Chapter three- we gonna lose our minds tonight

The next night, Blaine's cell is ringing obnoxiously. One glance at the caller ID confirms his suspicions—it's Cooper.

Blaine mutes his cell and falls asleep on his bed without bothering to pull the covers over himself. He's cold all the time now anyways.

And is jolted awake not ten minutes later by a low, vibrating buzz that is coming from his back pocket. Blaine makes a face at Cooper's incoming text—i know you muetd your phone but you gotta go to the paaaaaaaartyyyyyyy—and rolls his eyes at the next—shit. MUTED. sorry.

He texts back quickly: not gonna happen, coop.

fuck you, squirt.

Wait for it... wait for it...

that sounded dirty, oops. ignore that.

His brother is so predictable.

but blaine, you need to go. i'd drive you if i wasn't in california.

This makes Blaine grin and reply,

the real big c and you neglect to capitalize.

...uh... what. i'll ignore that. was that a dirty text, blaine? it better not be. 'cause then you'll have to go to the paaaaaaaaartaaaaaaayyyyyyy to make up for it!!!!

God, that is three more exclamation points than necessary.

cooper, please. im not going anywhere near that place tonight.

is there gonna be alcoholllll??

are you encouraging underage drinking?

we do it all the time in cali!!!

no you don't.

hell yes we DO!! cali is the shit

did you just say that

did you seriously just say that

please tell me my eyes are playing tricks on me.

CALI IS THE SHIT

!!!!!!!!!

MY EYES, THEY BURN

you are a menace to slang words everywhere

what the fuck

and you abuse exclamation points

blaine just go to the damn party

and

NO i will not just go to the damn party

thank you very much

i have a hot date i can't spend all night convincing you

what????

if i abuse exclamation poitns then you abuse question marks

just once.

but really? a hot date??

uh

i

no

maybe

i just want you to go to a party, blaine

is that really so much to ask

yes

yes it is.

sigh. little bros are so not the shit.

would you please stop using that slang

it is making my head hurt

don't hate on the lingo, little bro

and

it depends

will you go to the party?

what time does it start, anyway?

it's been going on for five minutes now i guess

i'll be late

no you won't

you'll be fashionably late

like the QUEEN

and that makes you

FABULOUS

oh my god

please just stop.

please just go to the party!!!!!!

maybe i'll stop overusing exclamation!!!! points!!!!!! if!!!!!! you!!!!!!!!!! do!!!!!!!!!!!!

oh fuck no

HA!!!!!!!!! AS!!!!!!!! EXPECTED!!!!!!!!!!!!!! COOPER!!!!!!!!!!! IS!!!!!!!!!!!! VICTORIOUS!!!!!!

as expected, you are RIDICULOUS

but fine

i will go to the party

Blaine sends this last text with an overly dramatic sigh worthy of his brother. Cooper is persistent, that's for sure. But if this gets him to stop worrying, then fine. He'll do it.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!

i thought no more exclamation points good lord

i need to remember all this happiness for acting class!!!!!

now blaine get your ass over there asap i have to go but i expect deets tomorrow

why do you have to go?

and PLEASE NEVER USE THE WORD DEETS IN A SENTENCE EVER AGAIN

i wasn't actually lying about the hot date

ha

but now you'll want to know who it is

right??????

yes cooper. i'm on the edge of my fucking seat.

good because

I'M

NOT

TELLING

YOU

GO

TO

THAT

DAMN

PARTY

ALREADY

Blaine hates this, he really does. By the time the ALREADY text is sent to him, he's halfway down the hall struggling to get into a warm, snug-fitting dark green cardigan and hold his vibrating phone at the same time. His copper-colored loafers—which are sporting newly scuffed toes—are neatly slid onto his feet. Blaine didn't bother to figure out the dress code, but he figures he should be okay—high school parties are not exactly the fanciest of them all, anyways, not like in Cali.

*

The second Blaine walks in the door, he walks straight into Kurt.

Of course.

Kurt glances up, obviously annoyed at first. When he sees that it's Blaine, though, his cool mask dissolves into a smile that is not as big as it wants to be. Blaine knows that smile. Kurt is scared shitless and hopeful at the same time.

Blaine misses that smile.

"Hi, Blaine." How Kurt can put so much positive emotion into two words baffles him completely.

"Hey," he mumbles, and brushes past Kurt, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khakis. He can't do this. He can't do this. He can't fucking do this and he's fucked up because when he's going past Kurt he glimpses the expression of sheer pain on his face that Blaine put there because he's a fucking idiot and he can't just say hi like a normal person or even try to act happy for his best friend—what the fuck. What the fuck. They're probably not even friends anymore, now that Blaine is walking past and Kurt is gonna be pissed at him, and Blaine can't do this.

"Blaine?" It's Kurt, soft and concerned and oh, he's worried, not mad. Why is everyone so fucking worried? Blaine is torn between throwing himself into Kurt's arms to sob his heart out and wheeling around to run straight out of this house, into the street, hopefully into the path of some car because he doesn't know where he'd be going if he left but it would not be to his house, that's for sure.

Fuck fuck fuck he's gonna fuck this up he can't talk to Kurt, not here, not now, and his body tenses and he gives an involuntary shudder and Kurt sees everything but he doesn't understand why.

"Are you okay?"

Three words. Three little words and tears are rushing to Blaine's eyes and sticking to his eyelashes and making him close his eyes and breathe in sharply because he's never—for four years, four years, he has never heard those words and it is exactly the question he needs to hear but Kurt needs an answer and Blaine just doesn't have one.

"I," he says, starts to say, and Kurt's hand is on his shoulder. It's so much bigger than it was four years ago, covering the top of his shoulder and the fingers reach to cover his shoulder blade and rub tiny circles there over his cardigan and even though he's freezing Kurt's hand is so warm, and it's going to make him collapse.

Just as soon as it's there, though, Kurt's hand is gone because a girl who is a four-years-older-than-he-remembers-but-most-definitely Quinn Fabray is stalking by and Kurt looks like he's going to slap her but he doesn't. "You bitch," he says, venomous and angry and suddenly, insanely hot, which is making Blaine uncomfortable, because Kurt has always been beautiful but never before like that to Blaine, and he thinks maybe the last time a high school boy aroused him it was, like, Zac Efron.

Quinn lifts her head and shows not-purposely-mascara-smeared cheeks and eyelids. She's been crying. Blaine's been crying. This party is fucking depressing, even though the trashy music pumping loud in the background and the surprising number of people screaming and laughing and talking say differently. "Kurt, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Yeah. Yeah. You didn't know," Kurt spits, and Blaine watches, transfixed. "No one ever knows. No one ever knows what it's like to be someone else, to have different problems, so why do we even fucking try?"

Quinn is shaking her head. "You don't get it," she whispers. "You're trying to make this into something bigger, to distance it from yourself. But it's not gonna work, Kurt. Quitting—"

"Is for losers," Kurt finishes. "And seeing as I am a loser, according to the lovely screwed society of our ever beloved high school, it's only fitting. You can't make me come back, Quinn. Stop fucking trying." His fists are clenched so tight that his knuckles have gone white, and Blaine's gaze shifts from Kurt's face down his long neck down his strong shoulders and arms to his hands, which are very different from when he last examined them, but in some ways the same. Pale and smooth and he knows if he touched it, the skin would be perfectly soft. He remembers when nine-year-old Kurt taught him his nighttime moisturizing routine. He wonders if Kurt still uses the same one.

"Fuck off, Quinn," Kurt is saying, and for some reason she looks even sadder whenever he says her name, and she leaves, black skirt swishing melancholy against her fishnet-tights-clad legs.

"Sorry about that," Kurt says, turning his blue eyes back to face Blaine, and Blaine wants to ask what it was about but he also wants to ask how Kurt grew up so much in the time he was gone but he also wants to just stand and not talk, because then it might just be okay, if he doesn't have to say anything he has a change of not fucking things up. "Want to get a drink or something?"

"Or something," Blaine says, his voice a croak, and Kurt is giving him a little shaky smile because—oh. Kurt is happy because Blaine didn't just brush past him again, because Blaine waited for him and Quinn to finish their bitching, because Blaine didn't hurt him again. Blaine didn't hurt is the amazing part of that sentence, but Blaine is more focused on the again. He's already hurt Kurt too much. He can't do that anymore. But he knows if he doesn't brush past him, if he does wait for him, he will hurt Kurt again. It's inevitable.

Kurt's fists unclench and he looks at Blaine, almost shy, and his fingertips twitch like they're reaching but not finding anything but air, and Blaine thinks I want to hold your hand but the thought's gone fast like a fleeting memory, memory, he's remembering—what is he remembering?

Blackness crowds around his eyes and Kurt says "Follow me" and the blackness recedes on a miniscule level (but still—it recedes, that has never happened before) when Blaine follows Kurt into the throbbing heat of the crowd. He feels Kurt's warmth the strongest, though, like an aura spreading around him like a blanket. A blanket. A... the memory is fleeting. Fleeting fast, running away, and gone—

*

Quinn:

I really am sorry. And Kurt's right. I don't understand. But I'm still his friend. He can tell me things, doesn't he know that? I don't know if he does. Oh well. It's too late to tell him now. Quitting the Skanks has done him no favors. And he never did tell me exactly why he's quit—whether it was San and Britt and mine's crazy Lesbian Love Triangle, as he dubbed it on that infamous night, or his dad, or Blaine. Blaine Anderson. What the hell does Blaine Anderson have on two years of protection and belonging and fights and craziness and late nights and tequila that the Skanks gave Kurt Hummel? Nothing. And he'll find that out soon enough. He'll regret it. He'll say he's sorry. He'll come crawling back. They always do. But do we let them back in? Nope. (But do I want to let him back? Yes. Yes.)

*

Despite Cooper's suggestion, Blaine's not looking to get drunk tonight. He's never had alcohol before, and doesn't want to. Kurt gets a small cup of light brown stuff and a handful of Doritos, but Blaine thinks he might be sick if he eats anything, and tells Kurt as much, and Kurt doesn't push it. He never has.

One thing Kurt has always done, however, is look at Blaine. And even if that gaze has been missing from his life for the past four years, he still remembers exactly how it feels: how it feels to be looked at like he's not gum on the bottom of a shoe, or a buzzing mosquito, or an ugly monster, or, or—so he'll never forget—something bad and wrong. Kurt looks at Blaine, and, no matter what his expression is, he looks at him like Blaine matters.

"—we will never be, never be

anything but loud

and nitty gritty

dirty little freaks—"

P!nk is belting in the background, which is at least a step up from the Taylor Swift that was playing when he walked in the door, but Kurt is saying something and the music's too loud and Blaine can't hear over "dirty little freaks."

"Is there anyplace quieter?" he says, leaning directly into Kurt's ear so that he knows he'll be heard, and Kurt gives him a smirk.

"I wish," he says. "Didn't you—well—never mind. I forgot what I was gonna say." He's leaning back to Blaine, which is understandable because an unfamiliarly mohawked Noah Puckerman is DJ'ing and has just turned up P!nk even louder, but it's also really fucking distracting because his breath is hot against the shell of Blaine's ear, and Kurt's arm is kind of pressing into his, and Kurt is wearing this black cotton short-sleeved shirt with a skull printed on it, and Blaine can feel Kurt's muscle on his arm, and Kurt's gray jeans mold around his legs tightly and perfectly, and Kurt's just, just, really, really distracting. Blaine wishes that he wasn't perpetually cold so that he could take off his cardigan and use it to hide the side effect of his distraction. Then he realizes that, standing thisclose to Kurt, he's actually somewhat warm. Blushing-warm. Blaine unbuttons his cardigan in relief.

"Oh, shit," Kurt says loudly, and Blaine looks up, having successfully placed his cardigan on his arm to cover his boner, to see Rachel Berry with a glittery pink microphone in hand, marching in torturous heels confidently through the party-goers. "I know where this is headed."

Blaine cocks his head and it kind of not accidentally lands on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt looks at him briefly, and his eyes smile though his mouth doesn't move, and says nothing. Blaine is so confused, and his head is spinning even though he hasn't had anything to eat or drink, and Rachel Berry is tapping the mic and yelling at Noah to turn off the music.

"Puck! Shut that trash off, please!"

"Don't diss P!nk, bitch," he replies, but Rachel taps the mic, which screeches, and he obliges.

"Okay everybody!" she says, overly perky, and Kurt sighs into Blaine's hair.

"Here we fucking go," he mutters, and crosses his (muscular, pale, perfect) arms over his (broad, unfortunately clothed) chest.

The partygoers stop and stare at Rachel, who is clad in a frilly yellow sleeveless thing and a knit skirt with a black dog on it, which really do not go together, especially not with her hooker heels accessorizing.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your fabulous party time," Rachel says, flashing a not-very-apologetic smile, "but as the official hostess of this start-of-the-year party, I must request that you go downstairs for a game now! I have taken a vote—"

"And rigged it to your liking," Kurt mutters—

"—and it has been decided that we'll be playing a high school classic! Seven minutes in heaven!" She's practically squealing her words. Blaine thinks he's getting a migraine.

"Oh dear lord please no," Kurt says under his breath. Blaine resists the very strong urge to remove his hand from his side so that he can trace Kurt's shoulder muscle through his shirt. He's kind of not listening at all.

"Now, not everyone is expected to play," she continues, and a collective sigh of relief surges through the crowd. They all return to talking, and Rachel taps the mic obnoxiously. "But I expect a good handful! Thank you! That's all!" Noah returns to blasting 'Raise Your Glass' at full volume.

"So," Kurt says, stepping back so that Blaine is forced to put his head upright again, though not so far away that Blaine can't hear him over P!nk, "we gonna go downstairs with the losers or what?"

Blaine frowns at him. He was hearing Rachel's words, but they didn't sound like much more than high-pitched incoherency, due to the fact that Kurt was pressed against his body. Blaine says this to Kurt, leaving out the last part and subtly rearranging his cardigan on his arm at the same time.

Kurt laughs. "If only I had that talent," he says. "Basically we're playing seven minutes in heaven downstairs, but no one is gonna play except for the glee club out of pity. Do you want to join them? I have nothing left to do, since I got my bitching with Q—Quinn out of the way early on. I was actually leaving as you were coming in," Kurt adds, and something like a blush is on his face, but it might just be the lighting plus Blaine's wishful thinking.

"Thanks for staying with me," he replies, and Kurt shrugs and smiles and looks at his Converse-clad feet. "I guess we can go downstairs. I only came here because my brother forced me. Via text." Kurt snorts.

"I remember Cooper's ways," he says, and takes Blaine's hand, leading them through the people. "I know a shortcut to the basement. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I've been here," he explains as Blaine raises an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Kurt says, leaving it at that. Blaine doesn't push. If Kurt doesn't want to talk, Kurt won't talk. He's always been that way.

*

Rachel:

Now that I've gotten Finn to join the New Directions, he'll have to play seven minutes in heaven with me—us. I just hope that weird kid from Lima Elementary doesn't come. I don't want to kiss anyone who's been unsuccessful at such a prestigious school like Dalton! I saw him earlier at the party with Kurt. Ugh. Freaks stay with freaks, I guess. We never found out why Kurt dropped out of glee, and frankly, I don't care. I don't about him. But I do hope it wasn't too suspicious that I invited the freshmen and sophomores—not my fault I like older men! If I get to kiss Finn tonight, seeing Kurt again will be worth it.

*

"Hey, Kurt," says an Asian girl who looks confused to see Kurt downstairs. And with the fuck-up on his arm, no less. But Blaine thinks that even if he's a fuck-up, he's on Kurt's arm, so nothing matters. Nothing matters except Kurt's hand in his and then squeezing it once and then—

Letting go. Kurt walks across the room to sit gracefully on the floor next to the Asian girl, leaving Blaine standing there feeling abruptly chilled to his bones. "Tina," he says to the girl in acknowledgement, and nods. Blaine doesn't know what to do. If he sits next to Kurt, will people think they're together? Blaine doesn't think Kurt would want people to think that. Especially because they're, you know, not together. His boner's gone with the absence of Kurt, which at least gives him the opportunity to slip the cardigan back on.

"Outta the way, short stuff," says a voice behind him, and Noah walks past him with a haughty air. He sits next to who Blaine thinks is Mercedes Jones, and looks at Blaine with an unreadable expression that makes him tense. "You gonna sit down?"

Blaine sits awkwardly where he's standing and stares at the carpeted floor in front of him. He thinks he might not be welcome here. He feels acutely breakable.

"Puck, if you're down here, who the hell's the DJ?" Kurt says. Apparently Noah is also Puck, Blaine thinks, and files this information away in the dusty jars of his memory.

"Uh, I just put 'Raise Your Glass' on repeat for the next hour," Puck responds, and Kurt huffs in amusement.

"Typical," Rachel says, appearing from nowhere. "Hey, short guy, please move. You're blocking the door." It takes Blaine a second to realize she's talking to him—a second in which she nudges the small of his back with the pointy toe of her atrocious shoes. He scoots over, embarrassed. He's not that small, is he? And this is coming from Rachel, who is diminutive herself. Whatever. It shouldn't matter.

But it does.

"Is anyone else coming down?" Rachel says, sticking out her lower lip. She surveys the pathetic group—Puck, Mercedes, the Asian girl who is Tina, Kurt, this Asian guy who Blaine doesn't know, this vaguely hot blond guy who Blaine also doesn't know, Artie Abrams (who, Blaine is kind of ashamed to admit, he only recognizes due to the wheelchair), Santana Lopez (who is now a Cheerio and a Skank he thinks, if that's even possible, due to her Cheerio uniform paired with black ankle boots, fingerless fishnet gloves that snake up her arms almost to her shoulders, dark makeup, spiked jewelry, and small tattoo near her cleavage that says 'BITCH'), Brittany Pierce (who is also a Cheerio, and who is holding Santana's hand), and some random guy that he doesn't think anyone really knows, considering all the suspicious glances and straightforward 'who the hell are you' looks directed at him—oh wait, that's Blaine.

"Hon, you know we're only here as your pity party," Mercedes says, and Tina slaps her arm. Mercedes shrugs and rolls her eyes. "It's true."

"I'm ignoring that!" Rachel declares. "Well, someone didn't show up, so I guess I can give him hell at glee this week. But I'll take what I've got."

Kurt's mouth is moving, saying quiet words that Blaine can't hear, but Tina can. She is about to slap him when Kurt's hand catches her poised arm and he returns it firmly to her side. He does this while watching Rachel take an empty bottle from under her arm and sets in the middle of their tiny circle.

"So," Rachel says brightly, though her happy gaze is almost forceful in its intensity, and Blaine knows she was waiting for someone and that whoever that was, someone was going to get a lot more than hell at glee that week. "I guess you all know the rules: spin the bottle, whoever it lands on you get the fortunate or unfortunate opportun—Finn!"

Finn Hudson is clambering down the stairs, which are shaking dangerously under his tall frame, and sheepishly entering the basement.

"Hi," he says, not meeting anyone's eyes as his gaze sweeps, unfocused, over the small group of people. "I'm here." Finn the one who is exactly as Blaine remembers—overlarge, not talkative except to state the obvious, and a football player. This last fact is emphasized by the Letterman jacket clinging tightly to his shoulders, the expanse of material not quite enough to fit properly. It's kind of comforting to have someone who stayed the same. Finn seats himself almost directly next to Blaine, and looks at the floor. Blaine recognizes the gesture of I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-here from his own signature collection and feels a sudden and unexpected kinship with the boy next to him.

"—and spend seven minutes in that closet with them." Rachel is finishing up, her eyes only on Finn, not even trying to be subtle. "I have an alarm on my watch, so we can make sure." Blaine glances swiftly around the circle. Everyone looks bored as hell except Kurt, who is watching Rachel with a strange, rapt attention that Blaine feels almost jealous of.

"Everyone knows, Rachel," Santana snaps. "Just get on with it, goddammit."

"Swearing's not becoming of a lady, you bitch," Rachel says heatedly, whirling to face the Skank-Cheerio, her cool cover slipping for half a second. Santana raises her eyebrows as a slow smirk spreads across her mouth. It's clear that this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and Blaine watches the tension between the two girls from behind lowered eyelashes with growing interest. This is not just a game to him anymore. This is the best way ever to find out exactly how his old friends have changed.