Trigger warnings for implied non-consensual sexual activity.
It was well after midnight when a groggy Blaine set both feet on baby blue carpet. The ground seemed to be moving underneath him. He felt like he was going to puke, and the way the room kept swaying wasn't helping. He half-heard a voice ask something that ended with "okay?"
He groaned. "I think I'm gonna…" He stumbled towards the small door that led, he somehow knew, to the en suite bathroom. He didn't make it to the toilet before he felt the acid burn in his throat and mouth. He reached out, falling to his knees, and grabbing hold of the edge of the small bathroom sink. His stomach lurched unpleasantly.
Behind him, a man made a disgusted noise, but Blaine didn't really hear it. "Come on," said Jeremiah with a sigh. "Let's get you cleaned up." The sound of the shower taps turning on somehow made it to his brain, lodging itself in his memory. How he'd managed to get himself totally naked, though, was a mystery. Jeremiah led him into the shower, following him in without stopping to remove any clothes. Blaine closed his eyes and let the shower spray hit him in the face. He opened his mouth to drink the spray. He was thirsty and his throat felt raw and dry. After spitting out the first few mouthfuls he swallowed the next few.
Though it touched off his nausea, he steadied himself with two hands on the tile wall. Behind him, hands were rubbing the tension in his shoulders, and a voice that seemed to be fading farther and farther away was whispering something he couldn't really make out.
When Blaine woke up again, he was in a bed. He'd been in this bed before. He'd been in it before he'd gotten up to vomit. He was naked. He felt an aching pressure in his lower abdomen when he moved. Still, he needed to check the clock. He had a curfew after all, and for a second he wondered how he'd gotten himself into this unfamiliar bed. Had he thrown up on his clothes? Had Jeremiah needed to undress him? An embarrassed flush crept up his cheeks as he tried, unsuccessfully, the crawl out of bed without rousing the older man.
"Mmm. Blaine?"
The murmur stopped Blaine cold. His head pounded. "I – I have to go. My dads…." He stopped at the word, blinking, rubbing his palm against his temple as he tried to wake himself up.
"I need to go," Blaine repeated quietly. He stumbled forward, accidentally kicking cloth with his toes. He reached down, and realized he'd kicked his shirt. Swaying a bit on the spot, he pulled the shirt on, which in a way, made him feel even more exposed from the waist down. He fumbled about in the dark for a few moments before finally finding what he thought were his jeans, and a few inches away, his boxers. He pulled them both on (and in the correct order, he was fairly sure), before finally turning on the light to search for his shoes. He avoided looking at the bed, at first, but as he pulled one battered tennis shoe onto his sockless left foot, he glanced up to see Jeremiah, naked from at least the waist up, shielding his eyes from the light with his arm.
"You're not walking home like that," he said, his throat rough with sleep. "You look like shit. Your dads are going to know you've been drinking."
Blaine stopped midway through pulling on his right shoe, struck by the thought. "I – no, I mean…" He found himself at a loss for words as he dropped his foot to the floor.
"You can't tell anyone I let you drink in my house. You know that, right? I could go to jail for that. And so could you. Drinking is illegal if you're underage." Jeremiah's words were sharp, piercing the fog in Blaine's brain. He blinked, brows furrowing as he heard the meaning. "You don't want that for either of us, right?"
Blaine found himself shaking his head. No, he didn't want that. He didn't want to go to jail. He didn't want Jeremiah to go to jail. Somehow, Jeremiah managed to slip out of bed and walk over to where Blaine was seated on his floor. He crouched down, a gentle smile on his face. Blaine was staring at something other than Jeremiah's face until the man put his hands on Blaine's cheeks and guided his face up to meet his own.
"Good," said Jeremiah. "Because I really like you Blaine. You're not like other guys your age. You're way more mature than all of them. Don't make me regret liking you, Blaine."
Blaine's heart skipped another beat.
Rachel startled at the sound of the front door closing. She gasped, realizing she and Finn had fallen asleep on the couch. "Finn," she hissed. "Finn, wake up." He groaned. Rachel checked the time on her phone, but the footsteps approaching the darkened living room stopped. She sat up, her figure illuminated in the glow of the television. But as soon as she realized it was Blaine and not her fathers home early from their trip, she relaxed. Finn grunted and sat up, dragging his hand down his face. In the dim illumination, Rachel saw Blaine's face tighten then she watched, in silence, as Blaine turned and shuffled off unsteadily towards the den.
"Wha- wha happened?" Finn asked sleepily.
"Nothing," Rachel said. "It's late, go back to sleep."
With a nod of his head, Finn nestled back down on the too-small couch. Rachel, for her part, decided to head to her bedroom to try and avoid an even worse crick in her neck by the time the actual morning came around.
She frowned though, as the image of Blaine's arrival and departure to his room replayed itself in her head. Was he drunk?