Disclaimer - I don't own it.

"Kurt."

He seemed surprised, but happily so. Kurt wanted to break down then, wanted to throw himself helplessly at the Warbler and cry into his starched uniform.

He didn't, though.

He just sucked a breath into his chest, held out his hand, and said quietly, "Blaine. Good to see you again."

The Warbler opened his dorm door just slightly enough for Kurt to notice he wasn't, in fact, wearing his uniform at all; a crisp white tee shirt stretched over his muscly chest, and a pair of jeans that seemed to hug him in all the right places. The hand that clasped Kurt's gently was warm, soft, and fit into his like they were crafted for each other.

Finding him attractive, finding him damn sexy, just made Kurt feel worse.

He used a two fingers to massage away the pain in his head. "I was wondering if we could talk."

"Talk." The word rolled off Blaine's tongue as though he were tasting it; Kurt swallowed and glanced down at his feet. "Kurt, you don't look like you want to talk. You look like you want to cry and scream at the same time."

He opened the door wider, and with a little beckon of his curly head, ushered Kurt inside.

Once the countertenor was placed comfortable on the edge of Blaine's twin (extra-long) bed, the Warbler cleared his throat and said, "So, be honest with me, Kurt. What's going on?"

"I seem to be having...boy troubles." He felt the words in his throat, thought them in his mind, but they felt bizarre on his tongue.

Because, honestly, Kurt had never had "boy troubles" before.

Blaine reclined in his computer chair, one eyebrow disappearing into his dark hair. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Noah." It fell out of his mouth before he could even register what he was saying; Blaine tipped forward in his chair, resting his elbows carefully against his knees. "Noah Puckerman."

"The mohawk kid."

Kurt let a tired laugh shudder through him. "Yes. The mohawk kid."

Blaine bit down on his bottom lip, the pressure turning the puffy skin white. "And what happened?"

And so, it began. The long, incredibly twisted, confusing, thrilling story that had encompassed the last 6 days of Kurt's life. When it was over, when Kurt finally sat back on Blaine's bed, all the Warbler had to say was, "You guys actually mess with each other like that?"

Kurt looked down at Blaine's the navy comforter, spreading his fingers across the smooth fabric, and was unable to come up with a justifiable answer.

Because there really wasn't a justifiable answer.

Blaine got up from his computer chair and slipped onto the bed beside Kurt, an arm wrapping around the countertenor's thin shoulders. "Maybe you just need something...simpler, Kurt. Something that's not so complicated and emotional and terrible."

Kurt could feel the warmth from the Warbler's palm burn through his Gucci pull-over. He let his head fall, just lightly, onto one of Blaine's broad shoulders, and breathed in his designer after-shave.

There was a moment, sitting there with Blaine's arms around him, that everything felt simple again.

Everything felt right again.

So Kurt closed his eyes, buried his nose in the crook of Blaine's neck, and let go.

"I'm over it."

"Puck, it's only been two hours."

"Over what?" Finn squeezed his way between Puck and Mercedes, his long limbs folding uncomfortable underneath him.

Previously, they'd been sitting quite comfortably on the front steps of McKinley, Puck's hazel eyes trained carefully on the parking lot. Mercedes knew it was for that first sign of that shiny SUV, though Puck's excuse was something along the lines of "just don't want to go home".

They sat there for a few moments in silence, three pairs of eyes searching the parking lot for something different, until Finn cleared his throat. "Over wh-?"

"Nothing, Finn! Jesus, keep your huge-ass nose out of my problems, okay?"

And then he was stomping away, hands shoved deep into his pockets, brow furrowed.

He made it halfway around the building and stopped, pressing his back into the brick wall, and stared up at the sky.

He felt ashamed.

Because, really, if he was "over it", when he wouldn't have reacted so violently.

And his chest really wouldn't feel so tight.

And he wouldn't be waiting, with bated breath, for Kurt's car to pull into the school parking lot.

Puck closed his eyes to the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin, and breathed in.

For a moment, he was calm. For a moment, it didn't hurt so badly.

But then, his ears picked up a furious, "HE DID WHAT?", roared from the mouth of a livid step-brother.

And then everything crashed on him again.

Kurt woke up warm.

Comfortable, with one arm laced around his waist, one threaded through his hair.

He woke up on top of a navy blue comforter, in a wrinkled Gucci pull-over, with someone's nose pressed into the back of his neck.

He sat up carefully, lightly lifting Blaine's arms away from him, and glanced around.

At one point, through Kurt's sobbing and confessions, Blaine had pulled him into a tight hug that seemed to last forever, until Kurt had finally fallen asleep in his arms.

It was simple; a friendly gesture, a warm comfort.

And frankly, simple was refreshing.

Kurt looked over his shoulder, watching Blaine's chest rise and fall in sleep.

Frankly, he mused, Blaine was refreshing.

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TBC soon. :)