Kurt's just waking when he hears the clomping of footsteps up the stairs. It takes him a second to process whose bed he's in, but snoring and the grotesque scent of stale weed and last night's alcohol on Cooper's morning breath are quick to catch him up to speed.

Something close to nauseated, he rolls out of bed, grabs Cooper's deodorant and sprays it in the general direction of the bed.

“Take a shower,” he yawns, kicking at the bed. Cooper lets out a grunt in-between snores and carries on sleeping.

Kurt's not mentally prepared to see Blaine at the moment, not dressed in his mother's lingerie and still barely conscious. Yesterday was telling, and Kurt is steadily growing more pissed at the thought that Blaine would rebuff him so cruelly. He feels off-center, regretting the decision to stay the night, like he's walked into enemy territory with no weapons and no escape. Except Blaine's not his enemy. Or he's not supposed to be.  

He wants a good day. A day where it doesn't feel like his relationship is slipping through his fingers the harder he tries to hold on. Where it doesn't feel like he's the only one trying.

Blaine only comes home for weekends, and only if he has the time to spare. He never has the time to spare anymore with his finals looming on the horizon. Kurt's been holding out for summer to come, for a chance to latch onto the coattails of last year's excitement and ride the high. Now, he's done with school and Blaine will be finished in a few weeks, but Kurt doesn't think they'll survive until then.

The look on Blaine's face when Kurt pops into his bedroom doorway does little to reassure him. Kurt thinks if Blaine were alone, he'd be hands all over Kurt, but next to him is Sebastian and Hunter. Hunter, Kurt doesn't know well, but Sebastian and Kurt are thick as thieves – fast and accidental friends from their first encounter. Sebastian has no shame about checking out the goods on display, and he wouldn't spread the news around school that Blaine's alleged “bad boy” boyfriend dresses way down around the house because Sebastian doesn't give the slightest of fucks about anything but himself. Kurt likes his candor, if not always the smarmy attitude attached.

Hunter might, though. As far as Kurt knows anyway. So that explains Blaine's horrified expression.

“Hey, Beav,” he greets. “Hey, boys.”

“Nice look, Hummel. You dress up like that for the admissions board at FIT?”

“Mmhmm,” Kurt responds coolly. “They respect my bold choices.”

“Very bold. Practically flamboyant.”

“Fuck yourself, Smythe.”

“Aww. Love you too, cupcake.”

“Absolutely do not, under any circumstances, call me cupcake ever again.”

“Oh, but you're so doughy.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, pulls Blaine's hand from where it's rubbing circles into his temple and leads them both out of the room.

Kurt shoves Blaine into the bathroom, shuts the door for privacy. He hops on the sink counter and watches Blaine slink against the wall across from him. “We have to talk about Rachel.”

It's the cupcake comment from Sebastian that reminded him of getting home after his detour to Columbus for a piercing like treatment for his woes, to discover the icing on top of the shit cake that was his trip to Dalton.

The sugar and sprinkles was walking in the house only to be ambushed by the sight of his father and Carole making out on the couch. He used to love that couch. Then, not seconds later was he victim to another assault on his senses: the sound of Rachel Berry's squawking. He loves Finn, he really does, but his choice of girlfriend really leads to questions about his sanity. Nails on a chalkboard are preferable to Rachel's shrieking, which is all he knows of her speaking voice since it's her default setting when dealing with Kurt.

Kurt heard the two of them yammering over one another on their way downstairs and he attempted to make a quick exit, but Rachel's death grip snatched his sleeve, unwelcome as a herpes outbreak and just as annoying.

“If you wanna keep that hand, you'd better get it the hell off me, cupcake,” he told her.

“Blaine –”

Nope.

Joy of joys, wonder of wonders. Not only is Rachel dating Kurt's brother, she's his boyfriend's bestie. She'd be so much less annoying if she just – didn't exist. But no. He gets it from all angles. In the worst way. It's not surprising she'd want to talk about Blaine, but, “You wanting to talk about Blaine, and us having to talk about Blaine are two separate things, Rachel.”

He'd sidestepped her then, crossing the street to find sanctuary in the Anderson home – safer with Blaine's relatives than Rachel – ignoring whatever words trailed after him. No way, no how will he ever be paying patronage to the Rachel Berry School of Overdramatics.

Kurt can only imagine how the conversation went as Rachel relayed the moment to Blaine – because they've no doubt talked about it by now. Blaine swears Rachel has redeemable qualities, and it's his business to think so, but Kurt has no interest in knowing either way. She's just another point of contention between them.

“Kurt, let's not fight.”

“I don't want a fight. I just want you to call off your watchdog.”

“Done.” Blaine's tone is absent. His eyes are glued to the shiny new piercing poking out of Kurt's nighty. “This is new.”

“It's your mother's.”

Blaine pushes off the wall and comes to nuzzle into Kurt's neck, ignoring Kurt's teasing and fingering the lacy garment aside. Blaine is very tactile, like he's been starved for touch and Kurt's his first meal. Every time. At this point, it may be what's holding them together.

“When did you get it?” Blaine prods at Kurt's nipple, the pain slight but prickling nonetheless.

“Yesterday.”

Blaine draws back, looks ready to say something, and then swallows it down. He knows Kurt's habits, knows Kurt is running out of places to pierce for when times get tough. Still, he just zeroes in on the lust crackling in the space between them. Kurt wonders if he should push, make Blaine spit up the words he's forced away. But Blaine's tongue is running up his neck, and it soothes quells the rising storm well enough that Kurt can let himself be lost to the dizzy feeling of desire.

:: ::

When Blaine shows up in Quinn's backyard later that night, his presence is a surprise Kurt's too drunk to question. The party just sort of evolved and Kurt considered inviting Blaine, but god it just felt so much nicer to have a night off from the bullshit.

But Blaine is here now, and Kurt is a happy drunk tonight. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around Blaine's shoulders and kisses him rough and dirty, sloppy for all the tequila he'll be throwing up in the morning.

Blaine kisses back with as much fervor and Kurt thinks distantly that he tastes the flavor of liquors he hasn't downed tonight. He wonders then how long Blaine has been here, how long it was before he came looking for Kurt – that is, if he even sought Kurt out and they didn't just drunkenly stumble into each other.

Too much thinking.

Sex is a crutch, but at least limping their way along is better than falling apart.

Kurt pulls Blaine around to the side of the house, not thinking very clearly when he pulls down Blaine's pants and starts blowing him – a return favor for their bathroom shenanigans this morning. Anyone can see them if they care to look, but Blaine's not bothered, a hand in Kurt's hair and a stream of obscenities that make Kurt proud. Yeah, he's drunk.

The hand in Kurt's hair tries yanking him back and Kurt knows Blaine is close already, so he pumps his fist, hollows his cheeks, and holds them together the only way he knows how.

It's not right. It doesn't feel as sturdy a crutch as it did this morning. Feels more like treating cancer with a Band-Aid.

Kurt stands, rasps “I'm thirsty,” and stumbles away from Blaine as fast as he can.

Blaine finds him again later in a horde of Cheerios, dancing around to half-assed routines from his stint on the squad. When Blaine pulls him away, the smile on Kurt's face twists into something born of sadness.

“It's harder than I thought it would be.” Kurt slows their moves to a beat outside of the music, his limbs overwhelmingly lethargic when the dread he's drank away creeps back in.

“What is?” Blaine strains over the music and chatter, the liveliness of the crowd that mocks them in merriment.

“Holding onto you.”

“I'm right here, Kurt.”

“And just what, pray tell, are you doing here?”

Blaine stalls their movement, holds Kurt close, but looks so sad. “Do you not want me here?”

Kurt howls in laughter, peal after painful peal ripping from within.

“You're mad,” Blaine observes plainly. Oh, poor, oblivious Beaver.

“In more ways than one,” Kurt mutters, walking away to find air. “God,” he breathes, his mind on a roll with the anger roiling inside him. “I am pissed. Pissed, Blaine. I mean – Do you even know what it's like to have you boyfriend – your fucking boyfriend of all people – be embarrassed of you? To be told you're dirtying up the ivory shores of his paradise.” He's mocking Blaine now and he can't bring himself to care.

“Give it up, Kurt. You purposely picked a fight with Jeff.”

“And I'd purposely do it all over again.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying,” I don't know. No, I do know. I just don't like it. “I'm saying that yes, Blaine. I am mad. And I'm mad that you can't fathom a single thought as to why.”

‘Then tell me!”

“How are you so dense?”

“Insulting me won't get us anywhere.”

“We don't get anywhere anymore anyway. Except third base.” Kurt swings his imaginary baseball bat. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyelids and sighs like the breath in his body is toxic. “Just – just go home, Beaver. Just – go home. You don't want a fight. I don't want a fight. That's only preventable if we're not in the same room. Or at the same party. If we're not together.” He kicks at the ground, sobering up and fighting it off. “Go see if Rachel can explain it to you. We can reconvene in the morning.” He claps his hands together. “Break.”