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This wasn't fucking supposed to happen again.

Before he even opens his eyes, Kurt knows last night didn't go as planned. He knows this because his head is pounding and every single part of his body is sore and his throat feels like it hasn't seen water in weeks and he's fairly certain he's going to puke any second now.

But first and foremost, he knows this because he's waking up on a Saturday morning in a stranger's bed. With no recollection of how or why he ended up there.
Again.

Kurt lifts his head off the pillow - ow, ow, ow - and tentatively turns to his right, where he finds what appears to be a blonde, toned, rather picturesque frat boy. He raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised and slightly amused. Not bad, Hummel, he thinks to himself. You manage to find good looking randoms even when you're completely and totally blacked out.

He rolls over, careful not to induce any more head trauma, and looks down to find his pants from the night before and his phone lying on the ground. And you even had the good sense to keep your phone on you. Good work, drunk ass. He reaches his arm out for his phone and presses it on. Five new messages. He's hesitant to read them - god knows what unfortunate, embarrassing info they'll reveal about last night - but it has to be done. He unlocks his inbox to see three are from Rachel ("where'd u go??!!", "way 2 many tequila shots hefaeflp", "jesse called goin 2 his apt txt me in the morning luv u!!!"), one is from Sebastian ("Damnit Hummel, I TOLD you I called dibs on that guy"), and one's from Quinn ("use a fucking condom this time, bitch. love you"). He smiles in spite of himself. Typical.

He's about to send out a group message asking what the fuck happened last night when he hears a sigh and the sound of sheets rustling from behind him. Fuck. Hot as this guy is, he really doesn't feel like re-introducing himself, and he really doesn't feel like engaging in any sort of morning sex when he feels like death and probably looks even worse than that. For that matter, he's in dire need of a cigarette or three, and in Kurt's world, coffee is always preferable to sleeping in. He peeks over his shoulder and makes sure the Abercrombie and Fitch reject is still passed out, then slides his legs over the side of the bed and sits up slowly.

A wave of dizziness hits him the second he's upright - Jesus Christ, how much did he drink last night - but he grits his teeth and powers through it. He grabs his boxers and black Diesel jeans and pulls them on, then slides on his gray t-shirt, worn out leather jacket and black Doc Martens. He checks his hair in the reflection of his phone, runs his fingers through it a few times, then takes one last look at frat boy and bolts out the door of the apartment, down the stairs and finds himself smack in the middle of the Lower East Side.

Despite his pounding headache and churning stomach, Kurt smiles in spite of himself. He fucking loves this city, and he loves this part of town. Even though it's January and it's freezing cold and the sidewalks are icy and he should've worn a scarf or something last night, he lights a cigarette and is reminded of why he came here in the first place. Why he moved here from the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Ohio five years ago when he was nothing more than a fresh-faced, ridiculously innocent eighteen-year-old with a bank account full of trust fund money (thanks, Grandpa) and an appetite for adventure. Since then, he's grown up considerably, discovered a talent for binge drinking and bad decision-making, and met some of the best friends he's ever had.

There's Rach, his best best friend, an aspiring actress who's full of spark and passion and energy (much of which is expended on Jesse, the on-again, off-again object of her affection). She was the only one in Ohio who understood his desperate need to get out, and so they moved to the city together two weeks after graduation. There's Sebastian, who they met at a gay bar a few months after they moved to the city. He's snarky, touchy and flirts with anyone and everyone with a pulse, but he's also hilarious and up for anything and a little bit dangerous, and Kurt likes that (so much so that they've drunkenly fooled around a few times, but decided they're better off as friends and partners in crime). Then there's Quinn, who lives in the apartment across the hall from Kurt and Rachel. She's always up for anything, which Rach loves, and is fiercely loyal and an incredible listener, which Kurt needs. The four of them make up what Sebastian calls the "fierce fearsome foursome", which, although outrageously homosexual, is pretty accurate. Kurt doesn't remember the last time any of them stayed at home - or stayed sober, for that matter - on a Friday or Saturday night, and they like it that way.

Kurt starts walking to the nearest subway stop, inhaling deeply and savoring the slight burn in the back of his throat and his chest. He used to feel guilty about smoking, but now it's so second-nature that he barely even thinks about it. Self-destruction is kind of his thing, anyway. He can't even remember how many times he's promised himself he'd cut back on drinking, and frankly, after last night he's sick of trying. Why bother, when the cycle's just going to repeat itself?

He stops in front of a Starbucks - thank God there was one on the way - and puts out his cigarette in the ashtray out front. The line's nearly out the door, as per usual, but he gets in the back anyway and figures it's a good time to talk to his friends, all of whom are definitely hungover and probably performing the same walk of shame that he is. He texts Rachel first.

Kurt Hummel: Hey Rach, you alive?
Rachel Berry: u could say that. 99% sure i told jesse i loved him last night after approx 9 tequila shots
Kurt Hummel: I'd laugh but considering the fact that I just snuck out of some random's apartment in the Lower East Side, I'm not much better
Rachel Berry: hahahahhaha oh god. was he cute at least?
Kurt Hummel: Duh. You coming home soon? I'm stopping to get coffee but should be back in half an hour tops
Rachel Berry: yup jesse paid for a taxi, headed back as we speak :)
Kurt Hummel: Well, ooh la fuckin la. Make extra coffee when you get home. I'm obviously getting some now but I'll need more
Rachel Berry: duh :)

He walks up a few steps - why the fuck is this line taking so long? Is it that difficult to pour steamed milk and pump syrup? - and decides that Sebastian is either dead asleep or in the middle of relations with a stranger from last night, so he skips straight to Quinn.

Kurt Hummel: Lower East Side. Just snuck out of a random blonde's apartment. I hear tequila was involved last night and if this headache is any indication, I'm thinking our dear friend Jack Daniels paid a visit as well
Quinn Fabray: so you DID go home with the blonde! knew it. it's all a little blurry after 1 AM or so, but i remember seeing you guys together
Kurt Hummel: Just wish I remembered it. You get home okay?
Quinn Fabray: yeah, puck drove me home.
Kurt Hummel: Puck! Did anything happen?! Rekindle any long-lost high school romance?
Quinn Fabray: hahaha, i hate you. nothing "the notebook"-worthy, but he was weirdly sweet and we may or may not have kissed.
Quinn Fabray: for extended periods of time
Quinn Fabray: with our clothes off
Kurt Hummel: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Quinn Fabray: details when you come home. text me later
Kurt Hummel: Duh. Love you

After what seems like a fucking eternity, Kurt finally gets to the front of the line. "Grande coffee with an add shot," he says while trying to get his wallet out of his jacket pocket, and practically throws his card at the cashier. He walks over to the bar to wait, leaning against a wall and trying to ignore the increasingly distracting throbbing in his head. He snatches his coffee the second it appears, turns on his heel and leaves, anxious to get home and hear the girls' stories about last night.

He's barely out the door and beelining towards the subway stop when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Please, God, let this be some random crazy homeless chick or something - I cannot deal with seeing someone I know right now. "What?" he snaps, and spins around.

This is definitely not a random crazy homeless chick, and it's definitely not anyone he knows.

He turns around and finds himself staring. Staring at dark, curly, slicked-back hair that's gelled within an inch of its life. A white v-neck under a gray blazer that fits perfectly - almost too perfectly. Distractingly perfectly. And a pair of deep, hazel eyes that are striking enough for Kurt to completely forget how hungover he is and how tired he is and how or why he even got here in the first place because those eyes.

This guy is fucking hot.

"Hey, sorry, man," the guy says, the corners of his mouth pricking up into a slight smile. "I think you dropped these on your way out, just thought you'd want 'em." It takes Kurt a second to tear himself away from this dude's face - his fucking cuteridiculoushandsomewhatthefuckareyouevendoingwithafacelikethat face - and look down to find that he's holding Kurt's pack of cigarettes.

"Oh, shit," Kurt says, trying to act natural. Come on, Hummel, he thinks, it's just another hot guy. Pull it together. "Thanks! Need those, it's one of those days." Best to keep it short and sweet. Don't embarrass yourself.

"Yeah, I know the feeling," the other boy laughs - of course he'd have a cute laugh, of fucking course. "You're lucky I just quit, or I'd probably have stolen them." He smiles, smooths his already perfect hair down with one hand, and turns to walk away. No, shit, fuck, think of something funny to say, strike up a conversation, pin him to a wall, fake your own death, just do something, ANYTHING, to make him stay!

But Kurt doesn't.

Kurt stands there, watching this adorably ridiculously stupidly perfect guy walk away.

Self-destruction is kind of his thing, after all.

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