There's something to be said about the comforts of home. One of Blaine's favorite pieces of Lima he took with him to New Haven has to be the faded McKinley sweatshirt Kurt has sworn him to secrecy not to reveal the existence of. It smells like him. He just want to crawl into it and sleep for days, only waking to breathe in the fading musk of his boyfriend's cologne. The cuffs of the sleeves are worn and the drawstrings from the hood were lost long ago. It's hard to believe something so ratty even has a place in Kurt's closet of fabulous clothes.
'Comfort clothes,' he had explained. Blaine gets that.
The best part of the day has to be when he's hiding under the covers with his phone pressed to his ear, curled up in Kurt's sweatshirt. His roommate will hiss at him to be quiet, and Blaine obliges. He prefers the quiet moments, anyway. He's content just listening to the sound of the other boy breathing. When he closes his eyes, the soft sounds and the scent buried in the fibers of the sweatshirt start to blend together - and just like that, they're back in Lima curled up on Kurt's bed. No distance, no paralyzing fear of where their college lives will take them - just them.
When his roommate accident washes the sweatshirt three weeks into the semester, Blaine wants to scream. He knows, somewhere in the logical part of his brain that he was just trying to be nice - just trying to help with the laundry. It doesn't matter how many times the other boy apologizes. Nothing will undo the fact that the sweatshirt now smells like some sickeningly sweet laundry detergent instead of Kurt.
Maybe when he goes back to Lima in a couple of weeks he can convince Kurt to wear it around, make it smell like him again.
Until then, he wears the sweatshirt anyway. It's better than nothing.