"What is it?" he asks warily.

"I had to write up a report on Justin last night," she says. "And again this morning, just before you got here."

"Shit."

They tend not to document every single instance of misbehavior, because teenagers, but if things get dangerous or too heated, they have no qualms about writing it up and issuing warnings. Three strike system, and then a case worker gets called. Blaine's only had to kick out three people in the history of the house, and the very last thing on his agenda is making that an even number.

"It's all in the report, and you can decide if he's grounded or what, but we need to keep an eye on him."

The balloon of private contentment Blaine had been enjoying since last night has been soundly popped. "I'll talk to him. Was it physical?"

"No. He gave Melissa a bunch of shit," she stops, like she's going to elaborate, but she has an internal struggle and ends up shrugging jerkily. "It's in the report. This morning he went after me for calling him on it."

Mia can take care of herself. She's small, and the oversized leather jacket she drowns in half of the time makes her seem even smaller, but the first time Blaine walked in on her throwing a six foot something guy into a headlock, he stopped underestimating her. "I've got this. Go home and take a bath, decompress."

Now that she's passed the torch of the Justin issue to Blaine, she seems calm. "I've got things to do, but that's a nice sentiment. I'll see you tonight."

He heads to the files the second she's gone. Justin's is thin, only the barest minimum of paperwork, but there's the new addition of two incident reports, covered front and back in Mia's writing. Most of it is ass-covering in the event the case workers get curious, date and times and witnesses, but it's right there in the middle of the first page.

Justin E. asked resident M. "who's getting first run at your new cunt?"

Blaine's eyes blur with rage and sadness -- he can't even imagine what Melissa would have felt like in that moment -- and he has to stop for a moment and breathe so he can see to keep reading.

He reads the report so fast he can barely comprehend it. The little fucker didn't so much as apologize, and Mia's presumably impressive verbal lashing must have festered overnight, because what he said to her was almost as awful.

Blaine slides the reports back into Justin's file and slams the filing cabinet drawer shut with an ugly clang. His stiff hands have trouble fitting the key into the lock and turning.

--

Justin sits mostly silent through what Blaine hopes is an effective intervention. He wants to know what's inside Justin that makes him so insufferable, but he's so mad he's lecturing between gritted teeth. His anger had faded somewhat during the day, simply because he couldn't sustain that level of energy for so long, but the minute he saw Melissa slinking into the house and making a beeline to her room, it spiked again.

"I won't even speak to him, okay? You don't have to keep riding me," Justin said, when Blaine paused to take a breath and debate how best to continue.

"Her," Blaine corrects, lit like a match all over again. Living through homophobia is rending, and it creeps in from unexpected corners nearly every day, offhand comments and just plain exclusion. Blaine is used to it, is the thing, but he has no idea where to start with transphobia. He doesn't know what it's like for Melissa, so he has no idea how to combat it. "If you want to stay, you have to show some basic respect for the people here. Melissa, the rest of the clients. Mia. Me."

Justin is motionless, eyes trained on something in the middle distance. "Okay," he says, quietly. "Fine."

"Your prejudice, it's just ignorance, Justin. And I can't have it in this house."

Looking thoroughly cowed, Justin nods. He's gripping the arms of his chair tightly. Blaine sighs and rubs a hand over his face, tapped out. He says he can go, and Justin uses that grip to shove himself up and away like a rocket.

Melissa only leaves her room once to grab dinner when everyone was cleared out. He wants to say something to her -- apologize, remedy the fact that so far, this safe house has been anything but. Courage House is his, and he can't help this instinct to take care of it, knowing in some deep-rooted place inside of him that he is in some small fashion responsible for everyone in it.

Blaine knocks at her door and hears Kurt call out a "yes?"

"It's Blaine," he says, and smiles to himself when Kurt's tone lifts considerably with a "come in."

Melissa and Kurt are sitting on their respective beds -- twin, although despite their size Blaine knows they're comfortable -- facing each other. Kurt's homework is in a forgotten pile near his bare feet, and he looks uncharacteristically relaxed, dressed simply for sleep, his hair unstyled.

"Hi," Kurt says with a smile.

"Hi," Blaine echoes, leaning against the doorframe, trying to keep his smile as closed-mouthed and un-idiotic as possible.

It's a long moment before he realizes that one, he's not there for Kurt, and two, smiling at each other like this is a bad, bad, bad idea. Their makeshift rules didn't cover inappropriate gazing, but still, Blaine knows better. He shakes himself out of it and turns his attention to Melissa. From the looks of things, they were deep in conversation, which is poor timing on Blaine's part; Melissa needs friends, and Kurt needs friends. It's too late for Blaine to back out now, however; their private moment has been barged in on.

"Melissa," Blaine says, directing all of his attention to her. "Do you mind if we talk for a few minutes?"

She shrugs. "Sure."

Kurt stands up from his bed. "I'm going to get a snack," he announces so smoothly it might as well not be a gracious way of excusing himself. "Does anyone want anything while I'm in the kitchen?"

"I'm still full," Melissa says, and Blaine shakes his head.

"Great. I'm going to eat an entire bag of popcorn by myself," Kurt sighs, and Blaine's still blocking the door, so their arms brush when he passes by.

Once he's inside, the door left open a crack so he doesn't make her feel trapped, he doesn't really know where to start -- or what to do with himself in general. Sit, or stand? He doesn't think of himself as intimidating but standing above her is a bad idea. Melissa's by no means hostile, but her silence isn't quite natural, not in the way Michael's was. It's loaded. Blaine's glad she seems to be talking to Kurt.

He stays standing, because the only place he can sit is her bed (no way in hell) or Kurt's, and Kurt would likely have no problem with it, but it's presuming an awful lot.

Blaine tucks his hands in his pockets, done waffling. "I know we haven't really had a chance to talk. And since you don't know me at all, it's pretty lame of me to come in here and give you platitudes out of nowhere. So I'm trying not to. I just wanted to say that what happened was awful." He wants so badly to promise her that it won't happen again, but he can't do that. "If it happens again, whoever does it, they're out. You're supposed to be safe here, and you haven't been. I'm sorry."

Blaine stops there, unsure if it's coming out right. He feels like he's giving her the platitudes he swore he'd try and avoid. Melissa's still just looking at him, and he can't tell what her silence means. No doubt people have said the same things to her only to trample all over them, but Blaine means it and he has no way of proving that it isn't just lip service. He feels like making a giant sign that says "I'M SINCERE" -- with Kurt's help so it wouldn't come out tacky and covered in glitter.

"So, yeah," he says.

Melissa laughs. Maybe. A little. She breaks eye contact and huffs out a breath that doesn't seem irritated, at least. It gives him enough of a push to keep trying.

"I'm just-- if it does happen again and the staff doesn't hear it, you should come to me. Or Mia, or any of us. If you feel like can't do that, you can tell Kurt. Anybody. You need to know that you're not alone with this."

"That's really nice and everything," she says plainly, sudden and startling after Blaine's low-voiced, probably too-impassioned speech. "But I know that already. This isn't the first time I've dealt with it."

"I know," he says. "That doesn't make it okay, and you still deserve to hear it."

She meets and holds his gaze, and he tries to pour everything into it. He wants her to be okay, he wants her to be happy, and safe, and he'll keep trying to get that for her.

This time, there's no ambiguity in her reaction. Her lip quirks in something resembling a smile, the most expression he's seen on her face, and he smiles back. "Thanks."

"I'll leave you alone now," he says, feeling lighter if not accomplished. One conversation doesn't make much of a dent in the overall situation, but he tries. "Goodnight."

"Night," she replies, reaching for something on her nightstand as he leaves.

Kurt's waiting in the hallway, just left of the open doorway, when Blaine steps out and lets their door fall shut behind him. The popcorn bowl is tucked under his arm and he's contemplatively picking a few kernels out, focused inward. He looks up to Blaine with a headtilt, then holds out the bowl. "Fat-free."

He scoops out a handful, flashing Kurt a smile as thanks. They chew in silence for a moment, tangled up in their own thoughts, and then Kurt pushes off the wall and says, "Good speech."

Blaine drags his hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, gaze drifting down to study the faint stains in the carpet. "Thanks. I've certainly made better."

"No." Kurt takes one step closer than he should, his toe inching into the space between Blaine's feet. "I meant that. You're good at this. A lot of people say a lot of different things to us, but you care," Kurt says simply.

Pulling Kurt to him and burying his face in his shiny, shiny, sweet-smelling hair seems like the best idea in the world right now, but he manages to quell the impulse. He hopes the magnitude of his appreciation shows on his face, and he exhales a humble and open-hearted "thank you."

Kurt backs out of his space with a pleased smile and pops another fluffy kernel into his mouth. "Of course. Now," he commands, holding out the popcorn bowl, "can you please take this away from me before I finish it?"

--

Blaine doesn't spend as much time at the high schools and community centers as his employees do -- his job tends to keep him stationed behind a desk while they run the errands -- but the amount of work to do always overflows, and he never minds helping out.

He's been to McKinley High a half-dozen times before, but the school still feels odd to him. It's something about the too-bright fluorescent lights, the cheap tile, and the way the students kick their way down the halls, unbridled and unapologetic. His old high school, Dalton, was contained and ordered, a place where boys walked through well-shined halls in matching blazers and ties, and anything it lacked in individuality it made up for in security. He's tried to build Courage House in the same spirit: house to let them know that they have somewhere they can call their own, a home with security, family, and rules, too, and courage to teach them not to be afraid of how their voice sounds when they speak out loud.

He makes sure to lock his car door behind him -- he knows how teenagers are -- and then traces out the familiar path from the visitor parking lot to the McKinley front office. It's the only part of the school he visits with any regularity, and as he tucks his hands into his pockets he reassures himself that it's the same as any other visit, even if the student that he's here for is... different.

"Here to pick up Kurt Hummel," he tells the woman behind the desk, smiling patiently. The office is hushed and no one seems to be making eye contact with anyone else, but he understands the social protocol underneath it. It reminds him of his family's dinner table, dissatisfaction smoothed over with politesse.

"His dad?" she asks, seamlessly transitioning from her computer screen to a clipboard without looking up at him.

"Ah, no," Blaine replies, and he'd clarify but his attention is caught on a crudely-photoshopped flyer stapled to the notice board next to him. Pep Rally for Our Titans!, it says in block letters above a clip-art football player, With a Performance by the New Directions!.

"Relative?" Her pen taps the counter and oh, now she's looking at him.

"No--" Blaine jerks his attention back to her, but he has to ask, "The New Directions? Isn't that your Glee club?"

"Glee club?" She repeats it like she's never heard the term. "No, they're those choir kids."

"Right. That's what I meant." Blaine spares one last glance for the flyer.

She's giving him an odd look, probably debating whether or not to ask outright who are you?, and he just manages to catch himself before he knocks the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Right," he says again, "I'm sorry -- Kurt. I'm his temporary guardian. I got a call from the nurse."

"That's all I need," she says, and then the clipboard is pushed in front of him. "Sign here. The nurse is at the end of the hall."

He scribbles his name down and thanks her, eager to get to Kurt despite the lack of severity to the situation. The nurse had chalked Kurt's projectile trigonometry vomit up to a twenty-four hour stomach flu that had been going around; rest, fluids, and keeping him away from the rest of the student body were her only recommendations.

Blaine raps on the door once, cautiously, and Kurt's voice answers: an unsteady, confused "what?" Blaine steps right in.

"Hey, you," he says, and he's embarrassed at how soft his voice comes out. "You ready to go home? I'll even make you soup." Kurt's alone in the room, half-upright with bleary eyes and flushed cheeks, a blanket tucked around his legs but his back pressed against the wall.

"Yes, please." Kurt tries to untangle the blanket from his legs, but he's so pathetically helpless and bleary that Blaine's over by his side in a matter of steps, pulling the blanket off, squeezing his knee, and leaving a kiss on his temple -- just like that, Justin, the charity dinner, and everything else has faded. It's Kurt, just Kurt, and the only person Blaine needs to be right now is himself. He loops his arm behind Kurt's back.

"Got him, though," Kurt mumbles as though they were mid-conversation. Blaine is trying to angle the boy's feet towards the ground, but all Kurt seems to want to do is clutch at Blaine's belt buckle and let his head loll around.

"You got who?" With a bit more careful maneuvering, Kurt is upright, more or less steady, and his hands are definitely not anywhere near Blaine's waistband. He takes as much of Kurt's weight as he can, but surprisingly he's managing to stay somewhat steady on his feet.

"Mr. Bateman. Math teacher. When I threw up." His smile is small and proud. "I got his shoes."

Blaine blinks at him, and in the next moment he's laughing, loud and unrestrained. Kurt's smile widens but he still tries to protest, "Penny loafers, Blaine. Penny loafers."

Another laugh bursts out of him, and again when he realizes how dorky it sounded. "Only you," he says, squeezing Kurt's waist fondly. "Are you feeling okay enough to walk to the car?"

"I won't throw up on your shoes," and Blaine guesses that's as close to an affirmative answer as he's likely to get.

Kurt grips Blaine's waist harder than Blaine is holding him, legs coltish as they walk but definitely moving. He'd normally be uneasy about so much contact in public (at Kurt's high school), but when Kurt leans into his side and nearly conks their heads together, all Blaine feels is amused and sympathetic. There's no one in the hallways, but even if there were, Kurt is quite obviously ill, and Blaine's doing nothing more than supporting his weight.

"Thank you for coming to get me," Kurt says.

"Of course." He holds the heavy outer doors open for Kurt, both of them squinting their eyes at the stark afternoon sunlight.

"Wow, Hummel, did you get roofied?"

Kurt's still picking out his steps vacantly, dependent on Blaine's grip to keep him on-track, and he can't seem to figure out where to look up to see who's talking to him. Blaine shields his eyes against the sun, automatically standing a little straighter when he sees a pair of girls in high ponytails and short skirts propped up against the brick wall ahead. They're linked arm-in-arm, the dark-haired one scanning him, appraising.

"And Ted Bundy found you, how quaint." She flutters too-long lashes at him. "He's super hot; I've always been a fan."

"Santana," Kurt grumbles, not even looking up at her. "Go crawl back into your incubator."

The cheerleader ignores him, pointedly flipping her ponytail over her shoulder as they pass. "Come back to see me sometime soon." The leer she gives him would be funny if it wasn't so disarmingly predatory. "Ay, papi."

Blaine has never been more sure that high school is not what it used to be when he was a student. He steers Kurt past them, utterly at a loss but feeling obligated to at least try. "Go to class, girls," he offers plaintively over his shoulder.

"Ted Bundy was an astronaut, right?" The blond girl speaks up right before they're out of earshot, letting her head tip against Santana's.

Blaine can only shake his head, bemused, but Kurt claps his hand over his mouth and digs an elbow into Blaine's side, wordlessly signaling for Blaine to get them to the car faster.

--

Blaine's not the best planner. He used to be better at it, but now that he's trying to do fifty things at once at all times, things fall by the wayside. Occasionally important things. Kurt left him with post-it notes and an itemized list of things he needed to do, the night before the charity dinner, but Blaine managed to misplace the list and forget his seating chart at the house.

He pulls into the driveway, tires crackling over the cheap paving, and squints against early-morning glare. He figures in and out, minimum of fuss, maybe say good morning and see everyone off to the bus if he has time. Ask Mia if she's still good to show up tonight, or if she needs the sleep after her overnight. She's his sort-of platonic date, adorably enough, and he's delighted by the idea of seeing her in a black tie dress. Charlie gets to stay for a double-shift, which he isn't thrilled over, but the alternative is him going to the dinner too, and he wasn't about to do that.

"Hey, hey," Blaine calls into the house when he comes through the door, shutting out the chilly morning behind him. "Just stopping by for a second."

Kurt's nowhere to be found, probably still getting ready. Possibly the last vestiges of his flu bug are rearing up again; it took two days, a lot of Blaine soup to a curled up in his bed and miserable Kurt, and two bottles of ginger ale, but he's finally starting to bounce back.

Tracy and Justin are in the kitchen, and Charlie's bent over with his head in the fridge, making grumbling noises as he roots around. Tracy's peering over Justin's shoulder, and for once Justin isn't radiating hostility. He's flipping a pen between his fingers, looking thoughtful.

Tracy spares him a glance. "Morning."

"Morning!" He feels slightly winded in his disorganized rush and looks around the kitchen, trying to think. "Um, I'm looking for the seating chart, have you guys seen--"

Charlie straightens up, arms laden with jars and tupperware, and closes the fridge with his foot. "Kurt left it on the living room table for you."

"Awesome, thanks."

He hurries into the living room and sees the chart weighted down on the table by a candy dish with a hot pink post-it note on top that says "Don't lose me! :)" in Kurt's looping script. Blaine snorts and picks up the chart, snagging a few jellybeans for good measure.

"So are you guys ready for school?" Blaine asks when he gets back to the kitchen, the jellybeans gummy between his teeth as he tries to chew them. They're a little stale.

"Yeah, June Cleaver, we're totally going to school on a Saturday," Justin says wryly.

Blaine blinks. He totally knows what day it is. He's functioning. "Right."

There's something else Blaine needs to do before he leaves. He gives the kitchen another helpless search like it's going to materialize in front of his face. Oh, fuck, Mia. "Did Mia go home?"

"Yeah. She said she was going to get some sleep before she left for tonight."

Which means she's coming for sure. Blaine breathes a mental sigh of relief and ticks that off of his list of worries. "Great."

Justin suddenly tosses his pen down with a defeated huff. "Dude, this sucks."

Tracy clucks behind him. "You're thinking too hard. Just be genuine and it'll be fine."

"What does that even mean?" Justin demands, but not that bitchily, smiling some. "Genuine? She's eight. It's not like she's going to care."

"What are you doing?" Blaine asks, damnable curiosity getting the better of him. He licks the last of the sugar from his teeth.

Justin looks up. "It's my sister's birthday. Tracy's helping me make her a card." He says it defensively, like Blaine's going to mock him for it, and what do you know, Blaine's capable of somewhat positive (more accurately, sympathetic) feelings toward him after all.

"I drew Ariel and that fish thing on her card."

"Flounder is the fish. You drew Sebastian. Who is a crab. How can you draw a crab and not know it's a crab?" He's outright laughing now, and Tracy is smirking where he can't see, clearly fucking with him.

Blaine tilts his head and grins wide. They're an unlikely pair, but Justin appears to have made a friend. He certainly needs one. "I'm sure she'll love it. I've got to hit the road. See you guys tomorrow?"

"Godspeed," Charlie says, craning to look at Blaine over his shoulder as he assembles breakfast. Yeah, Kurt's probably not feeling great if he's letting Charlie do it. Blaine spares a thought to checking on him, but Kurt gets weird if Blaine's around when he's actively ill, and he really is in a hurry.

"Thanks."

"Good luck," Tracy says, smiling at him before going back to Justin's card and gesturing at something.

He hustles back out to his car, flicking on the heater once he's got it started up. He hates the cold, and once Kurt realized that his collection of coats and scarves weren't just seasonal expressions of fashion, he teased him about it. But despite the teasing, he carries a spare pair of black gloves in his bag for when Blaine inevitably forgets his. It's still technically fall, but the shivers rushing down his spine don't know that.

Blaine's nearly home when he realizes that he doesn't have the fucking seating chart anymore. It's nowhere. It's not on the seat next to him, and when he stops at a red light, he frantically gropes around for it, peering down at the footwell, but it's not there either. He must have dropped it or set it down somewhere because he's an idiot.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he mutters, and takes a too-fast U-turn at the lights.

He literally jogs from his car to the house this time, leaving the door open behind him when he enters, too single minded to go back and close it.

When he's a few feet from the living room, he sees a flash of movement and stalls there in the hallway. He doesn't like the weight that settles in his stomach and constricts his chest then; his instincts are beeping a red alert at him.

Hushed, furious whispers reach his ears, and Blaine strains his ears to hear Justin's voice. And Kurt's.

"-- leave it -- "

"No, c'mon, you have something to say?"

"-- to you."

"Have some balls, princess; say it to my face." They're both still speaking low and stifled, doubtlessly trying to conceal the conversation from the rest of the house, but Justin's tone is becoming sharp enough to cut. "Or are you just like your girlfriend -- boyfriend, whatever the fuck it is -- you get your dick and balls cut off ‘cause you couldn't handle being a man?"

Blaine feels something tight snap inside of him, and before he even makes the conscious decision to do so, he's crossing the room, furious strides eating up the distance.

"You're pathetic. You keep talking like someone cares about what you have to say, but reality check, honey -- no one gives a damn about you. Not your family, not your friends, because if they did, you wouldn't be here." Kurt is cruel and shrill, eyes narrowed and holding himself in a robotically straight posture.

"Kurt! Justin, stop," Blaine orders, but they're like dogs in a junkyard straining their chains to get at each other. They don't hear him. He sees the weight of the words land on Justin like a blow, watches as Justin sets his stance to jerk forward towards Kurt -- so he reaches out, snaps a hand down onto Kurt's shoulder but Kurt rolls it right off.

"Sorry, I couldn't understand a word of what you just said, all I heard was screeching. You really don't have a dick, do you?" Justin jabs a finger at Kurt, and Blaine moves in again to separate them, both hands on Kurt's shoulders to drag him back.

"Listen to me, right now--" Blaine tries again, voice rising, but Kurt cuts right in, sickly-sweet and patronizing.

"Oh, honey, I didn't know you wanted to see it that badly. Would you even know what to do with it?"

Blaine feels heat rush into his face, his fingers clenching into Kurt's shoulders, but Charlie is there now, his jaw held as tight as Blaine's ever seen it, putting more space between the boys.

"Kurt," Blaine says again, and this time it's an undeniable command. "Go to your room. Now." He jerks Kurt towards the stairs and pushes him off. In his peripheral vision he can see Kurt practically snarling, but he stomps up the stairs with all the sass he can gather.

"Charlie. Keep him here."

Blaine can barely look at Justin, he's so mad. He doesn't know what would be easier to see on Justin's face: relish or penance. So much of it isn't Justin's fault; it's just the fucked up deck of cards that the kid has been forced to play with, and maybe Blaine's not any better than his parents or teachers or foster families that didn't give a damn, but he can't have this, not here. Tension is vibrating all through his body and he knows that he won't be able to contain it here; he needs to leave.

"I'm calling his case worker," he says, with an effort to keep the venom out of his voice but it sounds all the more definitive -- and threatening -- because of it. He turns on his heel and heads for the open door.

--

When Blaine drives from the dinner venue to his apartment for a final pit-stop, he sees Kurt sitting on his front stoop. He blinks twice; the day is gloomy, the sky cinereous, and Kurt's peacock-bright clothing makes him pop like a hallucination. His legs are spread akimbo as he balances a book and a notepad on his thigh, wrapped up in layers and face reddened by the wind. Blaine's hands slide from the steering wheel and he sucks in an irritated breath. He can't -- he doesn't want to deal with Kurt right now, with the immediate and unnecessary guilt he has over Kurt sitting there in the cold when it was Kurt's choice to begin with and the worry he has about how Kurt will get home.

Blaine's steps lag up the sidewalk, and Kurt calmly starts packing his things into his bag as he approaches. "What are you doing here?" Blaine asks wearily when they meet each other's eyes.

"Helping you." He pushes himself up and brushes himself off. "You're running late. You should have been getting ready half hour an hour ago."

He unlocks his front door and Kurt follows him inside. The cushion of heated air that fills his apartment is so welcome. "Yeah, well, today hasn't exactly gone as planned."

The list of things Blaine had to do throughout the day was tightly packed; there was no room for the chaos of sending Justin away from the house, waiting for his case worker for an excruciating hour, filling out the paperwork, watching Justin carry his luggage out to the car with a grim look on his face. He was a mess trying to set up. He kept forgetting what he was doing in the middle of a task. Now that he's home, all he wants to do is fall over and sleep, but in all honesty he wouldn't be able to even if he had the opportunity.

"I brought the seating chart, and I wrote up a new list. I doubt it helps now, but you have it in case there's something..." Kurt trails off when Blaine goes into the kitchen. "How did the setup go?" he asks, changing tactics.

"Fine. I had to leave before they were finished hanging up all the lights, but the tables are set and the staff seems competent enough to finish everything up."

"Good. I don't want to tempt fate, but --"

"Look, sweetheart," Blaine interrupts, trying to temper his impatience. It isn't Kurt's fault that this day has gone to utter shit. Kurt certainly didn't ask for the bile Justin spewed at him, and later, when Blaine's got his head screwed on straight, they're hashing that out. He's never seen Kurt look as he did today, or sound like that, and it's shaken him up nearly as much as Justin's parting expression did. "I need to get dressed. I know you want to help but right now you can't."

Kurt is silent, the pause loaded. Blaine braces himself for a crack of anger or hurt but it doesn't come. "Take a shower. You should have enough time. It'll help relax you, aside from the obvious hygienic benefits."

Kurt's right, as usual. He has things to worry about and he should rush to make sure he can take Kurt home, but it'll be easier to face that after a shower. He feels uneasy as he strips, piling his clothes onto the bathroom floor and picturing Kurt waiting aimlessly, clothed and collected while Blaine is naked behind the closed door.

--

He stands at his dresser, eying his collection of cuff links in their plush jewelry box, and tugging one-handed at his black bowtie. It feels far too tight, but short of taking it off he doesn't think it will improve -- Blaine's off-kilter with too many things coalescing at once, and it's starting to get to him in small ways. Putting on a tux is something he's done dozens of times, but right now it feels like he's donning an ugly, ill-fitting costume.

He's still got some trussing up to do to complete the effect. There's a pair of gold cuff links he inherited from his grandfather, square and art-deco style, and he's debating those when he hears Kurt from the hall. This is the first peep he's made since Blaine disappeared for his shower; he must have found some way of entertaining himself. More poking around, if he knows Kurt.

"I called the caterer to make sure he was going to set up on time." Blaine sees him appear in the doorway behind him; they lock gazes in the mirror attached to Blaine's dresser.

"Thanks," he says, going back to his jewelry box, giving up on the tie for now.

There's another pair set with emeralds, and they're nice, but they're a little too haut monde for his personal taste. He skims his fingers over them, considering, and looks up to realize that Kurt is still lingering in his threshold. Blaine picks up the art deco pair and rattles them in his cupped palm. "What's up?"

"The color scheme in here is nice," Kurt remarks. "Very subtle."

It's the first time Kurt has seen Blaine's bedroom. He's familiar with the rest of the place, for the most part (especially, Blaine recalls with a heated squirm, the couch), but the bedroom has been uncharted territory until now. His bed in its cherry wood frame seems suddenly daunting, its presence suggestive. He's been in a bed with Kurt before, but never his bed. What he needs to be thinking about right now isn't Kurt in his bed, touching Kurt's bare skin in his bed -- and Blaine is still basing that mental image on conjecture rather than fact.

Kurt's seen so much more of him than he has of Kurt.

"Glad it meets your approval," Blaine says, fastening the first link.

Kurt finally crosses the threshold and circles him in slow appraisal. Blaine's only half ready in socks with his shirt untucked, his hair the only part of him that's done. He made more than his usual effort with it tonight, shaping the waves rather than just gelling everything flat.

"Please tell me you're joking," Kurt says with a disdainful flick of his finger to Blaine's bowtie.

"What?"

"I can't in good conscience let you out with it like that," he says, reaching to undo it.

Blaine side steps him and frowns. "I know how to tie a tie. I've been doing it since before you were born."

"Clearly practice has not made perfect," Kurt snaps, unimpressed with him, and deliberately gets back into Blaine's space to deftly twist the fabric through his fingers. He sweeps his hands over Blaine's shoulders when he's done. "There." He stays close, unfazed with the irritation Blaine knows he's radiating but doesn't care enough about to reign in. "Are you wearing cologne?"

"I guess." There are bottles of it on his dresser, mostly unused; wearing it at work seems silly, and some people have allergies, so he decided a long time ago to stop unless it was for special occasions. He went on a date eight months ago, which was the last time he tapped into something other than aftershave.

Kurt turns and studies the various bottles, a finger to his lips. "Half of the men there will be wearing Polo or Drakkar Noir," he says, pulling a face. "Stick with something simple but sophisticated." He grabs a bottle of Armani Code that Blaine has only used once; he thinks his mom bought it for him a few Christmases ago. "This should work." He pulls off the lid and, to Blaine's surprise, spritzes it onto his own wrist. "It isn't Burberry," he says, casually sliding his cologne-damp wrist along Blaine's neck, up to the pulse point on his jaw. "But it'll do."

"What are you doing?" Blaine asks, swallowing hard, senses invaded by the smell of Armani imbued in Kurt's touch.

"You don't want to drown in scent."

Kurt seems to be contemplating a second spritz when Blaine snakes his hands around his waist and tugs him closer. "Don't forget to tuck in your shirt," he mumbles to cover his surprise, but then he's right there with him in a second, returning the embrace, though Blaine notes he's being careful not to cause any wrinkles.

"Thank you for helping me," Blaine says, nudging Kurt's cheek with his nose so he'll turn his face a little. He kisses by his ear, and when Kurt murmurs a little noise, he nuzzles there.

"Somebody's suddenly in a better mood," Kurt says, mild despite the way he arches into Blaine's hands.

"Somebody had to come in here and distract me with their magic hands."

"What?" Kurt half-laughs, half-sputters, but Blaine cuts off whatever else he was going to say with his mouth.

Kurt's exactly a distraction, and a good one, pliable and appealing enough to make him think about putting off everything he has to do until the last possible minute, or just not doing it at all. Who cares if the tables are set up wrong, or if people get there too early and no one is there to greet them? He has Kurt four feet from his bed, and they smell of the same heady cologne; something about that is doing it for him right now.

"This is a bad idea," Kurt mutters, but he's drawing his thumb over the side of Blaine's face, stopping short of his styled hair.

"We've got, like, ten minutes before I have to go," Blaine says, and he doesn't have to be careful of Kurt's hair, so he slides a hand up into it and kisses the apple of his cheek for no reason whatsoever, other than his desire to feel the warmth of it under his lips.

"You're half dressed."

"I am not."

Blaine does some things naturally when he kisses someone. Most people do. The longer he does it, the less he monitors his actions, and previously he's been fairly careful about keeping a metaphorical eye on himself with Kurt. Blaine was Kurt's first kiss; he doesn't have a frame of reference for how this stuff works, and Blaine tells himself over and over that he needs to be careful, to be patient, but Kurt has now explicitly taught him that careful isn't enough.

He slides his hands down to Kurt's ass and finally squeezes the handful he's been shamefully pining for. It's just such a nice ass, and it feels even better than he expected (and his expectations were pretty high). Any holdover of concern Blaine had over Kurt's reaction is dashed when Kurt moans and drops his head to Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine cups him, stopping when he reaches the top of Kurt's thighs. His fingers knead of their own accord, learning the shape of him. "Wow," Blaine says, marvelling. "Your ass is really firm."

"Blaine!" Kurt sounds scandalized, and he writhes uncomfortably in Blaine's arms.

"What?" Blaine asks. "It is."

"You can't just say things like that."

"Really?" Blaine says, dropping his hands -- he has to stop touching if he ever wants to leave the room -- and he leans back so Kurt has to lift his head up. He's splotchy and trying valiantly to maintain a pokerface. "I have a hard time believing you're the same boy who ambushed me with a handjob the other day."

"Blaine," Kurt whines his name. "We really, really don't have to talk about those experiences. They are only for the bedroom."

"And the couch?" Blaine tips his head, not even trying to hide the smile.

Kurt groans miserably.

"And-- oh, shit, I need to leave now." The hands of his wristwatch are much farther left than they should be -- he pats down his pockets, making sure he has his keys and his phone and maybe his sanity, but he hasn't seen that in a few days. Or his shoes. Where are his shoes? "I-- You-- " Blaine fumbles, visibly, caught halfway out the door.

"Blaine," Kurt says for the third time. "I'll walk. I walked here, I can walk back. I found your spare key, too, so I'll lock the door behind me. Get your other cufflink, it's on the dresser, your shoes are right here, and your jacket is hanging up by the front door. Go."

Blaine stares at him blankly, then snaps into action. "Okay, okay. Cufflink, cufflink on the dresser, shoes, jacket by the door. Kurt, thank you," he says as he disappears towards the front door, only to pop his head back in with a rakish smile. "Oh -- and the washing machine, too."

Kurt's indignant expression is the last thing he sees before he closes the door.