I felt no better for the sleep. I was possibly still drunk.

Over my year at college in Ohio, going to parties and drinking to excess, I found my body moves in stages when hung-over. First, I'm as useful as a corpse, all nausea and sweats. Then, though my stomach remains a little unsettled, I get thirsty. Mostly for soft drinks. Anything fizzy, anything cold. Then thirdly, and most bizarrely, I go into a sort of hysterical haze where I giggle a lot and talk non-stop about every thought that crosses my mind. I like the third stage. It sounds strange, but I kind of wish I could be that person all the time. So flippant and euphoric and a little bit thoughtless and detached.

However, at the moment I was unfortunately at the thirsty stage. I suppose I could at least be thankful that I'd dozed through the worst of the queasiness.

Hooray for small amnesties.

It took me a long time to convince myself to haul my body out of bed and over to the beckoning bottle of water on my desk. It then took even longer, and a lot of deep breaths, to recover from the large volume I unwisely skulled in about ten seconds flat.

Five minutes later and I was naked and under a shower, yearning for more water pressure and more heat. As lovely as Grayson is, it's a sad fact that limitless hot water and five star facilities are never going to be the norm on any campus. Shared bathrooms are the one thing that will regrettably always prevent me from being able to see a dorm room quite like a 'home.'

Regardless, the water felt beautifully cleansing. Thick steam replacing alcohol fumes, and soap scrubbing grease and impurities. I let it wash over me, grazing my eyes when I blinked and filling my mouth when I breathed, gathering in the hollows and contours of my frame, to be washed away two seconds later by a fresh, pure onslaught.

I suppose the one benefit of being so overwhelmed by how physically awful I felt, was that it made it a whole lot harder to focus on how wrung-out I felt mentally. I clung to that and cleared my heavy mind.

When I stumbled out of the stall, rubbing my hair with a towel and another around my waist, it was to Puck standing at the sink, brushing his teeth. He didn't look a whole lot better than me, black rings under his dull eyes.

"Hey." I waved.

He glanced up, then back to his reflection, spitting his toothpaste out a moment later.

"Hey, man." he didn't look back at me.

"Have fun last night?" I asked.

"It was pretty good."

"Sorry I didn't see you guys again."

"No problem."

He was being uncharacteristically short with me, and I scoured my mind to remember if I'd done anything stupid the night before. I concluded that it was unlikely. He left me with Santana and we definitely didn't cross paths again.

He started combing his fingers through his Mohawk, still not meeting my eye, and I grabbed my toiletries bag, making for the door.

He finally turned to me, "Have a good time with Santana?"

I stopped, "Yeah, she's a pretty nice girl." I said cautiously.

"I saw her kiss you as you were leaving last night."

Oh, just what I needed.

"Yeah, on the cheek," I shrugged, "As a goodbye."

"Pretty chummy considering you only just met her."

"What? I dunno, I think she's just kind of forward."

He looked down, "Are you going to see her again?"

"Well, she's in a couple of my classes…"

"I mean see her." I think he was aiming for detached interest.

"It's not like that, Puck."

"No, dude. It's cool. She's totally hot, and bros before hoes only stretches so far when it's a chick like that."

"No, seriously –" I was getting flustered.

"She wasn't interested in me anyway – "

" – stop talking – "

" – I think you should just go for it, man. Just – "

"Stop Puck! Right now, just stop. You've got it so, so wrong." I was waving my hands, the horrified expression on my face echoed four times in the mirrors behind him.

He cocked his head and sighed, "We're friends, man. You can tell me."

"Look in my eyes," I pointed to them, "I solemnly swear I have absolutely no interest in Santana Lopez. Romantically or physically."

"Yeah, whatever."

"No interest!"

He turned around, still watching me in my reflection, "Sure."

I sort of groaned through my teeth, closing my eyes. This conversation was probably going to happen sooner or later. Why not make it sooner? I ground my forehead with my palm, taking a deep breath.

"Puck, I'm gay."

He spun back, "Huh?"

"I'm gay. Like, super gay. I like guys, and only guys, and I don't want to hook up with Santana."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So chill out."

"Um, sorry?" he scratched his head.

"It's OK," I exhaled, "You didn't know."

"Why didn't you say? I mean, like, before?"

I shrugged, "I kind of like to know if it's worth it before I tell someone that sort of thing. You know…? Personal… and all that…"

He just blinked at me.

"It's not a problem, is it?" I started to feel a little unsure. The last thing I needed was a vengeful homophobe who felt tricked into friendship by an apparent closet gay.

"What?" he started, "No! No way. That's like, archaic shit. I'm totally OK with the gays!"

His eyes were so wide and he spoke so fast, I had to struggle not to laugh.

"Cool." I smiled.

"So cool. More than cool. Just really, really – "

"Puck, relax."

"Shit, sorry."

I shook my head, "Don't be." I paused, "Hey, I don't want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but can you try not to spread it around? I kind of like to be the one to tell people."

"Yeah, yeah. Your secret's safe with me, man."

"OK," I nodded, taking a step toward the door.

"Hey, you want to come have lunch with us?" he asked, "The Hoskins guys and I have this hangover meal tradition. Tonnes of grease, fat and coffee. Meet in half an hour in the cafeteria?"

I groaned, "Yes, yes, god yes. I need like, five litres of Coke in my body about five minutes ago."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour and a half later and I was walking across the commons with my guitar strapped to my back, having eaten as much toast and egg as my fragile stomach could cope with, and spending lunch being regaled by one too many stories of Jeff's successful party hook ups.

I felt slightly better than I did when I woke, almost losing my cool at the smell of bacon, but managing to recover without incident. I felt like I was mercifully nearing the end of the second stage of my hangover, yet I still clutched my third cold, sweating can of Coke, sipping sporadically.

The guys had invited me to jam with them after we'd eaten, across campus in one of the few music rehearsal rooms. I was itching with anticipation as I entered the building, excited at finally having a reason to pick up an instrument again, and hoping pretty severely that the experience would rekindle what used to be a passionate love of mine.

Guitar really had been more than a hobby for me. I would endlessly write songs, whether for friends, or family, or pleasure, or release. I used to absently pick at the strings while watching TV until my mother would give up on asking nicely and hiss at me to 'stop that!'. When I was a kid, my dad had always called my talent 'The Knack.' An ability to take up just about any musical instrument and have a vague handle on it within ten minutes. I suppose I was lucky, and I'm still unsure why my desire to play died away.

Maybe I just didn't have anything worth writing about.

Or maybe I was hurt when I discovered that as a form of expression, even music has its limits.

I wandered down a few corridors, eventually finding the right room by following the looming sound of voices. I entered to find Puck, Sam, and Jeff draped on various items of standard issue academic institution furniture. The room was kind of small, lined with cork and blue carpet to soundproof. There was a drum in one corner and an upright piano against another wall, plus a bass and two guitars that I assumed belonged to the guys.

They stopped talking when I walked in, Jeff standing.

"Blaine!"

"Hey."

He pointed to my guitar, still on my back, "I know you brought your axe, but you don't happen to know how to play the skins, do you?"

I grinned, "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Oh my god!" he clapped me on the shoulder, "Would you mind?"

"Not at all." any instrument was better than none, "I still feel kind of rough though, so if my head splits open, I may have to stop."

"You and me both, man."

"And me." Sam groaned, raising his hand.

"Alright," Jeff handed me some drumsticks, "Take a seat, my man."

We played until my cloudy head was pounding in protest, but nothing in the world could have urged me to stop. It was that feeling again. That Glee Club feeling. Even a Dalton feeling. The action of performing as an accessory to a greater entity. Four guys strumming strings and hitting wood on acrylic and metal, communicating with their eyes and their hands. It was exactly what I needed to take my mind off Kurt and Cedric and the terminally awkward party.

Puck, Sam and I took turns singing depending on whose voice suited each song most appropriately, even harmonising occasionally, and we rounded off an hour with an incredibly ridiculous, messy, perfect cover of A Song for the Deaf, by Queens of the Stone Age.

I slammed my drumstick into the crash cymbal one more time and threw my head back, only realising I was laughing as the sound filled my ringing ears. The exertion of playing the drums had washed most of my seediness away, and I could feel the inexplicable ecstatic stage of my hangover looming.

"Yes!" Puck yelled, "That was awesome! Josh Homme knows how to write a song!"

"Right?" Sam slung him a high five, "I would seriously consider hanging up my heterosexuality for that man."

Jeff smirked, "So you like your men big and ginger?"

"Don't pretend he's not a god!"

"Whatever!"

Sam turned to me, "Come on Blaine, help me out here."

My head snapped up and my eyes sought out Puck, who was chewing his lip, looking mildly guilty.

"Oh, what the fuck?" I groaned, "I left you alone with them for like five minutes and you told them!"

"I'm sorry, man."

"I asked you not to tell anyone!"

"We're your friends," he opened his hands in supplication, "They don't care. Seriously."

"That's not the point."

"I know. Shit, shit, I'm sorry."

"It's fine." I resisted the urge to grind my teeth.

Or peg my drumsticks at his big mouth.

"We really don't care though." Sam said quietly.

"Yeah man," Jeff grinned, "You're still the Blaine we met."

"Thanks," I sighed, "That's… sweet of you. Just… I wanted to tell you myself."

"It's cool. We get it."

"Great," I pinched my nose, "But… keep it to yourselves this time. This stays with you three."

"What about Nick and Mike?" Puck asked.

"OK, fine! You can tell them too, but from now on that's it. It's my… secret. Mine to tell."

I hated calling it a 'secret.' I could think of no better term for it, but there's something in the very nature of that word that indicates the shady and the shameful, and my homosexuality was neither. It was just nobody's damn business unless I wanted it to be. I suppose on those terms it really wasn't a bad thing at all that the guys knew. I was probably lucky that they'd not chosen to take offence to my decision not to tell them.

"I won't tell anyone else," Puck's eyes drilled into me, "I promise."

"I believe you."

"Yeah, and if he does, we'll kick his ass." Jeff laughed.

They left shortly after that assurance, and I chose to stay and reacquaint myself with my battered acoustic guitar. I just cradled it for a while, remembering chords to familiar songs in fits and starts and singing quietly.

"You have a lovely voice."

I jumped and almost broke my neck turning to the open door. Kurt was standing there, a hand resting on the doorframe and his head slightly cocked.

"Thanks." I breathed, standing, a little dazed at his appearance. Actually, I was just a little dazed in general. It seemed I'd unquestionably reached the third trimester of my hangover.

"I'm surprised I don't remember you from Glee competitions," he walked into the room and lifted the lid on the piano, grazing his fingers across the keys.

"It was a long time ago," I shrugged, "I… I didn't really stand out back then, anyway."

He laughed softly, "If standing out is the main catalyst for recollection, then you'd definitely recognise me."

I shook my head, at a loss for words.

He began tinkling on the piano keys, playing a snatch of what may have been something by Chopin. The sleeves of his powder blue shirt were rolled up, and I couldn't take my eyes off his forearms. They were kind of thick, opposing the femininity of his face. It was an unexpectedly charming contrast. Something so solid juxtaposed next to something so slight.

He fumbled a couple of notes in a row, "Ugh, I used to be so good at this."

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

He turned, shutting the piano and leaning back on it, "Quinn and I were having a picnic on the commons with Rose. I saw you with your guitar and kind of guessed."

"Sounds nice," I whispered.

"Mm. I sometimes wonder if they both think they're actually characters from Sense and Sensibility or some other Austen novel."

"Quinn could be," I grinned, "A younger sister of one of the protagonists."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, "That's what I thought."

I swallowed, "Why… why did you find me?"

He sighed, "I was rude last night. I wanted to apologise. Even if I hadn't wanted to, Quinn would have made me."

"Oh."

"But, I do want to. So… can we go for a walk?" he gestured to the door.

"Yeah," I nodded, a little shocked, "Yeah, sure. Just give me a sec."

I packed up my guitar and followed him out of the building and into the fresh air, which in my current state smelt marvellous.

"Have you seen the apple orchard?" Kurt asked.

"Only from a distance."

"Come on," he started towards it, "The first dean made the groundskeepers plant it when the college opened. Some of the trees are ancient."

Even if he hadn't told me, I'd have picked up on their age myself. As we got closer I could see their thick gnarled trunks, scarred from unkind pruning and a few lovers' names. We passed a conspicuous quince tree and Kurt reached out and plucked an unaccountably late season fruit, which clung tenaciously to the tree. He began turning the fuzzy, misshapen sphere in his hands.

"So, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I said, my stomach twisting a little, "I feel like I might have upset you."

He looked up, "That's my fault, not yours. You couldn't have known about... about Ohio. About how much I hate it."

"I'm still responsible."

"Blaine, you're not, OK?" his voice was sharp, "I was awful to you for no reason. It's something I do, and I usually don't regret it, but you were nothing but friendly and I was a complete pig. The blame's on me."

"Um, then thank you, I guess."

"I was just having a weird night. I wasn't really… myself," he breathed, "Plus Cedric was pissing me off and I was drunk and blah, blah, blah. They're all just excuses really."

The mention of Cedric piqued my curiosity and my foggy, nearly blissful state of mind fuelled my trepidation.

"Are you and Cedric… OK?"

He puffed his cheeks out, dragging his thumb over the quince, "We only ever seem to be 'OK.' It's a pretty depressing category for a relationship to be in."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."

"No, don't worry. Thanks for asking."

"Did he do something wrong?"

He looked at me sidelong, "Why do you assume he's the villain?"

"Oh, no," I stammered, "I don't, it's just – "

"Shh, I'm kidding," he chuckled a little, "Neither of us is innocent. I'm much better at hiding it though," he paused, "Most of the time, that is. People just look at Ced and immediately think, 'what a prick.' I know I did when I met him."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying that I did too. He was being very open with me, but asshole or not, I doubt he'd have taken kindly to me insulting his boyfriend.

"So he hasn't done anything in particular?"

"Why are you so interested?" he asked, looking me directly in the eye, his face unreadable.

"I just…" my mind flailed for a legitimate explanation, "No reason."

I blamed the vodka for that gem of an answer.

His eyes narrowed for a second before he started tossing the fruit in the air, "Well, no. He just kind of is how he is. He has a wandering eye too. Flirts like a maniac. I'm not the jealous type, but he does push it a bit."

"How so?"

"He's a serial… well, I was going to say 'womaniser,' but that's hardly appropriate in this situation, is it?"

"He's a… a man-iser?"

Kurt smiled at me, crinkling his eyes in a manner that took my breath away, "I'm sure we wouldn't have to comb a dictionary for too long to find a better term than that, but basically, yeah. He usually doesn't cheat though."

"Usually?"

"I've dumped him for it before."

"He did mention that." I said quietly.

"Did he now?"

"Yeah…"

"Bastard."

I couldn't tell if he meant that maliciously or just as a throwaway insult, but I had to work to hide the smile that was boorishly fighting to get on my face.

"Anyway, fuck Cedric, and screw me for taking him back time and time again. Right now I'm extending a whole damn olive tree to you, and begging that you take it."

I laughed, "I'd have forgiven you for just a branch."

"Then you're a better man than me."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

"Also, Quinn and I are having a dinner tomorrow night at our place, and we'd really like you to come."

I beamed, "I'd love to!"

I would really, really, really, genuinely love to.

"Great," he dug in his pocket for a second, a rattling sound coming from inside, before withdrawing a slightly crumpled piece of paper, scrawled with black ink, "Here's our address, and the number of our land line if you have any trouble finding the house. Come 'round at seven?"

"Thank you. Sure." I only allowed myself a second to be disappointed that it wasn't his mobile number.

We stopped and he threw the quince on the ground, where it rolled away down a small decline, now completely devoid of all the white fluff that had previously adorned it. We both watched it for a moment.

"You know, back in Ancient Greece brides used to eat quince before entering their husband's chamber to make their breath smell nice."

"Really?" I said, a little surprised by this outburst.

"Yeah," he looked up, smiling, "I guess there's a lot to be said for Tic Tacs."

I snorted loudly, and brought a hand up to cover my mouth, a little embarrassed, but still laughing.

His smile broadened, and he started walking away backwards, "So, we'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Definitely." I called after him.

"Good," he yelled, "Santana was very taken with you. I think she'd have killed me if I'd scared you off for good."

Fantastic.

The last thing I needed was another guy thinking I wanted to sleep with Santana fucking Lopez.