-* October 28, 2012 *-

Blaine slowly blinked into consciousness. Very slowly.

His sleeping arm began to stir as he tried to move it, only to find it stuck beneath a heavy weight. Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew his body was wrapped around another, but the thought was too trapped in his post-drunken daze to stand out.

He lifted his free hand, untangling his calloused fingers from where they were laced with soft, slender ones, and rubbed at his face in an effort to wipe the sleep from his eyes, still failing to fully process the situation.

He dropped the hand from his face and pressed it against the firm chest he was cuddled so close to. The long neck and strong shoulders supporting his head brought warmth as he instinctively snuggled his face in tighter.

The tingling in his arm quickly turned from uncomfortable to downright painful; the pain waking him fully from his prolonged slumber. He jerked his arm free from its restraints, cradling the limb to his chest. This was not how he wanted to wake up. Already he had a hangover headache, being the biggest lightweight to ever exist, and now sharp, shooting pains flared all along his forearm.

He rocked himself slightly, working his fingers along the length of his arm while the fire in his nerves slowly died out. He found himself wondering how long he'd been in that position.

Finally, it clicked. Too suddenly, he was aware of exactly what position he was in. He shut his eyes and reached a hand beside him. When his fingers came into contact with foreign flesh, he groaned in frustration.

Blaine let his bleary eyes drift down to the face of the man sharing the bed.

Fuck.

He slapped a hand to his forehead and flopped back against the pillows. He realized his mistake when the bed shifted and an arm slipped around his waist.

A pair of gentle lips pressed themselves to Blaine's neck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck. Shit.

Blaine was pulled from his profane ramblings by a puff of warm breath on his skin as the calm, sleepy voice of the other man drifted through the room.

"Morning."

Blaine forced himself to make eye contact. He managed an extremely forced half-smile and a mumbled, "hey."

He felt a hand press against his forehead, sighing as the knuckles dragged down his cheek. Remembering who the hand belonged to and what they had done the night before, he pulled away, muffling another groan into his pillow. Luckily his agony was misinterpreted.

"Hung over?"

Well, not totally misinterpreted.

Blaine rolled onto his back, giving a tiny nod. He felt the bed shifting as the weight of another body pressed down onto his own.

"I know a pretty good way to get rid of a hangover."

Blaine rolled his eyes, scoffing at the blatancy. "Yeah, and I know a pretty bad pick up line."

"Maybe I should stop talking then."

"Probably." His bitterness went unnoticed, perhaps ignored.

He knew what was coming. He wished it wouldn't. Then again, he was never one to consider declining it whenever offered.

Lips pulled him from his thoughts, his body operating on autopilot. Nothing registered except the wet tongue leaving a glistening trail across his naked body. The sinking feeling in his stomach was swallowed whole as he felt himself disappear into that expert mouth.

Blaine let his hair be pulled into a firm grip and his face be shoved into the mattress. He arched his back into the body atop his own, trying to bring himself closer to the edge.

The thrusting became more erratic with each passing moment. The hand not locked into Blaine's curls made its way around his chest, snaking down chiseled abs to make itself more useful. A pair of soft lips latched onto his neck, sure to leave their mark. Focusing on the parts, he pieced together a fantasy.

Briefly, he questioned why it was so difficult. Why was he trying at all? Sex – that's easy. He was good at sex. Amazing really. Aside from his various musical talents, sex was his most practiced skill. Even with the overwhelming nerves during his first time, he had never had trouble staying interested. Then again, he'd also next to never let feelings be part of the process.

Feelings. Fuck feelings.

In his mind, the body, its hands and fingers, lips and tongue, now belonged to another. He let himself be taken over by an illusion. Reaching down, he knocked the other hand out of the way, stroking himself into oblivion.

He vaguely registered fingers digging into hips while the body stilled inside him, but collapsed into sleeping before their bodies separated.

Blaine slept off his hangover, but not his exhaustion, only stirring when his stomach could no longer go unfed. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find himself alone. Alone except for the note resting beside his head. He picked up the paper where familiar, neat handwriting scrawled out a short message.

With his head to the pillow, he lazily scanned the words on the page. Blaine crinkled the note and tossed it away carelessly, internally gagging at the words babe and I'll call you.

"Ouch. That's exactly the way to break a man's heart."

He snapped his head toward the noise. "Fuck you," he muttered.

"Loverboy told me he left a wittle note for you. Isn't that sweet?" Santana teased, crawling onto the bed beside him. "And you. You cruel thing, you. Just tossing it away."

Blaine slammed a pillow in Santana's face, cutting her off mid-taunt. He turned away from the woman, but she draped herself over his body, pinning him down uncomfortably. He was too tired to fight her off and knew even if he pushed her off she would keep coming back out of spite. She saw his defeat and relented.

Santana sat up against the headboard. Blaine mimicked her actions and laid his head on her shoulder.

"It reeks of sex in here."

Blaine laughed. "One guess as to why."

"Is it... hmm... Is it because you completely bombed last night trying to get what you actually want, so you settled for what you could get, brought him back here, had a couple rounds of mediocre sex which you regretted before it was even over, and then forced yourself to sleep to forget all about it."

He huffed, crossing his arms in response. Santana smirked, taking it as win.

"Auntie Tana is here for you Blainers. Quit refusing to take my advice; you know I'm always right."

"How's the single life treating you, Tana?"

Santana laughed, unimpressed at Blaine's weak jibe.

"Look. Get your stank ass out of this bed. Wash your sheets; be sure to bleach them. Better yet, bleach everything in here. Your bare ass, and probably all your boys' asses – among other things – have been on every surface of this place. I'd blind myself before I'd be willing to see this room under a black light."

"Fuck you."

She leapt to her feet. "Right. Start easy. Get up, shower, eat, replenish your fluids, and go call him."

Blaine squinted in confusion at that last part.

"Not him," she stated, pointing at the crumpled, abandoned note, as though he were a total imbecile for ever thinking it. "You know who."

"No."

Santana rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "Yes."

Blaine took the hand stretched out toward him. He stood on wobbly legs as he was pulled into a rare Santana hug.

"You fucked up, tri-brows. You apologize."

"What if I can't fix it?" he whispered so quietly he wasn't sure the thought had left his head.