Enjoy!

Well, this was a massively unintelligent idea.

Kurt grabs ahold of the doorframe and clings on for dear life. The room is spinning before his eyes, tilting on an unstable axis, and everything is vaguely iridescent and dripping down around him and he feels like someone unscrewed the top of his head and poured in a gallon of dishsoap.

Kurt doesn't take alcohol well. This lesson was taught to him once, when he vomited on a germaphobic guidance counselor, had to be picked up from school by his dad, and spent an entire day sobering up on his bathroom floor. Apparently, however, it had not been taught as thoroughly as it should have been.

Santana had egged him on through another three shots, at which point she'd started to get teary about Brittany or something and Kurt was already reeling a little, and then Santana had somehow melted away and been replaced by Thad, Mike, and Jeff, who all punched Kurt's arm with brotherly affection and introduced him to something known as whiskey shots. Kurt lost count after four rounds and the circle was eventually broken up anyway when Jeff started singing the Muppet theme at the top of his lungs and Tina body-checked him in her eagerness to join in, but by that point Kurt was so completely gone that it was all he could do to stumble away from the commotion and make it to the doorway, where he is currently attempting to turn the world back into a place that he can stand up in.

Not that he has an especially extensive history with intoxication, but Kurt has never even been close to this level of drunk before. He can see what's happening around him, but it's all actually tilting back and forth like a carnival ride, people walking up a steep curve as the room swings high in one direction and others in danger of tumbling down a slope at the low end of the floor. There's a feeling of unfeeling about him, all his limbs numb to the point of existing as separate entities that he can see but doesn't have any kind of connection to, and yet when Kurt looks at his hand and thinks about moving it, somehow or other it moves. His mind is liquidated, literally: thoughts slosh around inside his skull, splashes of consciousness bursting from his brain and shining clear for a moment before it's all washed back down into the miasma of alcohol floating through every inch of him. Also, he's dizzy as hell and kind of can't balance very well on his own and may or may not have lost the ability to put one foot in front of the other.

"Kurt?"

The word drifts into his head, searching for any kind of port in this boozy storm, and after a long moment it finds its place and Kurt recognizes that someone is talking to him. His eyes swim over and suddenly there's Blaine right beside him, a look of concern on his face, and oh my god all the colors and the curves and the movements of Blaine are frickin' amazing. He's like a surrealist painting, bright and glaring and strangely off-kilter, and Kurt falls in love all over again with the beauty of Blaine.

"Kurt?" Blaine says again, and this time Kurt is ready: he looks Blaine in the eye (or he tries to, his own eyes feel weirdly heavy and slow right now) and answers.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks, sounding as though he already knows the answer to his own question. "You look a little…off."

"'M fine," Kurt answers, and immediately feels that what he just said wasn't enough. He puts his hands on Blaine's shoulders and leans in toward his boyfriend, overshooting more than a little and stumbling forward so that Blaine has to grab him by the forearms and push him back up. "Really, Blaine…Blaine, Blaine, I'm totally good, 'm fine, and you…I love you, okay?"

"Okay," Blaine says dryly, and pulls Kurt close to him, not to embrace him but to keep him from falling backwards now. "Kurt, come on, I think you need to lie down somewhere."

"But…but Blaine, there's still a party going on, Blaine…" Kurt whines, and he swings sideways to gesture at the party room where the party is still raging, everyone dancing now to an upbeat song that Kurt can't recognize in his current condition but that is being sung very well by a person who is possibly Wes, although Kurt can't be sure. Blaine huffs with frustration and pulls Kurt back, pinning his arms to his sides.

"No, Kurt, no party. Here, come with me, we're going to go outside for a bit now."

"Wooo, okay, Blaine!" Kurt sings happily, letting Blaine drag him through the door and away from the room, using his legs as much as he can but not doing so well, he can tell by the way Blaine grunts and hefts Kurt under the armpits like he's carrying a big, unwieldy duffel bag.

Things get a little clearer once Kurt is out of the hot, loud, smelly party, but not much. Wes' house is so huge and so dark and Kurt begins to panic a little, his head whirling like a pinwheel in the breeze and scary shapes looming out of twisting shadows. He curls his fingers into Blaine's upper arms and buries his face in Blaine's neck; Blaine stops moving and sighs, letting Kurt burrow into him as they come to a halt in the middle of a small living room. Darkness presses in from every side, and Blaine is warm and solid and the only thing that gives Kurt any kind of support in his rolling, tumbling world right now.

"I do love you," Kurt slurs, the words blending together so that he might as well be speaking code. He swallows, his throat bone-dry, and tries again. "I love you, Blaine."

"And I love you, Kurt. Even when you get bombed out of your mind and you fall on people and you burp," Blaine replies sardonically, and after a moment his arms come up around Kurt and pull him close. "Everything's cool, Kurt, it's okay, I've got you."

"Thanks," Kurt mumbles into the fabric of Blaine's shirt, trying and failing to remembering any particularly spectacular burps he's executed recently. Time passes, he's not sure how much, and everything is beginning to settle around him, like flakes of snow in a snowglobe coming to a rest after a particularly violent shake. Kurt is semi-aware of sagging down towards the floor, of Blaine picking him up and cradling him like he's a baby or a princess or something (Blaine is shorter than Kurt, wow, but he can totally pick him up anyway, that's so great), and then he's moving through a dream, floating across a dark sea and washing up on a soft island that smells like linen and outside air and feels squashy and soft, and the last thing Kurt registers before he passes out is Blaine's weight beside him, heavy but not too heavy, gloriously warm, keeping him safe and snug in the unsteadiness of the world around him.

When Kurt wakes up, he knows two things instantly: one, he's nowhere near as drunk as he was before, and two, he is definitely still drunk.

Sitting up isn't easy because the mattress is so deep and gives so much underneath him, but Kurt manages it, struggling to raise his head and look around the small guest bedroom that Blaine must have carried him into. A lamp is burning beside the double bed on which Kurt is lying, and in its easy golden light Kurt can see that he's actually on top of a giant pile of coats, which would explain the imprint of a zipper on the back of his hand. The room still spins when he moves too quickly, but if he takes things slow he can focus and keep everything in place. The intoxication is mostly in his body now, weighing down his limbs and making them tingle feather-light at the same time, clogging his brain's processes like gum in a mechanism of gears. His senses are stabilized to a certain degree, which makes it easier to move through the booze-haze that's wrapped around him like a skintight cloak.

Kurt stretches a little, feeling languid and rested, still dizzy but in a nice way. He slides his legs off the bed and stands carefully, only losing his balance and swaying backwards once before he's on his feet again and standing tall. His skin feels static-y, buzzing a little and rough with dried sweat.

The door opens suddenly and Kurt jumps, nearly falling back onto the bed. Blaine stands in the doorway, glowing yellow-bright in the lamplight, holding a Solo cup and looking so beautiful it makes Kurt feel a little faint. His eyes widen when he sees Kurt up and awake, and he hurries over to his side.

"Oh wow, Kurt, I'm sorry, I just stepped for a sec to get you some water…are you sure you should be standing?" Blaine asks with concern. Kurt nods, but stops quickly because that's a little too much for his sense of balance to handle right now.

"I…feel a lot better now. Mostly." The words aren't perfectly formed by any means, but at least he's coherent now. Blaine gives him a long look before, apparently satisfied that Kurt is no longer the stumbling drunk mess from earlier, he relaxes a little and takes Kurt's hand, wrapping his fingers around the Solo cup.

"Drink that," he orders gently, and Kurt obeys, slowly gulping down the water that feels cool and wet against the dryness of his mouth and throat. When he's finished, Blaine takes the cup and puts it behind Kurt on the bedside table.

"How long did I asleep?" Kurt asks, aware that something is incorrect in his sentence but not quite possessed of the capability to figure out what. Blaine laughs a little and smooths Kurt's hair back from his face.

"Like half an hour or so. You were wasted, I think your body needed some time to process all the alcohol you poured into it. I worried, though," he frowns, dropping his hand from Kurt's hair and reaching his arms around Kurt's waist. "You were breathing okay, you weren't cold or anything, I just…wanted to make sure nothing was going to happen to you. I was the one who took the keys tonight, if you drank too much and you got sick and—and—ugh, I really don't want to think about it anymore, I've been kind of going over all the horrible possibilities in my brain since you fell asleep."

"You were in here…with me…the whole time?" Kurt says slowly, something blooming in his chest as he stares at Blaine's sweet, anxious face. The booze is making everything blurry and warmer than it should be, heat rising from Kurt's skin as he becomes suddenly aware of how close Blaine is, and how beautiful he looks awash in golden light, and how amazing the muscles on his upper arms feel when Kurt slides his hands over them. A rushing sound is building in his ears and his head is so full of Blaine it's as if Blaine is the booze itself, trickling through Kurt's bloodstream and knocking him down from the inside. A memory of Blaine on top of him, one thigh pressed between Kurt's legs and a mischievous grin on his face, suddenly floats up and pops like a bubble in front of his eyes, and before Kurt really knows what he's doing the whole world tilts again and his lips crash into Blaine's, tasting ginger ale and chapstick and Blaine.

"Mmmmph, hey cut it out," Blaine protests, his voice muffled by Kurt's mouth over his, and strong hands are pushing Kurt away and holding him tightly by the waist, keeping a good six inches between their bodies. Kurt looks up into Blaine's face, sees that a flush is rising in his cheeks and his eyebrows are pulled together anxiously.

"Your eyebrows are like little tortilla chips, did you know that? Triangles, Blaine. On your face."

"Yeah, okay, just relax," Blaine sighs wearily, and his eyes are so incredibly gorgeous in this lamplight and Kurt's lower stomach is aching a little in that way it does when he wants Blaine—he wants him right now in this dizzying swirling confusing mist of alcohol where everything makes him shiver and the thought of Blaine's hands on him, Blaine touching him, is almost overpowering. Kurt rocks backs towards Blaine and grabs his face this time, kissing him hard and sloppy, tongue twisting inside Blaine's mouth and his teeth pressing into Blaine's lower lip, all his movements carried a little too far because the booze saps his control. For a second or two, Blaine actually kisses back, moving in tandem with Kurt, sucking on his tongue and burying a hand in Kurt's hair—then he pulls away and lets go of Kurt entirely, stumbling back a bit so that his legs collide with the bed.

"Jesus Christ, Kurt," he pants, and Kurt's body tingles all over when he sees how affected Blaine is by what just happened. Blaine runs a hand through his loosening curls and takes a deep breath. "That—ah, take it easy, okay? Damn…"

"It's okay," Kurt whispers, and he's back up against Blaine, front to front, the distance between them excised in favor of the closeness that allows electricity to flow back and forth, carrying heat in a closed circuit that's building up pressure inside Kurt and making him want want want his hands on Blaine and his mouth on Blaine and Blaine on him, right where he needs him, where the tightness in his groin is beginning to insist upon. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Blaine, the world drifting and spinning beneath him, his thoughts growing increasingly sluggish while his libidinal urges start to take the wheel. "It's fine, we're alone here, nobody's gonna miss us…Blaine, oh my god, just be with me, now, please…"

"Ah…Kuuuurt," Blaine moans, and his hands are pushing back against Kurt's chest, but not really, only bracing them apart the tiniest bit, and Kurt likes the way this is going so he shoves one hand in Blaine's back pocket and slides the other up under the bottom of his shirt and lets his mouth settle down on Blaine's neck, working at the tender skin there. Blaine tastes like sweat and smoke and a little bit of cologne-y chemical, and something about that turns Kurt on so much that he staggers a bit, most of his weight falling towards Blaine so that Blaine has to grab the front of his shirt to keep him standing.

"It's good, right?" Kurt mutters into Blaine's neck, immediately punctuating his question by applying suction to one of the more sensitive areas right below the back of Blaine's jaw. Blaine's hands spasm against Kurt's chest and a shaky breath forces its way out of him.

"Nngh…oh god, yes…no, wait, I mean—Christ, is this what I'm like when I'm drunk? Really this bad?" he asks hoarsely, voice threatening to crack. Kurt laughs low against Blaine's neck and nips a little at his earlobe.

"Maybe," he breathes. "You get a little more handsy though," and to demonstrate what he means, Kurt drags his fingernails up under Blaine's shirt, scratching slow and sweet over the skin of his back and failing to bite back his own moan of pleasure when Blaine gasps and shudders hard against Kurt. There's so much heat in this little room that Kurt can hardly stand it, but suddenly Blaine is pushing him backwards with a lot of force, enough to open up a foot of space between them. Kurt sways and stumbles and tries to process what's happening, though all he can really see is Blaine's bright red cheeks and his shining eyes and the sliver of stomach exposed by Kurt's tugging at his shirt.

"Kurt, I can't do—I just—this has happened before," Blaine says a little breathlessly, brushing back his curls again. "Except usually it's me getting all horny and touchy-feely and not taking no for an answer. I understand, Kurt, I know what you're feeling but it's just…it's a bad idea. As I've learned from past experience," he adds with a touch of bitterness. Kurt can't really understand what Blaine is saying, all he knows is that they're not touching right now and they should be. He moves up to Blaine again and takes his face in his hands, numbed fingers sliding over the invisible but rough stubble on Blaine's cheeks.

"But Blaine, this is different," Kurt basically whines, aware that he sounds like a jerk but too drunk and aroused to care. Blaine shakes his head and removes Kurt's hands, holding them tightly in his own.

"How, Kurt? How exactly is this different?"

"Because," Kurt huffs impatiently. "Because this is me, not Rachel frigging Berry, and we're not in a stupid parking lot and you and I are a couple and we're in love, and so everything is okay because this is just like normal except a little different." He's slurring again, but Kurt needs to say these things, needs to convince Blaine that here and now, in this little bedroom with the coats and the lamp, it's the right time. He leans close and kisses Blaine's neck again, reveling in the barely audible, high-pitched noise his boyfriend makes, noticing that this time Blaine doesn't push him away. He moves his body right up against Blaine's, runs his loose fingers over every part of Blaine that he can reach, touches his lips against Blaine's cheek and nose and chin and forehead, knowing by the pounding of Blaine's heart an inch from his chest and the way Blaine's eyelids are fluttering that his resolve is fighting a losing battle with Kurt's plan of attack.

"And besides," he whispers, "I'm not a virgin anymore, and neither are you. So this…this is nothing new, it's just good. Like it always is with you, always, Blaine, god you're so amazing, I love you, I love being with you and touching you and you touching me and you take my breath away so freaking bad I can't even handle it—"

Blaine cuts him off with a kiss, a hard kiss, and Kurt barely has time to think oh fuck yes yay before Blaine is pulling him down onto the bed and everything is spinning and Kurt is so dizzy and disoriented that for a moment he's more confused than he is horny, but then Blaine is on top of him and those hands are clutching at the backs of his knees and pulling his legs up on either side of Blaine's hips and Blaine's tongue is curling against his and things are great right now, Kurt needs to get wasted more often.

They twist and tangle together, Blaine still holding back a little but Kurt more than making up for his reticence with full-on sex-maniac mode: every part of this is familiar and yet more, his skin practically bursting into flame wherever it comes into contact with Blaine, and so all his reactions—especially his noises—are on a whole new level. He knows he's kind of acting like he's auditioning for porn, and if he could reign it in even a little bit, he would (okay that's a filthy lie), but he can't, because something about the alcohol in his system has suckerpunched all of his censors and filters and he's loving it, loving the feel of Blaine and the smell of Blaine and the way Blaine's hips grind down onto his. The world is a giant tumbling explosion of a million things that just feel so fucking incredible, and when Blaine slips a hand down underneath Kurt's belt (which is very impressive, because these pants are so insanely tight) and his fingers touch, stroke, grasp, Kurt's eyes roll back into his head and he loses it, garbled sounds fighting to force their way from his lips, legs shuddering and twitching, his hands tearing at Blaine's clothes in a way that he would never ever do if he were sober because he respects clothing too much. Blaine pulls him tight up against him and hums in his ear, kisses his temple above the eyebrow, and with a loud laugh that sounds stupidly drunk even to Kurt himself, he throws himself up and sideways and rolls Blaine underneath him, plants himself on top of his boyfriend and drags their hips together so that Blaine moans and arches up and oh my god nothing is better than this, I can barely keep my balance and I don't really know what's happening but it feels so hot and perfect yes yes yes—

"Oh shit."

It comes from the door, it doesn't make sense to his addled brain, and it's just so wrong in the moment that Kurt reels, swaying backwards as he straddles Blaine. His eyes are jittering in his head and they don't seem to want to focus on anything, not on the lamp that is suddenly way too bright, not on Blaine panting beneath him, not on the bed itself and the coats and the Solo cup on the nightstand—but then something clicks and he can see straight (straighter, anyway) and somehow he's able to look over and through the haze of interrupted sex and intoxication that Sam (whose voice it was that shot this whole thing all to hell), Mercedes, Wes, and oh holy fuck no Sebastian are standing crowded together at the door, all them looked shocked and embarrassed except for Sebastian, who looks smug and poisonously thrilled.

For the first time tonight, Kurt feels a jolt of nausea in the pit of his stomach. Blaine is tense beneath him, both of them still breathing hard, Kurt rocking back and forth a tiny bit because he doesn't have the capacity to keep still right now. The moment stretches on and on, and then Wes steps forward, his eyes respectfully downcast.

"Um, sorry guys, but Mercedes left her phone in her coat pocket. And Sebastian needs his coat as well. Don't want to disturb you, but if you could just—well—"

"Yeahnototally," Blaine says in a rush, and he wriggles out from underneath Kurt so quickly that the motion picks a fight with Kurt's balance and wins and he goes crashing backwards onto the pile of outerwear. Nothing is staying still and the bed seems to be swinging underneath him, so Kurt just lies there until he feels Blaine's hands pulling him firmly but not violently up and onto his feet. Being drunk is working against him in an awful way now: instead of making things seem sexy and fun, it's keeping him from adjusting to the situation, weighing his head down in a cloud of disorientation and sick confusion that won't let him steady himself even for a second. He clings onto Blaine, staring as hard as he can at the lower left corner of the bed because it's not moving and it's not staring back at him and maybe if he doesn't look away the mental motion sickness will stop.

Mercedes is searching for her coat, blush creeping over her cheeks; Sam and Wes stand by the door, apparently unwilling to move any farther into the center of this galaxy of awkward. Sebastian, however, shamelessly strides forward and plucks his coat out of the heap, flashing Blaine a dazzling smile as he does so.

"Great party, huh, Blaine?" he smirks. Blaine nods and mutters something noncommittal; bundled up against him, Kurt squeezes his eyes shut for a second and then looks up at Sebastian, trying to project haughty and cosmopolitan instead of sloppy and embarrassed. He can't really blame Sebastian for not buying it, because Kurt knows he probably looks like a mess from the drinking and the sleeping and the making out, but when Sebastian appraises Kurt from beneath his lowered eyelids and gives a barely detectable snort of pure derision, Kurt's stomach flips over again and it's all he can do not to puke on Sebastian's dumb stupid ugly evil face.

"Okay, got it, sorry again Blaine and Kurt see you later bye," Mercedes says without pausing as she snatches up her phone, turns, and drags Sam from the room. Wes exits behind them, raising a hand in an attempt to bid farewell to Kurt and Blaine without actually looking at them, and Sebastian sticks around for one last leer at Blaine and one last sneer at Kurt before heading out the same way.

"Damn it," Blaine breathes as soon as the door shuts, and Kurt drops his head onto Blaine's shoulder, closing his eyes and suddenly wishing this night could just be over. He feels Blaine's hand, warm on his lower back, and tries to find the words to express how much Blaine means to him right now, how grateful he is that Blaine doesn't hate Kurt for drunkenly—well, "seducing" him might be the right phrase, but especially in a room that people would obviously be walking into. Except there are no words in Kurt's head right now, just boozey exhaustion and a slowly growing ache around his temples.

You know, I wonder why I like to have Kurt and Blaine interrupted so much. I suppose it's very dramatic, but honestly, I just think the looks on their faces would be precious.