Hey guys, please review just a little bit so I can know if y'all like how this is going. Enjoy some Warblers and some drinking!
"Holy crap, I forgot how big it is!"
"Yeah, I bet you did," Mercedes sing-songs from the backseat, and Kurt rolls his eyes as Blaine pulls the car into Wes' driveway. His mansion has always impressed Kurt to no end—a giant rolling lawn that surrounds perfectly trimmed hedges at the foot of four stories of gorgeous Tudor architecture, way classier than anything in Lima, one of many magnificent examples of capitalistic aestheticism that Kurt became used to when he spent a lot of time hanging out with the Warblers at their houses. The driveway is also huge, which is good because it's full of cars, ranging from rusty jalopies (Puck) to tight, shiny little hybrids (Thad, maybe, or Nick) to an outrageously stylish sportscar that must be Italian or French or something not-Japanese (Kurt has no idea who that belongs to). Blaine yelps in excitement as he parks the car and looks out over the sea of vehicles in front of them.
"Hey, that's David's car! Wes didn't mention he'd be home too!"
"The more the merrier," says Sam, adjusting his shirt and brushing a lock of hair out of Mercedes' eyes. "Now let's get inside and party with some Warbies. Gorgeous ladies first," he purrs, getting out of the car and offering Mercedes his arm. She smiles and climbs out after him, taking his elbow and kissing him on the cheek as she closes the door behind her. Kurt approves, reflecting as he gets out of the front passenger seat how happy he is that Shane isn't here, complaining about the showtunes and drinking more beer than Puck, Mike, and Artie put together.
"Just up there, between those columns," Blaine says from beside the driver's door, gesturing at the front of the house. "Sam, why don't you and Mercedes go on up, Kurt and I will be there in a second."
"Um, sure," Mercedes says uncertainly, shooting Kurt a "what's up" look that he can only respond to with an equally bemused shrug. Sam, eager to acquaint himself with Wes' booze stash, waves goodbye to Kurt and Blaine and leads Mercedes up the driveway towards the front door, which is situated between a row of towering columns and is glowing in the light of a hanging glass lantern. Kurt turns to Blaine, not too distracted by his boyfriend's odd behavior to appreciate how good he looks in navy jeans, a dark-purple button down shirt over a black t-shirt, Kurt's beloved airplane pin shining silver on his lapel, and mercifully a slightly lesser amount of gel than usual. Kurt enjoys dressing Blaine—this outfit was easier to pick out than most, because Blaine is so excited and anxious about the party that he just let Kurt do whatever he wanted without lobbying too hard for a bowtie or protesting against the inclusion of socks—and he has to admit, he's done well tonight. His own ensemble is pretty damn good too: grey silk shirt tucked into a scandalously tight pair of distressed black skinny jeans (getting in the car and Blaine nearly stalling the engine because he was too busy staring at Kurt's ass, that was a fun moment), black knit short-sleeved cardigan accented with a red ribbon pin and a bright red belt, for that dramatic splash of color. His hair is also looking truly spectacular, and Kurt takes a second to preen internally and congratulate himself on a job well-clothed.
"Um, listen, Kurt…" Blaine begins awkwardly, fiddling with his keys as he speaks. This reminds Kurt of a certain ritual, and before he forgets he holds out his hand to accept his designated driver talisman. Surprisingly, Blaine shrinks back a bit, and Kurt frowns at him.
"Aren't you going to give me the keys? I told you, I can drive your car fine, my dad taught me to drive stick when I was twelve."
"No, it's not that. Kurt, I think maybe I should be designated driver tonight," Blaine says, clutching the keys tightly in one hand. Kurt's eyebrows rise and he moves a little closer to Blaine.
"But…why? I don't mind, you know I always—"
"But that's the point, you always drive and so you never drink," Blaine says ruefully. "I, on the other hand, am usually free to make an complete ass of myself with all the beer and tequila and whatever else I could want, and tonight of all nights I really really really can't pull any of my normal drunk shit, and I just think—I think it would be better if I had a real legitmate reason other than just saying no, because this way no matter how much I feel like drinking just to have something to do, I can't."
Kurt stares at Blaine, who looks a little embarrassed but holds steady eye contact, still jingling the keys in one hand. This is…well, it's surprising, because Blaine is many things but smart about drinking is not always one of them, and Kurt can tell from the set of his jaw that he really means what he says about having a concrete excuse not do a shot or chug a beer. It makes Kurt sort of proud and sort of happy and sort of unsettled, but anyway he nods and holds up both hands to symbolize his surrendering of key privileges.
"All yours, partner," he says, and Blaine grins and gives Kurt a quick kiss before taking his hand and pulling him up towards the sprawling house.
"You know, this means you can drink tonight if you want," Blaine says playfully, glancing over at his boyfriend. Kurt snorts and shakes his head as they reach the giant front door and Blaine rings the bell, the sound of elegant chimes echoing in the night air.
"Um, yeah, thanks but no thanks. The last time I got drunk I ended up puking all over Ms. Pillsbury in the hallway at school," he remembers, and he can't really blame Blaine for the look of delighted surprise on his face.
"Oh really!"
"Story for another time," Kurt says with a little grimace. He shakes himself and brushes back non-existent loose strands of hair. "The point is, I don't think I really have a reason to do anything tonight except have fun and party hard without a single drop of alcohol in my—"
"Hey, boys," someone drawls as the door swings open, and Kurt turns to greet Wes but instead finds himself face to face with the source of his awful niggling foreboding from yesterday, the thing he'd blocked out because all the talk of Wes and the old Warblers from last year had completely driven any thoughts of the newest and most sickening Warbler out of his head. Sebastian is standing at the door, a red Solo cup in his hand, perfectly dressed (damn him) in a tight green long-sleeve sweater and stone-washed jeans, grinning like the slimiest of politicians and working Blaine over with his eyes so hard that Kurt feels like giving Blaine an STD test right then and there.
"Sebastian! Good to see—I mean—um, hey, how's it going," Blaine stammers, unnerved by the intensity with which he is being currently eye-fucked, and Kurt makes the immediate choice to step in and get up in Sebastian's grill as closely as he can without getting his shirt covered in smarm.
"Hi," he says with a tone so cold it could wither a tomato plant. Sebastian takes a moment to meet the challenge of Kurt's stare—unlike Blaine, the two of them are at eye-level with each other—before stepping back smoothly and ushering them both into the front hall.
"Welcome," he purrs. Kurt wants to pour whatever's in that cup down the front of his annoyingly sophisticated sweater. It must be his sportscar in the driveway, which explains why it is such an ugly piece of stupid junk. "Wes is currently entertaining multiple generations of Warblers and all of the New Directions, so I'm here to roll out the red carpet for two ex-star members of our team."
"Thanks, Sebastian, we really appreciate it," Blaine replies, and Sebastian winks at him, which drives Kurt to look down and fastidiously check that he hasn't tracked any dirt into the house in order to keep himself from smothering Sebastian in the luscious carpeting.
"Anything for you, Blaine. Now, shall we?" Sebastian offers, and without waiting for Kurt he grabs Blaine's shoulder and steers him out of the front hall, forcing Kurt to hurry after so he can catch up to them as they weave through the labyrinth of living rooms and dining rooms and powder rooms and Rooms of Requirement and all the other endless twists and turns of Wes' house that finally deposit them in the party room, a vast den with several squashy couches, a stereo system complete with mikes and audio equipment to rival Rachel Berry's Oscar room, and a large, fully-stocked minibar.
The party is definitely in full swing already. All the Warblers are there, looking weird and goofy as they usually do out of uniform; Wes and David, both sporting new haircuts and in David's case, a little new musculature from rowing crew, are surrounded by a gaggle of Warblers who seem to be badgering them for news about their lives and yet not shutting up long enough for them to speak. The rest of the Dalton boys are joining the majority of New Directions in dancing to the Kanye blasting over the speakers. People seem to be mingling well, the McKinley kids laughing and playing around with the Warblers on the dance floor—thanks in part, Kurt is sure, to the open bottles of alcohol scattered across the room and the several burnt-out joints in an ashtray by the window. It is really is unbelievable that Wes' parents are okay with this, although to be honest, Kurt has never actually seen Wes' parents, so he doesn't have any empirical evidence that they exist.
Blaine laughs and immediately heads off to join the group that's mobbing Wes and David; Kurt, very eager to spend as little time near Sebastian as possible, drifts away towards the quieter end of the room, exchanging giddy hugs with a few Warblers and ducking under flailing arms on the dance floor. He moves towards one of the couches, where Quinn is sitting alone nursing what looks like a gin and tonic, and drops down beside her carelessly enough to jostle her arm and nearly make her spill all over her lap.
"Ah! God damn it, Hummel, watch yourself!" Quinn snarls, and Kurt is surprised for a second before he remembers that Quinn is indeed a very combative drunk. He sighs and shrugs by way of apology; Quinn looks like she wants to yell at him some more but can't find a reason, leaving her to sip stormily at her drink. Kurt's attention wanders across the room, picking out members of the New Directions: Artie is having some kind of arms-only robot dance contest with Brad; Mercedes, Sam, Brittany, and Tina are all rocking out like dorks with a bunch of Warblers, including a very sloppy-looking Nick and an even sloppier-looking Jeff; Mike is having a very intense conversation with Thad over in the corner, and Santana is grinding with Trent in a ridiculously over-the-top way; Rory is flitting around the sidelines, apparently trying to start dancing without drawing any attention to himself; and Rachel is sulking with Finn in the corner, her arms wrapped around his neck like a noose.
Blaine is in the middle of a giant double-hug with Wes and David, his feet leaving the ground as both of the taller boys squeeze him tightly. Kurt smiles when he sees how happy Blaine is, how excited and cheerful he becomes around his old Warbler chums—and then suddenly Sebastian swims into view, sipping from his Solo cup and telling a joke that is definitely not funny but makes two Warblers, Brittany, and Rory crack up anyway. Not until Quinn jabs him in the arm with one sharp fingernail does Kurt stop trying to make Sebastian's head explode by sheer force of willpower.
"What the hell's your problem?" she asks angrily. Kurt turns and sees her glaring at him, her perky blonde hair rumpled and unevenly swept to one side, the left strap of her sleeveless dress hanging down on her arm, her eyes cloudy with booze and bitchiness. Quinn Fabray can look like a total mess and still be the most amazingly beautiful girl Kurt knows, and it is really one of life's greatest injustices.
"I don't have a problem," Kurt snaps back, liking that he can take his bad mood out on Quinn because she's drunk and also in a bad mood and doesn't care. Her eyebrows shoot up and she jabs him with her finger again, this time right in the center of his chest.
"Don't lie, gay boy, I saw how you looked just now. Who are you hating on so bad it makes your face go all twisty like that?" She leans in towards him, smelling of gin and girl-makeup. Kurt fights the urge to breathe through his mouth. "Is it Blaine? Are you guys fighting?"
"No! God, no, of course not," Kurt huffs, and Quinn shrugs, taking another swig of her drink. Kurt watches as the clear liquid runs over her painted lips; Quinn swishes it in her mouth for a second before swallowing and wincing slightly at the aftertaste. She blinks and her eyes fuzz up a little bit more, and Kurt decides whatever, screw it, the night's already taken a turn for the worse. "It's that guy over there, the one with Brit and Rory and the Warbler with the hair," he says, pointing as subtly as he can over to where Sebastian is continuing to entertain. Quinn's eyes slowly follow Kurt's hand, and she blinks a few times when she catches sight of Sebastian.
"Oh wow. The one with the big dumb smile and the beady eyes?"
"Exactly," Kurt agrees emphatically. He kind of enjoys talking to drunk Quinn, she makes him feel like being catty is all right. "He's…after Blaine. In a big way. And I totally forgot about him being here when I encouraged Blaine to invite all you guys, and he's already all over Blaine and we've been here for like two minutes, and it just…sucks."
"Ah-hmmm," Quinn nods, sipping her drink. She peers over at Sebastian again and shakes her head. "Kurt, that guy is a big sleaze. He's a whore, and I can tell that even though I've never talked to him before and I can't really see him very well from here and my lips are freaking numb. You're way better than him, Kurt. If he's making a play for Blaine, you just have to get in there and show him that you can kick his ass in everything, anytime, anywhere, so he won't even dare to mess with you. You have to beat him at himself, you know?"
"Wow." Kurt isn't quite sure he understands what Quinn is saying, but it sounds wise in that very-drunk-accessing-normally-repressed-sources-of-understanding way. He frowns and bites his lip. "You mean I should…you know…"
"Go hard," Quinn finishes for him, and drains her drink to punctuate the point. "Do your worst, Kurt Fucking Hummel," she says with finality, her eyes watering from the gin and her entire body swaying a little as she claps Kurt on the shoulder. Kurt blinks and looks back at Sebastian basking in his limelight, turning over what Quinn has said in his head. Beat Sebastian at himself, at his own game—go hard, show Sebastian that Kurt could do everything he could do and a thousand times better, just for kicks. Kurt would give anything for that, for a moment where he takes all the stupid stylish junk Sebastian spews on a minute-by-minute basis and shoves it back in his face, only Kurt-ed up a notch. A little snippet of memory drifts through his mind: I hear you're the designated driver, Kurt…like all the time…
"I'll show you designated driver," Kurt says, realizing only after Quinn frowns at him and make a little "huh?" noise that he's actually spoken out loud. Making his mind up then and there, he plants a resounding kiss on her clammy cheek, says, "Thank you, drunken guru girl," and launches himself off the couch, heading straight for the minibar. If Sebastian can be the cool kid with the jokes and the dance moves and the booze, then so can Kurt. Except better.
The bottles are pretty uncomplicated: he can see the standard words on each one, "gin" and "vodka" and "whiskey"…a pretty bottle catches his eyes, tall and transparent and filled with a silver-clear liquid. There's a picture of a tropical palm on the label, and right beneath it are the words "Coconut Rum." Kurt is a fan of coconut, at least he likes Mounds bars, and so he unscrews the cap and takes a whiff. It's strong enough to make him recoil a little and blink back tears, but underneath the battery-acid burn is a fruity, tangy smell, kind of like fruit punch. Kurt steels himself and, pulling a Solo cup off a nearby stack, pours a miniscule amount of rum, then a little bit more, then enough to fill the cup about an inch or so. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and drains the whole cup.
It's horrible at first: Kurt's throat spasms and he nearly retches, the metallic sharpness of the alcohol tearing at his windpipe. He grabs the edge of the bar and takes deep breaths, trying to remember how he handled the (much more mild) Chablis that crazy April Rhodes slipped him years ago. Breathe through your nose, don't think about the taste, swallow again and don't gag…These instructions he's reciting to himself sound dirty in his head, and that little jolt of humor steadies him a bit. Kurt straightens up and hopes that nobody saw what just happened; unfortunately, that dream's dashed when Santana prances up, dressed to kill and loose-limbed with booze and (from the smell of her) a few puffs of weed. She wraps her arms around Kurt's neck and leans her full weight into him, which isn't much but is certainly enough to make him stagger a little and grab the bar again to hold himself up.
"Kurt! Kurt, little elfin sweetie, did I just see you take a shot?" she squeals, her eyes wide. Kurt coughs at the blast of vodka-pot breath in his face and takes hold of Santana's waist, pushing her back a little and trying to support both of them against the bar.
"Um, yeah, Santana, I guess you did," he says without inhaling through his nose. Santana giggles wildly and turns to the bar, grabbing the bottle of coconut rum by the neck and swinging it dangerously.
"Then why are we just sitting around here? We've got to do more! Shots, shots, shots shots shot-shots," she chants, threatening to brain him with the bottle as her hand soars through the air. Kurt reaches up and grabs it away from her, knowing that Wes will not be happy if she spills rum all over his carpet, and Santana grins goofily and shoves his hand and the bottle up towards his face. Partly to appease her, partly because he's still determined to one-up Sebastian in every way possible, Kurt fits his mouth to the bottle and takes a swig. It burns again, but not as badly as before, and he swallows just as much, if not more, as he had from the Solo cup.
"Wooooooo! Woo, Kurt, that was awesome! You're freakishly good at that, with the bottle…have you practiced on Blaaaaaine? Do you pretend he's a bottle, Kurt, is that what you do? When you guys are in the sack?" Santana practically shouts, and tugs the bottle from Kurt's grasp, taking a massive drink herself. Kurt feels kind of strange now, the world is moving a little slower around him and yet for some reason his heart is beating faster. Everything swings to the side a bit as he grabs the bottle back from Santana.
"Take it easy, Ms. Lopez. You've—you've had enough already," Kurt says flatly, surprised at how complicated it is to get the words out properly. Santana snorts in a distinctly un-ladylike way and reaches into a teeny pocket on her gold vinyl vest, pulling two plastic shot glasses out of a pouch that was absolutely not big enough to hold them. Slamming the glasses down onto the bar, she disentangles herself from Kurt and reclaims the bottle a third time, pouring out two shots and only spilling a few drops onto the polished wood surface.
"No way, José, no how. You and me, papi, we's gonna get our drink on, oh yes we is. We's gonna get crunk tonight! Warbler-style!" Santana throws her head back and crows like a crazed rugby fan before downing her shot in a single, graceful movement. Kurt takes the little glass in one hand, aware that his fingers feel heavier and clumsier than normal. He looks at the clear liquid, so innocent and friendly in the pink-tinted plastic, and then he hears a loud obnoxious society laugh that he recognizes as belonging to only one person, one monstrous and evil person, and so without another second's pause Kurt swings his arm up in an arc and empties his shot glass.