Disclaimer - I don't own it.
He never lets go.
Not even when Blaine wakes up, with his head pounding and his tongue heavy.
He feels Kurt's arms, warm, wrapped loosely around him, one hand sturdy against his stomach.
He wonders, vaguely, if there was a better way to wake up.
He rolls over, carefully prying Kurt's arms away from him. He presses a kiss into the crown of Kurt's head; he really can't help himself.
Because Kurt's hair smells like coconut and honey, and it's intoxicating.
He changes his shirt quickly (there were stains on the front of his other one that he just didn't want to deal with) and leaves Kurt's bedroom before the countertenor even has time to wake up.
He feels lost, suddenly, and alone.
He pulls his shirt tighter around him, feeling the cotton hug his skin.
When he presses his nose into the fabric, it smells like Kurt.
When he breathes in deep, he realizes it kind of smells like…himself?
Kurt wakes up alone.
Just like every other day, except his favorite sweater is missing from the chair he had tossed it on.
The sweater that Blaine had torn a little hole in, the sweater that had nearly been ripped off his body.
Kurt sighs.
He turns over and touches the empty space beside him, fingers the soft imprint that Blaine had left behind.
It's still warm.
He lets his head fall onto Blaine's borrowed pillow and inhales.
Soap. Aftershave. Laundry detergent. Alcohol.
Exhale.
There's something heavy in his chest that he just can't place.
He picks himself off the bed and walks to the shower. He barely bothers to grab a towel.
Words echo in his head and, no matter how loud his radio is, no matter how much the water pounds in his ears, Kurt can't get rid of them.
Because he can't let himself forget the mumbled "I love you". He can't.
Because he thinks that maybe his heart would break into a thousand pieces if he did.
He feels the water slip down his back and wants it to wash away the marks on his neck, the marks on his hips, the feel of Blaine's body pressing into his.
He wants it to wash away the memories.
When his foot presses into the cold tile floor and he shivers, he knows it hadn't.
Because he could remember Blaine's palms ghosting up and down his body, murmuring, "Are you cold, Kurt? You're shivering."
He hadn't been cold.
He had been happy.
Blaine can't really remember what he said.
He just knew it was important.
Because the next time Kurt sees him, he walks in the opposite direction.
Because the next time Blaine shouts after him, waving his shirt around and calling his name, everyone but Kurt glances back at him.
Because when Blaine catches his wrist, finally, as they left English, Kurt yanks it out of his grip.
Yanks it out of his grip and spits, "Blaine, leave me alone."
Blaine doesn't think he's ever been address with such hatred before. Such furiousness, such detestation.
He wants to take Kurt in his arms, wants to hold onto him forever and never let go.
To whisper things, true things, honest things, in his ears.
Because maybe then, Kurt would actually listen.
But instead, he watches Kurt walk away and wonders how, how, how, how he could have possibly messed up so badly.
Kurt has to cover his mouth as he walks away.
Because he doesn't think that the diva walk is very convincing when he's sobbing uncontrollably.
He doesn't know why he suddenly feels…disappointed.
Maybe because Blaine was supposed to be his first Knight, his first love, his first promise, his first everything.
Kurt wipes at his tears. He can't really bring himself to be mad.
Because he knows it's his fault.
His fault for setting high standards, his fault for living in a fairytale, his fault for making something out of nothing.
But it didn't change the fact that somehow, through everything, Blaine had just ended up being his first fuck.
He hears the door open, but doesn't bother to look around.
Because the only person that matters would never visit him again.
Except there's a little cough, a little puff of breath that Blaine recognizes immediately.
He feels his heart swell.
He doesn't think anyone could blame him.
He pats the bed, very gently, and he feels the weight shift as Kurt perches himself on the edge.
There's a bottle of wine, or vodka, or something, poking into his side.
He offers the bottle, expecting Kurt to decline instantaneously.
Because they both know what happened last time they drank together.
But he sees Kurt's thin fingers reach up, brushing the bruises at his neck, like they were a reminder of something.
Blaine feels his mouth dry.
There's a little hesitation, and then he takes the bottle carefully from Blaine's hand and wraps his lips around the glass.
Blaine wonders vaguely if there was anyone more beautiful than Kurt in existence.
When the countertenor hands the bottle back, their fingers graze.
He's sure he can still feel the shock of electricity that had riveted up his spine when his index finger had brushed against Kurt's smooth skin.
He's sure that it's the alcohol that makes him say, "I'm sorry."
"I thought I told you not to drink." It's snipped and cold and Blaine wonders if maybe, just maybe, Kurt would leave.
But then Kurt lays back, his head hitting the pillow and his hand knocking Blaine's, and the Warbler swears his heart might burst.
Because he wants nothing more than to roll over and kiss Kurt square on his beautiful lips.
He doesn't, though.
Kurt hands him back the bottle. Blaine notices that it's nearly empty, but doesn't say anything; instead, he chugs the remaining ounces and drops the bottle onto the carpeted floor. Kurt's fingers trace circles into his forearm.
Blaine hopes he doesn't notice the goosebumps.
"Blaine?"
It sounds so pretty, coming from Kurt's lips.
He turns his head, just a little, to meet the countertenors clear, teal eyes. "Yes?"
There's a moment when Blaine thinks that Kurt's going to ask him. Demand to know if what he said was true, if Blaine really loved him, if everything was real.
But all he says is, "Kiss me."
There's a silence, and Blaine swears Kurt can hear his heart hammering loudly against his chest.
But he cranes his neck, just slightly, to place a kiss into Kurt's soft cheek.
When he pulls back, he looks down into Kurt's face.
And there's something about the little crooked smile, the sparkle in his teal eyes, the way his arm is tucked under his head that leaves Blaine breathless.
Breathless, and brainless.
Because before he can stop himself, he kisses Kurt's cheek for the second time.
And then his chin.
His button nose.
His forehead.
His jawline.
His neck.
And then, and then, he manages to stop himself.
But not before his fingers find their way under Kurt's button-down and smooth over his exposed abdomen.
Not before Kurt's hand threads itself through Blaine's dark hair.
Not before they both forget themselves.
But Blaine never forgets himself for long.
He retracts his hand from Kurt's naked stomach like it has suddenly caught fire. The countertenor unthreads his hand. Blaine immediately misses it.
He sits up, pushing a hand through his curly hair.
"Sorry." It's mumbled, and Blaine really doesn't think Kurt heard him.
But the bed shifts slightly and a pair of arms wrap around his chest from behind. Blaine leans back into Kurt, his eyes falling shut.
Because being held, just being held, shouldn't feel that good.
"I want you." Lips press into his shoulder.
Blaine feels incredibly confused.
Because wasn't this Kurt? Angry, hurt Kurt that had nearly slapped him yesterday?
The lips move up his shoulder and teeth nip at his earlobe.
The room spins.
"Kurt."
He starts to suck a spot under Blaine's ear.
"Kurt. You don't love me, do you?"
There's a pause, and he feels Kurt tense around him. He doesn't know what to say, really, except, "That's why you won't admit that we made love."
It makes sense, even in his groggy state. He pushes Kurt's hands away from him and shoves his face into his comforter.
It smells like coconut and honey.
Against the fabric, he mumbles, "You don't love me."
There's a silence, long and painful, and it makes Blaine's heart clench.
He feels the bed move beneath him, hears the door close across from him.
He doesn't want to move.
He nearly regrets it; he misses the warmth of Kurt's arms, the smell of his hair, the brush of his skin.
But he doesn't.
He doesn't regret it at all.
Duhduhduh.
"WTF, Kurt?"
Yeah, I know. Tune in later.
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