CHAPTER 7

Whooping and whistling.

Faces – cheering, surprised, smiling. Faces Kurt knew. Faces that didn't matter in the slightest.

It was all background, muted and faraway, a faint buzz barely registered by some small, unimportant part of his brain. Everything faded but the urgency of what just happened – what was still happening; all of his senses saturated with exactly what he'd been craving for, months of denial and now suddenly, shockingly, here it was.

Blaine's touch, his arms crossed tight around Kurt's waist, his body hard and solid behind him. Lips resting against the side of Kurt's neck, just lightly, innocently there. Blaine's smell, cologne and alcohol and him. Fingertips brushing gently, soothingly over Kurt's stomach, a square inch of absentminded bliss.

Kurt could barely breathe, his body frozen and oversensitive, every nerve right there on the surface, firing away, pleasure and contentment and warmth. He felt drunk on it, or drugged, too much endorphins all at once and a helpless, delicious surrender.

Slowly, the rest of the world started to come back – the bottle spinning. People laughing, kissing. The music, still there, a pounding counterpoint to Kurt's steady heartbeat. The slightest scratch of Blaine's stubble against his neck.

Someone was saying something – Rachel, he realized lazily – gesturing towards the bottle and prodding Blaine's arm. It only served to move Blaine's hand over Kurt's belly and down to his hip, gathering him up even closer. A mumbled "Mm, we're not playing" and hot breath against sensitive skin making Kurt shiver.

Enveloped in good-right-Blaine, his body humming at what felt like the perfect frequency of happiness, he watched the others play until they got bored and abandoned the circle one by one. Finally only Mercedes remained, asleep against the armchair, and okay, Kurt was getting a little cramped, folded in Blaine's lap like he was. Maybe it was a good idea to move somewhere more comfortable. Like the couch. Blaine could hold him perfectly fine there if he still wanted to (oh please let him still want to), and Kurt wouldn't mind regaining feeling in his legs, now that the all-encompassing urgency to keep Blaine as close as possible at all cost had faded somehow.

Except it wasn't that easy.

"Mm no, comfy." Blaine sounded utterly drunk, adorably whiny and a little sleepy. Kurt couldn't resist him like this, especially when he pressed his face even closer, the gentle slide of soft, dry lips under Kurt's ear. "You smell so good. So so good, Kurt."

Oh. Okay then. Moving was not an option.

Kurt settled for stretching his legs a little, flexing his feet to help the circulation. The annoying pins-and-needles feeling had nothing on Blaine's contented hum vibrating against his skin. Never mind discomfort, he'd just sit here and enjoy the closeness while he still could.

Five songs later, Blaine was no longer humming and Kurt's back was screaming at him to move.

He'd been sitting hunched for way too long, curled into Blaine's chest to accommodate for their height difference, and finally he reached the point where the discomfort was stronger than the pleasure of being held. Blaine's chin hooked over his shoulder seemed heavier with every passing minute. Slowly, bracing himself for resistance, Kurt straightened up a little.

"Blaine?"

Silence. He leaned forward and Blaine followed, his arms loosening their hold on Kurt's middle.

"Blaine."

Still nothing. Kurt took his hand and squeezed it gently, then less so; shook his arm. No reaction. Blaine was fast asleep.

Great.

Getting Blaine, uncooperative and heavy, up and into the car was a challenge that demanded full focus (and some help from Finn), so it was only when they started towards the outskirts of Lima that Kurt realized he had no idea where he was going. He knew where Blaine lived – in general terms – but he'd never been there, or even had the actual address, and the only person who could pilot him was currently out cold in the passenger's seat, resistant to all attempts at communication. 

He could probably pull over and go through Blaine's pockets to find his driver's license, and go from there – but then what? Blaine was dead to the world, there was no way he'd be able to get into the house and to his room by himself. Kurt could just imagine himself ringing the bell of his best friend's house at two in the morning, holding Blaine passed out against him.

Hello Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, here's your son, nice to meet you, 'kbye.

Sure, that would go well.

No, there was only one option. Sighing, Kurt turned the car around and went home.

Leaving Blaine asleep on the couch was out of the question – his dad could stumble upon him if he went to get some water during the night. Which meant he had to sleep in Kurt's room. In Kurt's bed. And the potential for creepiness that offered was terrifying.

Blaine didn't wake up while being hauled – none too gently – out of the car and up the stairs. Winded, Kurt deposited him on top of the bed, slid off his shoes, covered him with a throw and fled to the bathroom to prepare for sleep – and to calm down. Yes, Blaine probably wouldn't be comfortable sleeping in those jeans. Yes, his cardigan would get terribly wrinkled. But Kurt wouldn't risk freaking him out any more than he was probably going to be anyway when he woke up – hung-over, in Kurt's bed, not remembering how he'd gotten there.

By the time Kurt slid under the sheets, careful to keep a respectable distance, he was fairly certain he had this whole thing in proper perspective.

The developments of the night were as wonderful as they were unexpected. But they were also influenced by alcohol. It made sense that Blaine, tactile by nature, turned out to be a cuddly drunk. And while Kurt's body had clearly been addicted to Blaine's closeness since his mark appeared, the fact that it had gotten a solid dose of its drug tonight didn't mean there was a steady supply in Kurt's future, or that he was entitled to anything because of it. Nothing had changed between them, he had to remember that.

Overly aware of Blaine's presence so close that he could reach his hand and touch him – so close that his body hummed with it, Kurt didn't think he'd manage to fall asleep.

When he opened his eyes, it was dawn, the first tendrils of sunlight barely breaking the darkness in the room. He was warm and comfortable, and felt amazing – almost too good for such an early hour.

The warm, boneless weight of a boy on his chest explained a lot.

Blaine was pressed against him, hot even through the comforter. His arm was thrown possessively over Kurt's waist, his head resting on Kurt's shoulder, right over the spot where his name was inscribed. His face looked so soft and peaceful that Kurt couldn't resist. Gently, he threaded his fingers into the short curls at the nape of Blaine's neck and left them there, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth in a tender caress.

He should probably get up soon, get out of bed and dressed before Blaine woke up. But there was something so precious in the serenity of this moment that made him hold onto it just a little bit longer.

Blaine stirred, a slow, sleepy movement, and Kurt quickly stilled the strokes of his fingers, moved the hand away. Shit. Shit shit shit. Blaine just nuzzled his face into the crook of his neck though, humming indulgently. Oh, good – he wasn't awake yet, then.

Until he stiffened and moved away, his voice slightly panicked.

"Um, Kurt? Where am I?"

***

The crisp air of early morning worked like a cold shower, which was exactly the effect Blaine hoped for when he'd told Kurt he wanted to walk, rather than be driven, to Rachel's house to get his car. Five minutes of a brisk march and the last remnants of alcohol fumes had lifted from his brain, leaving him wide awake and kind of embarrassed about his hasty (more like desperate) retreat.

Oh well, the prospect of Kurt's father finding him in his son's bed after a party was really terrifying. Leaving as soon as he was up had seemed like the best course of action. 

Half an hour later, not far from Rachel's place, he found a little bakery that served coffee and went in to grab some breakfast. He'd promised Kurt he would stop somewhere to get properly caffeinated before getting behind the wheel. And while, thankfully, he didn't feel too terrible considering the amount of alcohol he'd ingested last night, coffee may help kill his burgeoning headache. And clear his mind.

But it turned out no amount of coffee – or, at least, not the two cups he had – could fill the gap in Blaine's memory, enlightening him on the details of how he'd gotten from Rachel's couch to Kurt's bed last night, and what the hell he'd done in between. The only thing he was certain of – because his body was still buzzing with it – was that he'd had Kurt in his arms for at least part of that time. There were fuzzy images of sitting in a circle with others, Kurt's body flush against his, of holding onto Kurt's strong shoulders and Kurt's fingers playing with his hair – but he had no idea how much of those were just alcohol-induced dreams.

At least Kurt hadn't looked freaked out in the morning, so there was a chance Blaine hadn't assaulted him in any way, or done anything to make Kurt afraid of him, thank god.

It took a surprisingly long time to follow this train of thought properly in his befuddled state, so it was only when Blaine was in his car and halfway home that he realized. He'd been completely out of control last night, any shred of rational thinking gone, and yet – he hadn't ravished Kurt, hadn't even kissed him, because that was something he would have remembered. He was down to his most basic instincts, completely drunk, and he'd done nothing to make Kurt flinch away from him in the morning, not even when he invaded his personal space like whoa in his sleep.

Whether the mark was sexual or not, it didn't rule him. It didn't make him do anything he wouldn't do without it.

The relief of the revelation almost made him run off the road.

***

Coffee in the Lima Bean with Rachel, and then helping her out with the post-party cleanup – Kurt could think of better ways to spend his Saturday, but it beat sitting in his bedroom, remembering every touch and every word, and moping over the fact that he didn't know if he'd ever have another.

Too bad Rachel wouldn't stop talking about Blaine.

"He called me, you know, not an hour ago. Asking what happened between him and you before you left the party."

"... oh." Kurt busied himself fixing his coffee, trying not to let his face betray him. Of course Blaine wouldn't remember. It wasn't like he'd expected anything else after this morning. Still –

"He seemed a bit shocked when I told him." Kurt's heart sank even lower. "Well, I mean, I was too, last night! Then he wanted to know how you reacted and–"

Kurt's phone rang, saving him from hearing more.

"Excuse me for a second." He fished the phone out of his pocket and sighed. "Speak of the devil. Hi Blaine."

The voice in the speaker was soft, tentative. "Hi. Listen, Kurt. I um... I wanted to ask you something. Would you go out with me? On a date? Not a coffee date, just. A date. Please?"