In August, just a few months later, David came back from his tour in Afghanistan to reclaim his apartment and the cat that came with it. That same week, Blaine officially moved in with his boyfriend. It was so easy, the way they fell into a comfortable routine. Weekdays, they would wake up early, and Blaine fixed breakfast while Sebastian got ready for his day at the firm. Depending on Blaine's work schedule, he would either leave at the same time for the early shift, or he'd mess around until his late shift started, or more often, he'd read, clean, write music, or watch Matlock reruns on his days off. Most nights, one of them would throw dinner together, they'd eat it on the couch with a movie, and they'd entertain themselves however until around midnight, when Sebastian would head for the bedroom. Blaine would follow close behind.

There were hiccups in the routine – sometimes Blaine went out for lunch or dinner with friends, some nights Sebastian went on dates or on business dinners with clients. Blaine was never invited to those. If he came home to find Sebastian's colleagues there, he knew to grab a clean shirt and head out. He'd usually go see some off-off Broadway show, or catch a old film at Reel Classics. Sometimes, he hung out with David and Wes (who was overjoyed his buddy was back), but not too often. They were full of awkward questions, and it frustrated him that they didn't get it. They couldn't just be happy for him. Because he was. Happy, that is.

It didn't bother him that Sebastian slept around. Sex was just sex. The commitment and relationship belonged to him. It didn't matter if some other guy got a blow job in the back room of a gay bar, or got fucked after dinner. Blaine was who he came to. They lived together, for God's sake. That meant something. He was happy enough to let 'Bastian do what he was going to do anyway. Blaine was not at all hung up about sex. If he had been, he'd never survive the parties.

That's where the weekends came in. Every other Friday night, like clockwork, Sebastian threw open the doors of his giant loft apartment – and shit got real. These shindigs made “Animal House” look like a bunch of five year olds playing with tea sets. One entire wall of the dining room was taken up by a fully stocked professional bar. Bowls of prophylactics were tucked in convenient spots in every room. Hard drug use was discouraged – there would be no piles of blow on the coffee table, no grab bags of pills. Other than that? Anything goes.

Blaine learned a few things about Sebastian at these parties.

“Hon?” he murmured, sagging against the bedroom's door frame, watching his lover pound into a buxom, writhing redhead. “Did I know you were bisexual?” He took another sip of his drink.

“I'm not really,” Sebastian answered conversationally, gripping the girl's neck and forcing her head back against the pillows. Her high pitched moans almost drowned out his reply. “I just have an occasional appreciation for a self-lubricating orifice.” They both laughed.

And, one strange September morning, Blaine learned a little something about himself.

He groaned, the mid-morning light falling through the curtains to stab his brain like tiny, angry icepicks. His mouth tasted like a small, furry animal had crawled inside and died. Neuron by neuron, his brain started to process sensory input. There was a warm body plastered up against his back, an arm thrown over his waist, and there was a hand sort of cupping his testicles. His body thought about getting excited, especially when that hand delicately rolled his balls, but then another shard of owie-pain pierced his temple, and ended the debate.

He shifted. Something wasn't right. The body spooning him was short. And soft. One eyelid peeled back, he glanced down. The hand on his dick had a French manicure. A sleepy female voice muttered in Spanish against his neck. Something about light, sleep, and... whores? Whimpering through his hangover, Blaine rolled to his other side, disentangling from his new lady-slash-octopus friend.

“Santana?” he shook her gently, then jumped back when she threw off the covers. He squeaked. That was most definitely an extremely naked girl. In his bed. And Sebastian was nowhere in sight.

“Jesusfuck,” complained the Latina, who was looking less than her usually fabulous best. Messy, tangled hair off set her makeup-induced raccoon eyes, lipstick smeared down to her chin. “I'm... I'm still drunk. I think.” She sat up, swaying.

Blaine squeezed his eyes shut, reaching into his dresser and blindly thrusting an undershirt and boxers at the naked lady who had her bare cookies on his sheets. For himself, he grabbed boxers and his robe.

“Slow your roll, Hobbit. You'd think you'd never been this close to a snatch before,” she half-smiled, squinting. Then there was some sort of – scratching or rummaging, or something with her naked self, and Blaine's ability to handle this with out caffeine abruptly ran out.

“Oh my Jesus God. Please, please cover yourself. I'm making breakfast.”

A few minutes later, face scrubbed clean and a hair tie doing its best to tame her wild locks, Santana sat down at the kitchen counter. They seemed to be the first ones up, though there were still a few piles of unconscious party-goers in various other rooms. He thunked a bottle of Gatorade in front of her, his own already half-empty. The Excedrin was open, and the fancy espresso machine was doing its thing. Blaine popped a pair of bagels in the toaster, then turned abruptly. “Pussy juice,” he practically threw the words at her.

“The fuck are you- oh, yeah. That's what we were drinking last night,” she started to laugh. “Haven't you had it before?”

“I thought he was calling it Pussy Juice because it was, you know, for pussies. Lightweights. Low alcohol content. Like Smirnoff is Bitch Beer.” Butter and cream cheese went on the counter, and he pulled a pair of mugs out of a cabinet.

“You are killing me. Puck's Pussy Juice is a handle of Everclear, two bottles of light rum, and a gallon of raspberry lemonade. It tastes like candy and gets you laid like a rock star. Literally. Have more than two, and you'll have a blackout so intense, you could have done anything. It's like, bucket o' roofies. Only, you know, legal and shit.” Santana popped two painkillers and chased it down with her nasty sport beverage.

“My mistake. Clearly. Do you know...” Blaine trailed off, eying her nervously. Santana was pushing her boobs together and had her face dropped down to smell her cleavage. “...what are you...?” he tried again.

She rubbed her hand down her sternum, then sniffed it. “My tits smell like lube and ball sweat.” She seemed quite matter-of-fact about it.

“I- wha- Why would you think to check for that?” Blaine was dismayed, leaning against the counter, praying that his coffee would be ready before his head split open to let the demon climb out through his face.

“Do you remember me, you, and Puckerman having an epic discussion about breasts? You saying you don't get the appeal, me and Puck insisting that they're awesome?” she coaxed, one eyebrow raised.

“Vaguely. I drank a lot of … juice.” The coffee was finally ready, so he poured it expertly into mugs, adding cinnamon to his own, cream and sugar to hers. The toaster popped, and he settled in the chair next to hers, trying to remember what the hell had gone down.

“I'm pretty sure that we convinced you not to knock it 'till you've tried it,” Santana temporized, taking a sip of hot brown bean juice of the gods, eyes twinkling merrily.

“Fair enough. I mean, I've kissed some girls, but even when I was going through my bi-curious phase, I never got to second base,” Blaine chuckled, then panic filled him. “Did we...?”

“Nope. I am fully confident that we did not have sexual intercourse last night,” she replied honestly. There was something suspicious about the look of anticipation that crossed her face.

“Oh thank fuck. Not to be mean-” he was torn between relief and a desire to not offend her.

“But I seem to remember you tittyfucking me.” All the blood drained from Blaine’s face, as the horror of her statement penetrated his brain. “Hey. Don't look like that. You aren't the one with cum in your hair,” she smirked.

“Well, this morning anyway,” Blaine joked without thinking.

Santana cracked up. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

The smell of coffee was luring more than one sleepy, disheveled figure towards the kitchen area. Touselled heads peeked around the door frame. Blaine smiled wryly, and started pulling more mugs out of the cupboard. “The coffee's free, but you're on your own for breakfast, kids.”

“There goes our Hallmark moment,” Santana sighed, eyes twinkling as she picked up her bagel. Sebastian stumbled in, shirtless, pushing past his friends. He dropped a tired kiss on Blaine's shoulder, and helped himself to his coffee.

“Ugh. Why do you always put cinnamon in it?” he complained.

“Because I like it,” came the calm reply. “Here, spice free.” Blaine filled up a fresh mug, adding cream and sugar, and handing it to his sleepy boyfriend.

“You're awesome. Someone puked in the bathtub again,” Sebastian mumbled, taking a long drink.

Blaine scowled, and shot a glare around the room. “Anyone who doesn't want to help clean had better be out of here in the next half hour.” He usually left the post-party cleanup for a day or two, but he wanted a shower. And that wasn't going to happen until the bathroom was vomit-free.