Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.
If this was supposed to be some convoluted game of hide-and-go-seek, Kurt was willing to concede that Blaine was winning. No matter how many times he circled the area, he found no signs of him. The lack of snow or mud made it impossible to trace footprints, and in the dark it wouldn't have mattered, anyway. Relying solely on dumb luck and the hope that perhaps Blaine's inebriation would work in Kurt's favor, Kurt drove in increasingly broad circles, looping around the lot.
Where are you? he wondered silently, the passenger window rolled down as he scanned the night, driving at a pace that would have gotten him arrested if a cop was waiting nearby. Kurt hoped not—spending the night in a jail cell would definitely qualify as icing on the cake at that point—but he didn't dare increase his speed. Mostly he was worried that he might not only find but actually hit Blaine if he drove any faster. Fear had already attempted to seize him as he thought of what would happen if someone else happened to scour this deserted corner now, but he stubbornly forced those thoughts aside.
Later, he chided himself, slowing so that a lame duck could probably have out-raced him. Don't think about that now. Focus.
As ten minutes faded into twenty, Kurt couldn't help himself.
If he gets hurt, it's your fault. You shouldn't have left him alone like that, regardless of how angry he made you. He was drunk and confused. He just acted on an impulse, not because he was trying to hurt you.
Shutting those thoughts for later contemplation, Kurt sighed as he drove around another corner. The night was cool and dark, completely still with only the occasional breeze ruffling the town. Most of its unexciting inhabitants had retired for the evening, the stark contrast of orange street lights seeming eerie against the darkened homes. Kurt felt like one of the serial killers in a badly done Hollywood horror film, largely because he kept slowing down to peer at any suspicious shadows. Or maybe he was the hapless victim about to be chainsawed from behind, Kurt thought, rolling his eyes to himself at the thought of a mass murderer popping up in his back seat.
You need to back off the horror movies, he thought, not daring to turn on the radio in case he missed something. He wished that he dared to—the quiet was unsettling, his overactive imagination not helping as other, more probable dangers made themselves known—until at last he simply stopped at a stop sign and didn't bother moving forward after the requisite pause.
Dammit, Blaine, where are you?
He gripped the steering wheel, his foot resting on the break as he tried to figure out what to do. He could continue circling the area for the next three hours with no more impressive results. Or he could drive home and hope that maybe Blaine would somehow show up later. Or he could drive along that route and hope that Blaine would walk by and he could pick him up that way. Or he could just stay here until enlightenment shown down on him, a possibility that held more short-term appeal.
Call us if you need anything. My phone's always on, too, and I don't care what time of day it is or who's in trouble, you let me know.
Kurt would have banged his head once against the steering wheel to relieve his feelings of exasperation if he wasn't so relieved (and worried about bringing down angry neighbors by honking the horn). Of course. Blaine had his phone on him. (Kurt had made sure four times beforehand that he did; Blaine, although amused, had assured him each time that he did, and unless Sebastian had somehow managed to steal that, too, then Kurt could call him.
Absentmindedly thanking that gnome-in-a-teapot-flying-around-the-moon, Kurt dug his phone out of his pocket, scowling at the low battery.
This is not the time to have a low battery, Kurt thought, scowling and hoping that it would last for at least a brief conversation. He found Blaine's number immediately and punched it in, fingers crossed on his left hand as he held the phone up to his right ear.
Four long rings. Kurt could feel his heart rate quickening with each one, desperate for an answer.
Then, just as the fifth ring was dying out, someone picked up.
"You should keep better track of your hobbit," Sebastian drawled, the smile visible in his voice.
Click.
Sebastian was enjoying himself. Watching Blaine Anderson circle the parking lot ranting was amusing, even if he did occasionally wander a little too close to the road. Sebastian wasn't so sadistic that he would let the drunken idiot walk straight into oncoming traffic, but he was not above letting it shave a little closer than a good Samaritan would have. If Anderson's boyfriend happened to drive by, Sebastian felt it was simply all the more reason to let him sweat about it.
He hadn't given Anderson anything harmful. Just a playful little concoction that would helpfully remove most of his 'noble' inhibitions and let Sebastian have a little fun. Of course, most would have said that this was the perfect opportunity to take advantage of his insofar unsatisfactory affair. Even Trume was beginning to mock the plan again, despite being incapacitated with the flu. Sebastian knew that, as a proper heartbreaker, this should be making him overjoyed: vulnerable, angry, tipsy Anderson. Fresh off rejection from his boyfriend, an easy target for the rebound.
But Sebastian had no intentions of going to jail. He was a schemer. He enjoyed the thrill of his endeavors. Most consequences, he didn't mind. Going to jail for rape qualified as one of the few exceptions.
Leaning back against the hood of his car, watching with lazy eyes as Anderson came to a halt in the middle of the parking lot, probably in the midst of some drunken epiphany, Sebastian shook his head to himself. It had almost been too easy to convince the boys to come to Scandals. Just drop some illicit material in their hands and they panicked. If he had been in their places, he would have simply taken the cards and dropped them in a neighbor's trash. Or shredded them. As long as he didn't parade the fact that he had thrown them away, he would have gotten away with it. But Sebastian had been counting on Anderson and his boyfriend's inexperience, and it had worked. They wanted a place to get rid of the cards, and so they came exactly where Sebastian wanted them: the gay bar.
"Who are you?" Blaine asked, frowning slightly at him.
"Guess," Sebastian said, folding his arms and leaning back.
Blaine frowned, then shivered. "S'cold," he muttered.
"That's because it's November," Sebastian pointed out. "Feel free to walk around some more."
"Don't . . . tell me what to do," Blaine said, scowling. "'M walking home."
Sebastian grinned cheekily. "It's that way," he said, pointing towards Westerville.
Predictably, Blaine huffed and then started walking in the opposite direction.
"Predictable fool," Sebastian said, half-amused, half-curious at the possibilities that now stood before him. He had not expected Anderson's boyfriend to leave him alone, and when Sebastian had spotted Anderson walking out back, he had just pulled him aside and kept him out of sight while his boyfriend drove around, letting him wander freely once it was clear that he wasn't coming back around. Now, however, he basically had Anderson to himself. Drunk, angry, confused, at-his-mercy Anderson. The possibilities were already turning over in Sebastian's mind, especially ones of having a little fun with Anderson's boyfriend and keeping Anderson under the radar for a little while.
One night certainly wouldn't kill him, Sebastian mused.
"Hey, Blaine," he said casually, sidling up beside him. "Where are you going?"
"Home," Blaine grunted.
"I could take you there," Sebastian offered dryly. He felt like a poorly done villain in some date-rape scene, idling by at an easy pace, confident that his quarry wasn't going anywhere quickly. While he had been mostly out of it on the dance floor, Anderson had definitely surrendered the remainder of his fear and worry as well as other inhibitions now. Case-in-point: he was walking into the road again, this time with no indication of stopping.
Sighing was melodramatic, so Sebastian refrained as he cut across the last few yards briskly and gripped Anderson's upper arm, tugging him back like a fish on a hook. Anderson flailed and stumbled more than once, but Sebastian was not concerned that it looked graceful. Besides, everyone around here knew about Scandals, and few people would concern themselves with anything that walked in or out of it, even if they were fighting. Most residents simply wanted to keep their own 'straightness' intact, Sebastian knew, so they wouldn't intervene in any affairs.
This is almost too perfect, a sadistic part of him remarked. You should take advantage of it. Who's going to know?
Trume would, for one. It never mattered if Sebastian actually told him what he was doing or not: Trume found out. He was as much someone Sebastian confided and planned with as he was someone that Sebastian kept an eye on. There was no telling what invisible line Trume had set that, if Sebastian crossed it, he would react instead of maintaining his cool, passive silence. Sebastian knew it was high, but he had a feeling this was one of those black areas in his mind. No forgiveness.
Anderson was quiet beside him, but Sebastian didn't bother let go of his arm until they were back at his car. Enough fooling around: Anderson's boyfriend would probably double-back soon in desperation (if he was searching still, which Sebastian was ninety percent sure he was). Time to put a little ground between them, some unfamiliar territory to spice up the deal.
"Come on," he said, opening the back seat door and pushing Anderson inside, planting one firm hand on his chest to keep him from flopping over or trying to get out. He tugged the buckle over and shut the door, stepping lightly over to the driver's seat and sliding smoothly in place.
"So how far do you think your boyfriend's willing to go for you?" Sebastian mused aloud.
Anderson groaned. "M'head hurts."
"That's because of the alcohol, babe," Sebastian said, shaking his head as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Kurt wanted to scream.
Of course Sebastian would find Blaine first. He had probably found him the moment he left the bar, Kurt reasoned, since he had already spent so much time scouring the surrounding area. If he was smart, he would have just found a discreet corner and waited for Kurt to move on. The possibilities of where he was now were growing by the minute. Depending on how soon he had gotten behind the wheel and how fast he was going, he could already be to Westerville by now. Of course, Westerville was the predictable route, Dalton even more so. Kurt doubted Sebastian would be stupid enough to go there, no matter what twisted reverse psychology he used. Sebastian could go anywhere in Ohio if he wanted.
He won't go anywhere, Kurt reasoned, pulling into an empty parking lot to think. Tomorrow's Thursday. He could skip classes if he wanted to, but Warbler practice is on Friday. There's no way he's going to miss that, too.
Sebastian could miss Warbler practice if he wanted to, but as the lead soloist and frankly the most questionable member of the group at the moment, he would be risking his involvement to stay away. He had to come back some time, if only because other people would notice. Despite his public gestures, Kurt doubted he wanted to have people wondering his whereabouts when he was playing keep-away.
You're wasting time, a soft voice reminded.
Kurt closed his eyes. He had no idea where to go and, now that Sebastian had control of the situation, his chances were rapidly diminishing that he would 'win' this game.
What happens if you lose?
Kurt didn't want to think about that. Putting his boyfriend—his drunk boyfriend—in the hands of the same person that seemed determined to have him at any costs was not a comforting thought.
What do I do? he begged no one. Now was usually the moment when he swallowed his pride and asked his dad for help, but he was in Washington and probably asleep by now. Kurt knew that, even if he did call him, at most he could promise to kill Sebastian discreetly and hop on the next plane over to Lima at the soonest opportunity. (That was all assuming that his phone battery held out long enough for him to do anything, of course. Which it probably wouldn't.) Either way, fervency and promises could not fix the current situation. By the time his dad was back in Lima, the damage was already done.
The police also weren't really an option. For one, there had been enough people at the gay bar to recognize him and Blaine that they would definitely be in trouble for that, not to mention the use of fake ID cards and drinking underage. If Sebastian didn't even do anything, then he would be involving them in a needlessly complicated search facing deeply unpleasant consequences afterwards. (His dad would be angry and disappointed and probably ground him. The police would probably put him in jail, which was a much less appealing scenario.)
So where did he go from here? Did he dare go home and figure things out, maybe get Finn to help? At the very least, he needed a working phone. His was virtually useless as it was. Kurt doubted that even if Blaine somehow managed to get his phone back (highly improbable, but still possible), there was still every possibility that Kurt's would just die on him and then they would be in the same situation as before.
Pulling out of the parking lot, he angled towards east Lima. Maybe inspiration would strike when he was moving instead of sitting in blank confusion. He hated this feeling of helplessness and guilt.
You shouldn't have left him alone, he chastised himself.
He was the one who was stupid in the first place, Kurt's more aggressive half pointed out unrepentantly.
Still, Kurt would definitely prefer to be yelling at his boyfriend for his stupidity than anxiously left in the dark as he was then.
It took almost forty minutes to navigate his way home, largely because he kept detouring in some vague hope that he would find Blaine actually wandering around. It wasn't impossible—Sebastian had lied before—but his heart was moored somewhere in his stomach by the time he pulled up the familiar streets towards the Hudson-Hummel residence. No sign of Blaine, no dark hints from Sebastian (although his phone was probably dead by now), and absolutely no idea where to go from there.
Just please, please, please let him be okay, Kurt pleaded, investing all of his hope in that stupid flying-gnome-in-a-teapot. He seemed to have temporarily reached a busy line and was unresponsive, but Kurt needed something and right then it was the only thing he could think of. He didn't believe in God, but occasionally he humored himself with thoughts that that there was some celestial being handling all the busywork and might listen if he put in a note every once in a while.
Help us win Regionals and let us go to New York had been among his more successful pleas. For almost all of his sophomore year, it had been just Please let this end, but he was glad that the gnome had interpreted that non-literally and given him Blaine and Dalton Academy instead of a true end to the pain. It had been an end of an era instead: the time when he fought alone against the world was over. He had had friends, yes, but no one quite like Blaine, and it made all the difference.
Of course, the overwhelming response from the gnome was usually silence, but occasionally he found himself surprised when the gnome 'picked up,' so to speak. It had become a skewed lifeline for him, in a way, a final resort outside of his dad's tremendous ability to fix things and make him feel better. Maybe he was being just as bad as Finn and his Grilled Cheesus had been, but it comforted him knowing that maybe he had a strange ally somewhere.
Kurt pulled into the driveway with a fierce sense of trepidation, knowing that Finn awaited beyond, clueless about his desperation and fear. His heart was trying to leap out of his chest, but fortunately reality reasserted itself and he managed to steady his shaking hand as he reached for the door. Tugging it open tentatively, he blinked at the silence. No video games, then, which was unusual for Finn. Maybe he was at Puck's? Or Rachel's?
Quashing his helplessness, Kurt nearly leaped out of his skin when Finn appeared around the corner, looking confused and equally surprised by Kurt's presence. He did jump slightly, startled, before saying, "Oh. Hi."
"Hi," Kurt echoed warily.
"Your, uh—Blaine's here," Finn blurted with his usual eloquence.
Kurt stared at him in mute disbelief for two seconds. "What?" he asked at last, stunned at how thin and grateful his voice was. He was already moving before Finn could finish, gravitating towards the spot before moving past him, towards the bathroom. Light poured into the hallway, and Kurt could hear ragged breathing beyond.
"He's, uh, he's sick, I think," Finn added, rubbing the back of his neck as he sauntered over. Kurt spent another moment gazing in dumb shock at his boyfriend, half-sprawled on the carpet by the toilet, before rushing over and crouching down beside. "I don't know. . . ." Finn trailed off, shrugging. "I figured you'd be back together."
Kurt, for his part, was no longer paying any attention to Finn. He bundled Blaine up in his arms, determined to keep him from disappearing, because this was impossible. Even if Sebastian had been lying when he had said he had him, Blaine would never have made it all the way from Scandals to the Hudson-Hummels, let alone this quickly. If Kurt smothered Blaine a little, that was okay, since Blaine had already given him a minor heart attack for all his troubles. At least Finn had had the intelligence to wrap a blanket around his shoulders, Kurt thought, ignoring his frigidity. Although it was nothing that merited a trip to the ER, Kurt definitely didn't like that it implied a good amount of exposure to the elements. Still confused and worried and relieved all in one, he listened to Finn with half an ear, his fingers interlocked tightly behind Blaine's back.
". . . showed up about twenty minutes ago," Finn said, clearly finishing his speech. "I thought you two were coming home together," he added, correctly realizing that Kurt hadn't been listening the first time.
Kurt shook his head. "Later," was all he said. He felt Blaine shiver a little and wrapped the blanket more firmly around his shoulders. "How did you get home?" he added. "Blaine?"
Blaine didn't say anything, just curled up against Kurt and closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted, and Kurt felt bad for being pushy but he needed to know, so he gave him a slight shake that at least made his eyes open, half-hooded. "What?" he mumbled, clearly out-of-it.
"How did you get home?" Kurt repeated clearly, knowing that Finn was probably baffled but not caring at the moment.
Blaine sniffed. "M'head hurts," he said.
Kurt sighed, frustrated. It was definitely not the time for whatever alcohol Sebastian had given him to kick in more fully. "Can you focus for a minute? Please? Just tell me how you got here."
"I don't . . . fight. Fight with K-Kurt."
"Okay. What happened after that?" It was a little odd, he had to admit, listening to Blaine referring to him in the third person when he was right there, but he could tell from the heavy, almost exasperated sigh Blaine heaved a moment later that he didn't understand the situation, at least not completely.
"'M tired. . . ." he complained.
"I know, I know," Kurt crooned sympathetically. "Just tell me what happened after you fought with . . . Kurt." He decided that saying 'me' wouldn't be helpful in case Blaine wondered why he was blaming himself for a fight he had had with 'Kurt.'
Blaine's brow furrowed as he tried to remember. "I walked," he slurred at last. "Walked home." Then, pressing his face against Kurt's shoulder decisively, he whined, "M'head huuurts."
"That's because you're probably partially hungover at this point," Kurt informed him, not even bothering worry over the fact that Finn was listening. He could almost feel his stepbrother's eyes boring into the back of his head but he ignored them. He would tell him later; right now, he just needed to know how Blaine had gotten home. "I don't know what else was in what you drank, but that could be part of it, too," Kurt added.
"Dude, what the hell did you two do?" Finn asked, sounding half-surprised, half-worried. "Do I need to call Burt or something?"
"No, and I'll tell you later," he said empathetically. "Please just go away for now, Finn."
Finn lingered a moment longer, casting them both dubious looks before shaking his head and walking off with a muttered, "I'll be in the living room."
"Ugh, I'm sick," Blaine groaned.
"You'll survive," Kurt assured, rubbing his back slightly in an attempt to both comfort and warm him up a bit. He knew he should be angry at Blaine but honestly, hungover Blaine was rather pitiful, as Kurt had learned the last time he had to deal with him. It was like trying to kick an abashed puppy: once the high of it all wore off, the sober, downtrodden demeanor was impossible to contend with. Sighing slightly to himself, deciding that he would scold Blaine when he was more sober later, Kurt adjusted them so that his back was to the wall and Blaine was partially curled in his lap. Blaine curled his hand in Kurt's shirt, limp and heavy.
"'M sorry," he whispered.
"Hold onto that thought when you're sober," Kurt said dryly.
"I'm sorry," Blaine repeated obliviously. "'M so sorry, Kurt. . . . I-I'm sorry."
"Shh. I know," Kurt sighed. It didn't change the fact that he was still angry with Blaine in some small corner of his mind, but he couldn't help tightening his grip a little and resting his chin on top of Blaine's head. Yelling at him later still counted as being angry with him, after all.
It took a full hour before Kurt could coax Blaine off the bathroom floor, half-conscious and stumbling, managing to pull him upstairs and laying him down on Kurt's bed. Blaine was quiet and complacent, his eyes barely open, as Kurt tugged off his shoes and jacket, tucking the blanket around him instead. Blaine made a disgruntled noise and sat up slightly as Kurt tried to take the jacket away, clinging to it with shaky fingers. Kurt tried to gently brush them off but Blaine persisted, fumbling blindly until he found the pocket, his fingers crumpling around something.
Kurt frowned as he tugged out the note. It was addressed to him—Kurt—but not in the neat, compact style of Blaine's handwriting.
Apparently satisfied that Kurt had gotten the message, Blaine's arm dropped back onto the bed and he was snoring in seconds.
Confused and curious, Kurt sat on the chair at his vanity with the jacket and note in hand, flicking the light on to its dimmest setting as he held the slip of paper up to it.
Kurt, the note read.
Lucky once.
Keep a better eye on your boyfriend next time.
"What's got you down, beau?" Mercedes asked, nudging his shoulder as she sat beside him in the choir room. "You look sick. Are you?"
"No," Kurt said, shaking his head. "Just tired."
It was true—he had barely gotten any sleep the night before courtesy of the incident, and Finn had hounded him for an explanation until he had finally snapped and given as clipped a version of the events as he could by midnight. A difficult task, considering how many times Finn interrupted with a question or need for further explanation, but eventually they had managed and Kurt had explained everything that he knew about the situation, including Sebastian. Finn had immediately decided that giving Sebastian a good pounding would help, but Kurt had managed to convince him to wait. It was late and he was tired and just relieved that Blaine was (relatively) unscathed. Either way, he knew that he would be having words with the Warbler, especially about how kidnapping someone was definitely notallowed. Not to mention when that someone was Kurt's boyfriend.
Blaine had a pair of sunglasses on, his pallor a little paler than usual and his jaw tense. Kurt knew that he was probably thinking about the previous night, too, even though sobriety had not given him any enlightenment. Despite careful interrogation and a frustrated burst of 'Kurt, I don't know,' the topic had been inconclusively dropped. All they knew was that Sebastian had been involved and that at some point he had stolen Blaine's phone. The rest was a mystery: after Blaine had walked off, neither could piece together a coherent whole of what had happened.
"Well, cheer up," Mercedes told Kurt brightly, interrupting his line of thoughts. "Now that Berry and your beau are the leads, we can have all the time we want to prepare for regionals' solos."
"Regionals?" Kurt repeated, blinking stupidly.
Mercedes rolled her eyes and punched him affectionately on the shoulder. "Damn, white boy, whatever happened to 'divas forever'? Aren't you still supposed to be my friend, too?" Her voice had a teasing note to it that Kurt was grateful for. He never wanted to come across as though he was intentionally ignoring her, even if he couldn't help it sometimes that he lost track of his thoughts.
"Sorry," he said. "What's Mr. Schue's latest scheme to win?"
Mercedes leaped into a spirited explanation of what the competition looked like—whoever was getting leads in the production, for one, had to concede to the people that weren't, boosting Mercedes' and Kurt's prospects enormously—but Kurt, despite his inner promise to listen, soon found himself drifting back to thoughts of Sebastian and the night before. He blamed it mostly on the way Blaine sat stiffly in his chair, unmoving and silent, so unlike his usual self that Kurt wondered if the concoction Sebastian had given him had a personality altering component as well. He reached over, nodding slightly at Mercedes as she emphasized something, and grasped Blaine's hand, giving it a squeeze. Blaine looked at it briefly, his head moving almost mechanically, before he looked off to the side again and gripped it back.
". . . you and I are set," Mercedes finished triumphantly.
"All right, guys," Mr. Schue said, stepping into the classroom with his folders in hand. "You won't believe what I have prepared for regionals this time."
Mercedes cast Kurt a knowing look and smirked. Kurt did his best to look interested, but he was inevitably distracted when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Waiting until Mr. Schue turned around to expound upon the white eraser board, Kurt tugged it partially out of his pocket and scowled at the screen.
Hope you boys are ready for regionals. - S
Blaine looked over and made a disgruntled noise. Kurt tucked the phone away as Mr. Schue turned back around. He still had no idea what role Sebastian had played in last night's events, despite knowing that he had something to do with them. Either way, he was going to talk to the Warbler face-to-face—soon—and give him a memorable reason never to mess with Kurt Hummel again.
Despite the sense of almost camaraderie between them, a united front against Sebastian, Blaine knew that he had messed up—badly.
He wished that he could simply reverse the clock a day and remind his other self that he should just dispose of the cards in some public place in a discreet manner. In retrospect, he was kicking himself for ever suggesting that they go to the place Sebastian had hinted at just so they could get rid of the cards. Of course there had been ulterior motives, and unfortunately Blaine's curiosity had been piqued enough and his subconscious agreed that he was able to convince Kurt the same. Or win by default.
Either way, he knew that he had acted impulsively. Instead of consulting Kurt about one of the biggest steps in their relationship, he had tried to force it on him. It was a cringe-worthy thought and despite the headache that seemed to have been nailed into his skull, the thought that predominated was remorse. He wanted to apologize to Kurt in a way that showed him that he had never, ever meant to put him in a position like that, even if his subsconscious had wanted to. That was the whole point of rationality and restraint: not to act on those selfish desires, regardless of how appealing they were as far as short-term goals went.
Blaine wondered why Kurt had not yelled at him or at least given him the cold shoulder, instead acting exactly as though nothing had happened. It hurt Blaine to know that he had upset Kurt enough that he was pushing it all aside, not wanting to necessarily confront his own stupidity but knowing he had to.
So the minute glee practice was over and it was just the two of them in the auditorium, Blaine reached out and grasped Kurt's sleeve before he could walk out with the rest of the group. Kurt raised an eyebrow at him, evidently confused, but lingered behind, waving Mercedes off when she tossed a quizzical glance in their direction. With a wolfish grin in place, she waved back and walked off. Blaine could see the affectionate scowl on Kurt's face as he turned slowly to face him.
His face sobered instantly when he took in Blaine's expression.
"Last night," Blaine began, then paused, looking seriously at Kurt, trying to convey just how sorry he was, "should never have been like that. I'm so sorry, Kurt. I was drunk and stupid and I never would have acted like that sober."
Kurt's eyebrows lifted slightly. "So you would do it again drunk?" he asked, almost wryly.
"I—Kurt, I'm sorry. I really, really screwed up, and I know that you probably hate me for that and—"
"Hate is a strong word," Kurt said softly, his gaze contemplative.
Blaine winced slightly. "I just . . . I lost control of myself," he said at last, running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know why I drank anything in the first place—I swear I had no intentions of getting drunk."
"At least there wasn't a Rachel Berry around to smooch," Kurt pointed out, looking skyward as though for some divine explanation for Blaine's stupidity.
"The point is," Blaine said, walking carefully between assertive and submissive, not wanting to come across as arrogant but also needing to make his sincerity clear, "I messed up. Badly. And I completely understand if you want to spend some time apart or are angry at me—both probably—or . . . even if you want to break up with me. I was way out of line. I'd have freaked myself out if I was in your position, and I hate that I put you there, Kurt."
Kurt's gaze was almost opaque. "So . . . what you're saying is that I have permission to break up with you."
Blaine steeled himself against the instanteous rejection, wanting to say that they had promised to be together forever or some other such weightless promise. "Yes," he said quietly instead.
Kurt sighed, and for one horrible moment Blaine thought that that was it. Then Kurt said, "You're an insufferable fool sometimes, Blaine, but I guess that just makes you human," and Blaine knew it would be okay. It might not be perfect, and it was certainly no 'everything's forgiven,' but at least it wasn't rejection, either.