directions and his skin paler than usual. He frowned. "Yeah?"
A beat. "Who the hell is Blaine".
Kurt stumbled and slipped on water and then he was falling, painfully hitting his toes against the bathtub and fleetingly hoping he died in the process.
He didn't.
His phone slid away somewhere on the white smooth floor, but Rachel heard for sure the long, decorated flow of swearing and fucks and hells that fell from Kurt's lips in rapid succession.
Somewhere else in New York, a wide-eyed Rachel Berry wetted her lips and tentatively said: "Kurt? Kurt are you… are you okay?".
