By the time the weekend rolled around, Blaine couldn’t have been happier to see it. After a week of what felt like nonstop reading for classes and waking up every night with nightmares of being chased by every conceivable boogieman, he was more exhausted than he could remember being in awhile. To say nothing of his mother - he couldn't even start to think about that very much. Usually rehearsals would at least be a great way to recuperate no matter how high his stress level, to regain some energy and focus, but it turned out that teaching the Mendicants an arrangement was more difficult than he’d expected. The basses had their line down, but when it came time to add a plinky overtone, Matt kept jumping the gun on the rhythm and came in every single time on “and a” instead of “a one”, which threw off the rest of the two-bar phrase. Hank would have pulled Matt aside, but Blaine wasn’t sure exactly what to say other than to be encouraging that Matt could get the very simple part eventually.

Friday had been particularly exhausting. To celebrate his first semester with a light Friday schedule, he had gone out with a group of guys in his Theories of Education class – really fun guys, from what he could remember which was admittedly not very much. He knew at some point he had gotten home and into bed, if only because he remembered clearly waking up on Friday morning feeling like death. His stomach roiled from before the moment he even opened his eyes, blinking gingerly as it felt like they had been wrung out like an old washcloth – twisted and too dry. His head throbbed, and as he swung his heavy limbs over the edge of the bed and tried to sit up he swore he was going to throw up violently all over the rug; how he managed to keep the contents of his stomach down was still a mystery by the time he stood.

It wasn’t the worst he’d ever felt, he knew that. For one thing, it was hard to beat Larry’s end of the year bash from two years ago, which remained – even in his memory – an agonizing experience. A week of not eating right because finals had consumed his schedule, followed by nine hours of drinking…and someone – maybe him, he had to admit, that part of the evening was pretty hazy – had come up with the idea of doing an hourly drink schedule to force variety into the drink selection. At the start of every hour, one person would pick a liquor and that was all that would pour until the next hour began. Benny’s Jagermeister hour hadn’t gone well for him. After that night – and the next two days – anything seemed not-so-bad by comparison. Still, dragging himself through music classes hungover – while habitual – was never fun. Trying to sing like Brian Wilson at rehearsal was more like agonizing.

Perhaps the oddest moment of Friday, though, had been reaching into his bag for his notebook and pulling out two scraps of paper – one with a phone number, another with an address written in elegant-looking cursive that was more reminiscent of his mother or one of her society-wife friends than a college girl. He had no memory of the girls who had given them to him, let alone who would have been so forward as to give him her address. That was the kind of thing even a fun-loving college girl would think was beneath her. He liked to think he would have remembered making use of the address, but he couldn’t even be sure of that considering he didn’t exactly remember getting home on Thursday night. And were he to be honest, he couldn’t guarantee either of those slips hadn’t been in his bag since last year, so tracking down the authors would be virtually impossible. He imagined a Cinderella scenario, having every girl write a phone number and address until he could match the handwriting, but the phone number looked like the writing of practically every girl on campus. While he didn’t doubt that would be a great way to get a lot of dates, especially if he laid on the charm, it mostly perplexed him that he couldn’t even remember – he didn’t think he’d been that drunk.

So after such a long, frustrating, exhausting Friday, Blaine was ready to kick back and enjoy himself. Luckily for him, it was the best party weekend of the year. Post-finals was a close second, but so many people left campus right after their last exam, so it was more like a week of low-key parties as opposed to a giant blowout.

He started the evening at the Dekes' party - they were closest to his apartment and plenty of good times at Delta Kappa Epsilon bashes in the past. From the moment he stepped inside, though, he knew there would be trouble: close to 100 guys packed the living room, and Blaine counted maybe three women, each tucked very protectively under the arm of the boyfriend who had brought her. Sometimes that could be fine - he didn't need girls around to have a good time. He'd gone to an all-boys' school, after all, and there were still not nearly as many females on campus as there were males...and he liked the Mendicants a lot. But after a week like this, where he already felt so- "fragile" wasn't quite the word, but perhaps "too easily tempted" fit the bill - it just seemed like a horrible idea to stick around. Parties made it easier to flirt with girls, but there had to be girls around first. Otherwise he tended to fall into old habits of wanting, and he didn't want to get pulled into something dangerous like that right now. Or ever, really, but it had been such a long week that it seemed like the possibility was lurking this weekend more than most.

Of course, he couldn't just walk in and walk right back out again; that would be really rude. So he snagged himself some punch from the kitchen and made small talk with some of the guys about football for awhile before slipping out the door again and into the warm Palo Alto night. He didn't have to wander far in search of the next house party - a few driveways down, he saw a group of girls chatting on the front lawn as all kinds of people streamed in and out of the front door. He could hear music coming from inside, and through the front window he could see at least a few people dancing in the living room.

Perfect.

Blaine grinned and quickened his step up the front walk and through the open front door. The party was already hopping, which helped him relax a little, and there were plenty of girls around which...felt intimidating right now, he supposed, but would feel like the best thing in the world with a couple more drinks in him. Most of the crowd was younger than him - it was a fraternity party, after all, which meant almost entirely undergrads - but he didn't mind that. He'd had plenty of good times with guys who were still in college, hadn't he?

The inside of the house was more bustling than the front lawn, stuffed to the brim, and Blaine could feel himself relaxing just moving into the crush of people. Just what he wanted out of a Friday night. He squeezed between two groups of boys whose fraternity was hosting - Blaine didn't readily see enough memorabilia on the wall to tell him which group it was - and toward the table in the living room that held an enormous punchbowl. He'd seen a lot of them in his life (his mother owned seven for different types of functions and two more because they had been gits but were too hideous to ever use except when the gifting party was over), but it was easily the largest he'd ever seen. Made of clear plastic that looked dull and somewhat scratched even in the dim light, its red concoction could've been anything, but Blaine was up for a taste. He snagged a cup from the stack and, seeing no ladle (his mother would have fainted), dipped the plastic vessel into the bowl, tilting it upright hen he'd given himself a generous serving. Blaine raised the cup to his lips and took a testing sip; the brightly-coloured punch was strongly fruity but mostly just strong; it burned as he swallowed, the heat starting in his throat and radiating out quickly through his chest, arms, stomach. By the time his face flushed warm, he was taking another swig. After the week he'd had - after the day he'd had...this was just what he needed.

Why shouldn't he get what he needed?

He swallowed hard at his own indignant question, the gulp scorching him faster than he expected. But it was a fair question, wasn't it? he worked so hard, he tried so hard...He wasn't like guys he'd met who had spent too many years back home being pushed and slacked off as soon as their fathers couldn't tel them otherwise. He knew how to have a good time, he wasn't always serous - he loved the feeling of letting loose...shouldn't he indulge that when he needed to? Why shouldn't he take advantage of being able to feel good - to feel free and untroubled...when he spent so much of his time trying to do everything right? The Mendicants didn't run themselves, and he enjoyed his classes but there was so much work, and he was under so much pressure to be better all the time...

It was just that he wanted to do everything right, that was all. He was already so wrong - the wrong career desires, the wrong inclinations to want to ask questions and talk about things, the wrong aspirations...to say nothing of his sickness...

He couldn't change so much. He couldn't let go of those parts of his nature any more than he could change where Stanford was. He couldn't cure himself, no matter how hard he tried. There were so many things he needed that he would never be able to have.

So why shouldn't he give himself this one? Why shouldn't he ease up his own agonizingly heavy burden every once in awhile and let himself feel free and happy? Why shouldn't he be allowed to feel giddy as he watched the room spin, if that was what he needed after battling so hard for the things that would never be his? Why shouldn't he be allowed to blend into the throng of dancing, jubilant bodies bouncing to the music and lose himself - and everything wrong with him at the same time?

Proud of himself for standing his ground in the war against himself, Blaine tipped back the cup and drained it quickly before going back for another cup of punch to drink as he mingled.

* * * * *

Blaine started home more times than he could remember. Of course, by the third cup of punch, that as a very low bar.

He swore he'd decided to leave at least four times, and yet...somehow...Not that he minded, not at all. And what was he going to do at home - read for class? Sleep? That could wait if he was having this much fun. He'd won an impromptu game of beer pong - he didn't know who decided to combine ping pong and drinking, but they were his hero; he was great with a paddle - and maybe an impromptu dance contest? He remembered the other guy quitting and all the guy's friends cheering for him instead. Mostly he remembered spinning as he sang...or was that just the room? He hadn't missed a word, though - he was just that good. The guy's friends rewarded him heartily with a great vodka; he remembered that, too.

But this time, he was really going home. He meant it. It was late, and he should go so he could do...something on Saturday, he couldn't remember what it was but he should definitely do that. And sleep. Fuck, sleep sounded good. Not as good as another song, though - another song surrounded by guys who thought he was fantastic and girl who thought he was the best ever.

He was absolutely doing another number before he went home. If he could find a place to sing it - he wasn't really sure where he was or where the nearest party was. The sidewalk? Yeah, that seemed right...and wrong, he realized. He shouldn't be there, he should be inside - where the girls were. He turned, lighting up as he saw people having fun up on the porch. That girl was stunning - tanned, blonde hair that didn't exist in Ohio except from a bottle but out here came from the summer sun...he loved California, and that girl was even better - and better still because there were two of her.

Blaine could tell there were letters above the door that would tell him where he was, but he couldn't read them. He started forward to rejoin the party - or join a new one, maybe, he didn't know - but made it only two steps before he stumbled. He threw his arms out clumsily to try to steady himself and, by some luck and with an awkward flapping motion, righted himself on wobbly legs. He groaned as the entire motion sent the world lurching across his vision, and his stomach churned sharply. He had just enough time - and practice - to lean over slightly before heaving onto the grass. When his stomach partway settled after what felt like an hour but was probably only several minutes, Blaine stood upright. He felt awful - so hot, when had it gone from warm to sweltering? He swallowed, moaning in disgust at the taste and the way it burned. Water, he concluded. Water would help. And sleep. He took a step to the right to move around the mess he'd made of the lawn and tripped over his feet, falling slowly onto his side with a loud grunt of pain and frustration. That wasn't supposed to happen.

He waited for one of the guys on the porch to notice - or maybe the girl would take pity on him and help nurse him back to health...but they didn't seem to be coming, and he was pretty tired, so maybe he would just close his eyes for a few minutes...

"Are you okay?" a voice he swore he recognized but couldn't place asked from above him.

Blaine half-opened his eyes, staring at a pair of shoes. Shiny shoes. "Yeah, just...tired," he managed.

"You can't sleep here."

"'m not, dude, I'm going back to the party," he replied - or tried to. His tongue felt heavy and uncooperative in addition to being gross.

"Oh, no, you're not," the voice chuckled dryly. He saw knees now - grey pants - as the guy crouched down. "Warn me before you're sick again, got it? I do not want to think about what the drycleaner would do to this vest."

"Best drycleaner's on University Avenue and-...something. Over there. By the train," Blaine stated helpfully, gesturing until he felt himself being lifted off the ground.

"Where do you live?"

"Why are you-" Blaine glanced up and recoiled as he recognized who had picked him up and disturbed him from his attempt at sleep. Even without a fedora - some weird floppy cap was in its place - and his vision burring in the darkness, he could tell whose arms were around him and hoisting him down the sidewalk. "No. Don't, I can-...'m fine, lemme go..."

"Be quiet and let me be Prince Charming," he joked.

It took Blaine a moment to process that one, and when he did he choked out a tiny noise of protest that sounded more like a kicked puppy than any articulable objection. "No," he tried to protest. "Put me down, I'm fine-"

"Blaine." Peter's voice was firm, authoritative, but focusing on how he sounded just made Blaine want to get away faster. He was too vulnerable like this, held dangling up so far, legs feeling so weak and heavy, and if he got sick-...or if Peter was sick...

He still wasn't sure, but any man who joked about being a guy's Prince Charming so casually had to be right? That wasn't the kind of thing guys said to one another after a party - at least no party Blaine had ever been to, and he'd been to them all.

Would it be so bad if Peter were one of them? Blaine wondered fuzzily, a lopsided smile crossing his face as he let himself sag into Peter's hold for a moment. His arms were so strong, his chest broad and warm even through that vest, his heartbeat and breathing so soothing...it just felt so nice. Blaine shook himself from near slumber this time. He felt queasy again, but not from too much punch.

Of course it would be so bad. If Peter were one of them...that would be the worst thing. He was easy prey like this, ready to be forced to-...if there was one thing consistent across all homosexuals, his father swore, it was that they were relentless. They would stop at nothing once they had a young man in their clutches. They had no concept of humanity, of 'stop' or 'no' or niceties like 'please' - not when they ere in a predatory sexual frenzy. They looked for boys and young men who could be taken advantage o easily, and they kept going until they had what they wanted.

He wished he didn't have to count that among his own symptoms. He couldn't remember parties two through four, but he could remember all the reasons-

"Let me down."

"Blaine, where do you live?"

He couldn't tell him. Wouldn't tell him. Because suppose he did- and then what? At least if Peter tried to satisfy some psychotic urge in public, people would see, but at his apartment? What if he-

And what if Blaine liked-

No matter how violent and hostile Blaine knew it would be, the idea of Peter ripping his clothes off, biceps bulging, green eyes lit up with the knowledge that he was doing whatever he wanted, without fear or consequence...he moaned softly as his eyes dipped shut again. With those broad lips...and firm hands...

Blaine was vaguely aware of Peter saying something, but before he could process what it was he felt himself shift in Peter's arms, the gentle curve of the man's bicep brushing against his own. He was a small guy, but still - Peter had to be strong to do this. He wondered if the man worked out - like in an athletic magazine, maybe, the kind with lean men in bathing suits showing off while positioned in vaguely sporty poses...he'd found one when he was 11 and visiting his father's office. His mother was running some kind of errand, he didn't remember what. He mostly remembered that it was filth, but the men didn't seem to care. They were so handsome and strong...he started to picture one of those men in suspenders and a fedora, but his mind took him a step further, picturing Peter clad in nothing but European swimming clothes, flexing on the beach like Charles Atlas...

He needed to do something to stop the way this was going. He felt too good, much too good, and he knew it wasn't supposed to. Usually if he could make it feel bad somehow, that helped. But how? It felt so incredible, the way his chest flexed, the heavy sound of his breathing, the smell of his aftershave - musky and sweet...how could this ever feel bad? How could he bring himself to want it to?

He felt a broad hand press against his ass, cupping, grasping along his back pockets- His stomach clenched, and he batted hastily at Peter's chest before leaning over to empty his stomach again. He coughed and sputtered a moment, then slumped back into Peter's arms again weakly before passing out.

* * * * *

The bed beneath his back was soft, familiar, and it was exactly what he wanted. what he didn't want was the discomfort of his shoes being jerked off. He whined indignantly, trying to complain, but the words wouldn't come. He heard his shoes hit the floor and a quiet shushing sound. "You're okay, Blaine, you're fine," Peter murmured as he moved up. Blaine's breath hitched as he felt hands on his belt, and he wasn't able to hep himself as he groaned softly, "S'been years..." he said, part warning and part regret. He didn't know anymore whether he was meant to regret waiting so long or doing it at all. Right now, he mostly just regretted his breath. Maybe it would be enough to scare the man off, but he didn't think he wanted it to. Mostly he just wanted to not feel so tired anymore...or to be allowed to rest. Either would suffice.

He felt Peter's hand cup the back of his neck, lifting his head. Blaine tried to struggle and hep at the same time, but Peter instructed, "Drink this." A cup pressed against his lips seemingly out of nowhere, and Blaine opened his mouth to protest. he wanted to point out that he'd probably had enough now - in fact, he was sure of it. Any time he was so bad off that he let a guy take him home who may or may not be seriously disturbed, and for all Blaine knew could be the most difficult of difficult cases... that meant he should stop. But the cool liquid that poured into his mouth slowly felt out of this world. he winced at the taste, and Peter asked, "Sick again?", already reaching for the wastebasket. Blaine shook his head, lips not leaving the rim of the glass.

He should be asking Peter to leave, he knew that, but he was just too damned kind about it. That was the way - Homosexuals could be cunning. it as an antisocial disorder, and sociopaths didn't really push people away. They drew them close so they could destroy them. But it felt so nice, held firmly by sturdy hands while the rest of him felt like he was floating.

Besides, since when did he care about what was a bad idea on a night like this?

That logic was enough for him, and he let himself slip back into the fuzzy darkness.

* * * * *

The first thing Blaine was aware of when he awoke was the agonizingly sharp pain that seemed to encompass his entire head, as though a deranged artist was slowly taking a chisel to his skull and sending an intense ache through his cheeks, his sinuses, his mouth, with every tap of the hammer. The light in the room - what room? he couldn't say - was blinding even before he opened his eyes, and he groaned as he tried to bury his face against the pillow. Even the miniscule movement intensified the pain and made him aware of the exhausted, achy feeling weighing his entire body down against the bed.

At least the bed felt familiar. That was always a good sign when he was this hungover. He hadn't been so bad in awhile. Apparently last night had been great; he could always tell a choice party by how awful he felt the next day. God knew he couldn't remember much of it. Something about a singing and dancing contest that he was pretty sure he'd won. He wondered-...no, it didn't feel like there was anyone else in bed with him. That didn't mean he hadn't been congratulated on his win; to the contrary. He usually was alone by the time he got home. The bed might be colder, but it saved him having to make breakfast when he felt this lousy - or having to make smalltalk at all with some girl he'd liked the night before but now couldn't quite like.

He reached for the nightstand in search of his watch, intent on bringing it to his darker place under the pillow instead of trying to make out the hands on the alarm clock after his pupils exploded like he was sure they were going to do the moment he opened his eyes. His fingers maneuvered expertly between the bottles-

That weren't there. There was nothing on the nightstand.

Blaine twisted his hand to and fro for a moment, confused when his fingers swiped absolutely nothing. usually hovering an inch or two above the wooden tabletop, he would feel at least a few cool-ish glass bottles against each part of his hand, and retrieving the watch would require a delicate extraction to avoid sending four bottles clattering to the floor at a volume that was sure to make him want to curl up and die. He was adept at it; he had mastered hungover dexterity early in his sophomore year. But the knowledge that there was nothing there to risk knocking over was incredibly unsettling.

Blaine forced his eyes open with a grimace and, after blinking a couple times, was confused to see that his nightstand was indeed empty except for his lamp, alarm, and of course his watch - which rested against a single empty beer bottle on top of a square of crisp white paper. He knocked his pillow aside and sat up for a better look. It wasn't just the nightstand that was now cleared of bottles: the desktop held neat stacks of papers and books; on the dresser he saw a row of ties and a pile of hats; even the tiny counterspace in the kitchen had been cleared, leaving about enough space to make a sandwich which was more than he'd had twelve hours earlier. He looked around quickly, trying anxiously to figure out who had been in his apartment. The bed looked mussed, but he didn't know how much of that was from his own sleeping and what might have been caused by someone else. But who got up from sex - assuming that was what had happened, which he kind of had to just because who else would he have invited over - to clean up the apartment of a guy she barely knew?

And how had some other guy on campus not married her yet?

Shouldn't he at least remember a girl like that? He liked to think so.

He reached over to pick up his watch and brought the note with it. In smooth black ink that complemented the elegant script nicely, he read the short message.

Blaine -
You don't have to live like this.
-Peter

Oh God. Was that who-...no. No. He was drunk, he couldn't have-

Alcohol made his symptoms more manageable, not less. That was part of the whole point. It was easier to let himself go and be the way he was supposed to be when he was tipsy. If he'd asked a man- an eccentric, inverse, probably unrepentantly homosexual man - back to his apartment-...

He remembered Peter's hand on his belt, the dark and masculine scent along the man's neck and jaw-...murmuring "Oh Blaine" with the saddest sigh...

No. No. He hadn't.

He hadn't, he concluded with a deep sigh of relief. None of what he remembered seemed like he'd committed the worst possible offense. He remembered glasses of water and not falling on the stairs and anything else...well, given how indelibly the previous manifestations of his illness were seared into his memory - especially the most severe ones - he doubted there as enough fruity fraternity punch in all the world to let him forget if he and Peter had done that.

No, what little he could cobble together seemed like Peter had just helped him home, given him water, and cleaned his apartment. That was surprisingly nice of him. Blaine didn't know anyone else at Stanford who would do that if he asked - maybe a junior Mendicant who wanted to impress him in the hopes of getting a solo out of the deal, but beyond that...and Peter didn't even really know him, either. The man must either be just that naturally kind and helpful...or he wanted something, but Blaine had no idea what that would be. Shouldn't Peter have put that in the note or something?

Blaine laid back again as he studied the note. It said so little - hat did Peter even mean by that? The mess? Because while Blaine knew his housekeeping skill shad gotten woefully lax during the past four years, he didn't exactly have anyone to clean up the place for. He knew he could make his apartment look nice, but that much effort for a nonexistant payoff seemed silly.

Unless...

Blaine's gaze fell on the solitary empty bottle in the center of the nightstand. Funny - it looked so much worse there than it did when there were dozens of bottles around it. By tonight, Blaine was sure there would be at least three more - maybe closer to six. It all depended on the day, the amount of time he had to spend reading, whether he went out - and since it as a Saturday, that really asn't even a question unless he was still sick...which he might be. It wasn't the worst he'd ever felt, but it was close, so maybe...

...Maybe this was what Peter meant.

Mulling over the possibility, Blaine swung his feet over the side of the bed and hauled himself upright. He gave himself a moment to adjust to the dizziness and accompanying nausea - he had the movement down to a science four years in the making. He could also make it to the toilet in fewer than four steps if he needed to - and he often needed to - and he could even fix himself a Bloody Mary practically without opening his eyes. He'd been proud of each skill as he discovered and honed it, but now he found himself wondering for the first time...was it really something he should be proud of? That he woke up hungover on so many mornings that starting himself on the road to recovery was as natural and rote to him as tying his shoes?

Blaine shifted uncomfortably at the sense of lack-of-ease as he padded to the bathroom. He reached blindly for his toothbrush with his right hand and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He wouldn't have thought he could look worse than he felt, but he did. His eyes were crusted with sleep, red-rimmed and still a little bloodshot. Of course his hair was a mess, but it managed to seem so much more out of control. Even the thick layer of stubble seemed unruly against his pale cheeks. The bathroom's harsh light cast shadows across his features, emphasizing the bags under his eyes and the slight hollows of his neck. His shirt was askew and dappled with mysterious stains, and his belt hung open from the waistband of his pants. He felt like he'd had a bowtie on the night before but had no idea where it might have ended up.

He looked tired. He felt exhausted.

And for what? When he honestly couldn't remember the night before, what was it for? Losing sleep and regretting things for a great party he could laugh about for years to come was one thing, but this...

Had it always been this bad? Blaine didn't know. He-...he remembered parties being this gateway to a magical world of freedom and chicks and popularity and feeling amazing enough that it made up for the morning after. But as he stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked halfway to a Depression-era photograph of the downtrodden, he had to ask himself if he'd had enough fun to make this worth it...this, or last night, or the night before, or the weekend before that...

What Blaine could remember was a lot of music and fear.

It was funny, he thought to himself even though it wasn't funny at all; when he was little, he'd thought liquor made people cold and robotic and void of all emotion or human frailty. It was in his mother's case, at least. He on the other hand had emotion to spare and couldn't think of anything further from the tall, poised woman with a screwed-on smile than what he saw in front of him.

She had already started to ask him about coming home for Christmas. He was nowhere near being able to even consider preparing for December yet - let alone the type of intense emotional reconstruction he would undoubtedly need to undergo to survive in a few days in Ohio - but the first card of several had already appeared. A passive-aggressive missile on ivory cardstock with embossed ferns and palm fronds in her expensive pens and well-practiced hand that looked remarkably like-

Blaine's eyes widened and he moved slowly, confusedly, back into the main room of the apartment. His satchel sat on the desk chair, and he fished around for a moment before he pulled out the two slips of paper he'd found on Friday. Tossing the phone number onto the desk, he turned his attention to the neatly-torn scrap of paper with the address. He reached awkwardly across the bed and plucked Peter's note from its resting place.

He suddenly had no doubt he knew who had written the address. Unfortunately that just raised more questions than it answered.