The first thing Blaine thinks when he wakes up is, oh shit.

The second is, gonna throw up.

Prying open his eyes while rolling gracelessly off of his bed, Blaine stumbles toward the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet, thankful that he’s made it.

A moment later, eyes screwed shut against the bright fluorescent lights, he’s rinsing his mouth and avoiding any thoughts beyond immediate need. Need water. Head hurts.

“Advil?” Kurt’s voice at his elbow is muted, and Blaine can’t do more than nod. The light filtering through the open door into his room is bright, too bright for it to be less than noon, and when this thought filters through, panic swamps him, greasy and thick.

“Phone?” He turns, spilling the Advil Kurt had dropped in his palm, shuffling past Kurt and bouncing off the door frame, “Ohmygod he’s going to be so mad! Phone, phone, Kurt where is my phone?” Fingers trembling, he’s pawing at the contents of his desk. He’s nauseated and shaky, frantic and just shy of actually yelling at Kurt, who is standing still and staring. Staring and unmoving and looking torn or upset or puzzled, like Blaine is some sort of side show to be gawked at and wondered over, and fuck he really, really has got to find his phone before Ryan shows up at his door.

“Blaine, you need to lie down.” Kurt’s voice is matter of fact and much too calm and Blaine sways dangerously when he turns, biting back angry words, which is hard, so much harder than usual because he’s down and weak and everything is sort of spinning through the massive pounding in his head.

Trying to reel in the dry heaving and fear, he whispers, “Kurt, I need my phone. Please. Please, I need to call Ryan, or I swear he’s going to show up here yelling and I am so hung over, please do not make me deal with that.”

“Blaine, I already talked to him. Last night, remember?” Kurt, shifting and wavering, leads him to his bed again, cool fingers wrapped around his bicep and everything is sort of watery . His eyes close and he gags and tries to hold it back.

“Here.” Kurt shakes a garbage can at Blaine as he whimpers and settles back in bed, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “If you need to throw up, do it in here. I am going to get you some Gatorade and more Advil, then some food.” Kurt’s voice is threadbare with exhaustion, but Blaine does no more than nod, trying not to think too much about the food portion of that promise.

~*~

After several hours spent in bed, sleeping or being prodded awake by Kurt, then Jeff, forced to drink Gatorade (yellow Gatorade too, which seems cruel but is apparently all they have), and eat greasy food (which had been a feat of mind over matter but Blaine knows as well as Jeff does that greasy food makes him feel better when hungover more than anything else), Blaine finally feels well enough to peel himself upright.

After a shower that is both torturous and the ultimate pleasure, he finds himself in his closet, searching for the most comfortable clothes he is willing to be seen publicly with. Well, with Kurt. Kurt’s eye for clothing and sharp tongue often leave him shaking slightly when it comes to dressing himself.

He’s not sure what he’s settled for in the end, but as he turns to close the closet door, his eyes pass over then catch sight of the green scarf. It won’t go with what he’s wearing, not at all, but he can’t resist, pulling it off the hanger and holding it close to his face, breathing deep and expanding into his skin, feeling more grounded and real and present than he has all day.

The smallest blessing of a hangover such as this is that often, most often for him, it comes with the gift of temporary amnesia. It isn’t often that he gets blackout drunk, and in most cases, Blaine has usually remembered everything by the end of the day. It’s closing on 5 in the evening and the night is still mostly a blur. Notable exceptions include the memory of some good-looking boys playing some sort of stripping game that involved the Mexican hat dance, and cuddling with Kurt in his bed. The first makes him smile, the latter weak and fluttery and guilty.

Choosing to ignore all of this, he steels himself, knocking cautiously at Kurt’s door. When Kurt answers, it’s with an annoyed light in his eyes and hair that is both flattened and standing out in an incredible sort of way. He seems completely exhausted.

“You look better.” Blaine stands in the doorway, taking in Kurt’s faded yoga pants and long Henley t-shirt; the most casual and least layered thing he has ever seen his friend in. It is a trial and a feat to control the muscles of his face and fingers and stomach, all of which want to split apart and tremblingly betray him.

“I - I wanted to thank you. For taking care of me last night, and this morning. I know you had quite a bit to drink as well and must have been tired and hungover. Thank you.” He waits, watching Kurt, whose face and body are unmoving and somehow emanating annoyance and acceptance. When Kurt sighs, Blaine feels his arms and legs start to relax, just a bit. Waving him in, Kurt turns from the door. His room is dark and cooler than Blaine’s, smelling fresh and clean and comforting. Kurt is gathering clothing and mumbling about hunger.

“I’m going to get dressed.” He’s gesturing redundantly toward the bathroom, “Do you want to order some Chinese or something? I’m starving.”

It’s all he can do, really, not to stare as Kurt turns without waiting for his answer. Not to take in the way Kurt’s body seems so comfortable in the space around it, the easy grace of his long legs and how strong and fluid he always seems. Even more, really, with less clothes on, which is definitely not a line of thought he needs to be exploring. He clears his throat before pulling open the desk drawer he knows contains Kurt’s carry out menus.

~*~*~

“Did you get dumplings?” Kurt’s voice is almost lost in the crinkling of the brown paper bag he is digging through, and Blaine is necessarily distracted by his struggle to open a carton of what he thinks should be Sesame Chicken.

“Mmm, um - yeah. I think it’s in the second bag - shit.” Quickly, he sucks sauce off of his finger, which is barely burned, checking to be sure he didn’t spill sauce on himself, or god forbid, Kurt’s furniture.

Soon enough, they are both settled, food in hand. Blaine picks thoughtfully through his choices, feeling like he should be talking, but not really knowing what there is to say. He doesn’t particularly want to know what happened last night, so he’s not going to ask. Instead, he settles on his fallback: impeccable manners and deflection.

“I wanted to thank you again - for being there, for being such a good friend. How are you feeling today?” He’s busy splitting a steaming egg roll with his fingers, trying to avoid burns, which means he misses the look Kurt gives him. Unfortunately, his ears are in perfect working order, so they easily pick up the frustrated half-growl and annoyed sigh.

“Blaine.” Kurt bites the end of his name off in a sharp way that automatically has Blaine’s senses at high alert. Kurt is upset about something. He puts down his fork carefully (he is neither skilled nor pretentious enough to attempt chop sticks. Kurt might be a pro, but he’d rather not make more of an ass of himself than he does on a daily basis, thank you), and turns to look at Kurt.

“Kurt.” His is the spoken antithesis to Kurt’s tone. A gentle statement, an opening with an apology implied, an early I’m sorry, just in case I messed up again. He watches Kurt, who is worrying his lip and frowning at his plate, twirling a chopstick absently. The sigh that precedes him setting down his plate on the floor is soft and resigned.

“Blaine, I need to talk to you about last night, but I can’t do it if you are going to do this.” Kurt waves in his direction, which does nothing to clarify the meaning of his sentence; Blaine’s frown is clue enough to that effect.

“I’m not sure I know what you are talking about. What am I doing?”

“Blaine, don’t do that. Don’t pacify me when I’m not even upset or angry. I hear you use that tone on Ryan all the time. I’m not angry.” Kurt’s face is beautifully open and his hands are on his crossed knees. “I’m not upset and even if I was, it wouldn’t be your job to fix it or talk me down.”

Feeling jumpy and put in the spotlight and really very unsure of his moves, Blaine looks down, then up at Kurt, eyebrows a question. He doesn’t have an answer or response, because he doesn’t know how to quell the rolling in his stomach. It’s an instinct, a basic need, the need to reach out and fix, the need to settle the atmosphere of any room, the need to smooth out all the wrinkles so that other people will value him, want him, like him.

They stare at each other in turn, until finally Kurt speaks.

“Blaine, I’m your friend. You don’t have to work so hard. I need you to trust me that I am here because I like you and I want to be your friend and you aren’t going to break that. Not easily. Not if you get mad, or do something dumb. Not if you offend me or wear white after labor day.” They both smile a bit at the joke, and Blaine starts to speak, tasting the faltering tension in the room.

“I know… here.” He taps his head, “I just… have to work on understanding it. Here.” Lamely, he taps his heart, which is beating rabbit-fast and light against his ribs.

“Did you know,” Kurt’s tone has turned conversational. When he bends to pick his plate back up off the floor, his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin at the back. Blaine looks away, swallowing reflexively against the sudden dryness in his mouth. “That you do this thing… It’s like a mask.” Kurt is picking through his food with grace, chopsticks navigating as an extension of his hand. His limber fingers and the beautiful arch of his wrist gleam tempting in the darkening room.

“A mask,” Blaine repeats dumbly as he tries to listen, tearing his eyes away from the pale, smooth line of Kurt’s forearm exposed by the pushed up sleeves of his shirt.

“A mask.” Kurt chews, eyeing him, which makes Blaine feel exposed and too hot. “You get so proper - all apologies and thank you and it’s so formal and it’s just a way for you to distance yourself. A way to be what you think people want.” Kurt’s eyes are on his now, serious and glowing. “A way to hide who you really are.” His head tilts to the side, eyes still raking over Blaine, assessing and weighing.

“Sometimes, I think you trust me, and you let me see you. See pieces, here and there, and I’m still working on stitching them together. But other times - like now-” Kurt’s hand waves in the air between them, miming the rising of a wall and Blaine nods because he understands and it’s like Kurt has stripped him and doused him in ice cold water. He wants to be, in a way. Stripped and exposed and maybe, maybe, accepted. But it’s all wrong, this is all wrong and it doesn’t feel right.

Because when people inevitably leave him, ignore him, or forget that he has simple needs, like love and acceptance - this distance is the only thing that protects him. Blaine the construct, the polite boy who dresses nicely and always has the right answer- he is a façade that can bear the brunt of loneliness so much better. He’s a boy built to withstand disappointment because he’s been created to do so. He never expects, never really desires, and when he’s let down, it’s only a matter of course.

Underneath that boy, underneath that false front, the real boy is nothing more than that. A boy. A trembling mess of a boy who just wants someone to see him. Who has always wanted someone to see him.

And Kurt does.

It’s a lot more frightening than he thought it would be. Because now, there is so much more to lose.

This boy - he hasn’t been taught not to expect, not to wish, and not to want. He’s too tender-soft to withstand rejection and disappointment. He wants too much, too badly, and is far too fragile to be real. To be allowed to exist and to be seen.

He thinks of what he said to Kurt, about his head and his heart. Blaine wonders what it will take, to get them on the same page, because his instinct is telling him to leave. To put up a wall; a wall of ok, and I’m fine, and Kurt, what are you talking about? But his head - his head understands that Kurt can be trusted, that maybe this is okay. Maybe it is okay to let someone in, to let someone see you at your weakest and most vulnerable.

“Okay.” Blaine shifts food around his plate, not very hungry but unwilling to let go of the safety of the prop. It gives him something to do, something to focus on other than his face which wants to betray every emotion.

“Okay?” Kurt leans toward him a bit.

Blaine nods, smiling a little before tucking his head back down. He’s not sure he can do this, have this conversation and look at Kurt, because it is overwhelming. Really fucking overwhelming.

“Blaine, last night…you said some things that… worried me.” Oh and he can tell, he can tell by the cautious tilt of Kurt’s tone, by the carefully placed words, that he’s really made a mess of something. Focusing, he tries to remember what he could have said, but the night is still mostly a blanked out slate, blurred in spots and mostly dark in others.

“Kurt, I... I don’t really remember last night.” Blaine feels embarrassed admitting this, although he isn’t sure why. He’s seen Kurt plenty drunk before, seen him stumble out of bathrooms with kiss-bitten lips and skewed buttons. It’s college, they drink. The next morning isn’t always pretty, but he’s never felt like this about it. Like there is something layered in the memories repressed, something he won’t want to acknowledge when Kurt speaks it.

“You asked me what it is like… to want it.” Kurt’s face is turning more and more red, chopsticks in a vice-grip hand, but for long seconds Blaine just stares, trying to make some sort of meaning out of Kurt’s words. When he does, when he manages to connect the words to a distant memory, slippery and silvery, twisting at the reaches of his inner eye, he pales.

Carefully setting his uneaten food aside, Blaine leans over, face in his hands, breathing. Just breathing, trying to focus on the sound of it. Air, sweet and necessary, rushing in and the way it hollows inside him, rushing back out in a long smooth exhale that he drags out, emptying his lungs to their capacity. He counts the seconds it takes to breathe out and then exhale, focusing on this only, the spaces inside his body, functioning on a basic level he cannot begin to comprehend. It’s incredible, what the body alone can get you through. The way you can come out on the other side of the worst possible, still breathing, still with a beating heart pounding against ribs unbroken, a body ready to keep going and going and going, regardless of how broken the spirit inside may be.

“Blaine,” He can hear Kurt moving, the clink of his plate being set on the floor. Can feel the warmth emanating from his body as it kneels down, Kurt’s side pressed against the outside of his leg. Kurt’s hand is on his forearm.

“You know I’ve never said anything about you and Ryan other than that I am here for you to talk to. I see the way you tense up when Jeff starts on you - I can tell that it stresses you out, feeling stuck between people you care about. And I promised myself I would never put you in that position. But Blaine, I thought you were just unhappy. I need you to tell me what you were talking about, and I really need you to be honest, because now I’m really scared that I’ve been a terrible friend to you all along and that I didn’t see something I should have.” The trembling in Kurt’s voice cuts right through him, through his shame and fear, bouncing off of him almost audibly and Blaine has to swallow hard through the thickening of fear in his throat.

“No, Kurt, it’s okay. I promise.” The words seem hollow even to him, and he winces into his palms, trying to talk himself into doing a better job.

“No, no, Blaine, please.” Kurt’s hand tugging on his arm is insistent, and Blaine finally has to look up, moving back a bit when he realizes how close their faces are. “Don’t do that please.” Kurt is begging, sounding lost and young, which scares Blaine even more than the truth he’s hiding. “Don’t pretend that everything is okay when I can tell that it isn’t.”


Blaine runs a hand through his hair. He tries to think of his options. Running away - but Kurt would probably follow him. Making up a story might work, but he’s a terrible liar when it comes to long and complicated untruths. Shrugging off Kurt’s concern was obviously not working for him.

“Can… can you sit? I feel weird with you kneeling at my feet.” Blaine tries to soften the request - the way Kurt flinches a little winds ribbons of guilt through and inside him. But he can’t, he just cannot have this conversation with Kurt so close, so close and touching him.

He watches Kurt move back; the way he arranges himself, perfect posture with his legs crossed in a way that normally makes him smile because it is just so quintessentially Kurt.

“What you said last night, the way you said it… the thing with the lyrics of that song...” Kurt’s voice is contemplative, but also gentle. Blaine closes his eyes, feeling the questions in Kurt’s voice, anticipating what is coming as the silence lengthens, “Blaine, has Ryan… I mean… has he ever made you have sex with him when you don’t want to?” It is hard, harder than either had expected - for Kurt to say the words and for Blaine to hear them, so naked in their meaning. He is shaking his head before Kurt is even done, though.

“No, he’s never, like, forced me or - I mean… it’s not like I’ve ever tried to fight him off or anything.” He laughs. It’s a nervous gesture really. Blaine hates this, hates this feeling like his face is out of control, like his emotions are naked and bared and his body takes over, putting a smile on his face and a forced laugh is coming out of him. It’s so strange, it makes him feel alien in his body because the last thing he wants to do now is laugh or smile, but everything is so dizzyingly close to the surface and this is beyond a mask. This is beyond his fear of letting anyone in. This is muscle memory, this is something even he cannot control.

Kurt is watching him though, watching him with those cool eyes, appraising and measuring, and Blaine’s eyes have to break away, flitting around the room, not landing on anything long enough to take anything in. Kurt’s implication, a word he has never let himself think, whispers along the edges of his mind. Rape. It’s a huge word, it’s huge and ugly and Blaine will never, ever believe that anything that has happened between him and Ryan is close to that. Ryan is many things, but not capable of that.

Stuttering and blushing, he tells Kurt so. But Kurt is frowning and Blaine has cause to know not only how smart Kurt is, but how determined as well. Every word is the truth, but Blaine knows that doesn’t negate the fact that he did ask Kurt those questions. That he has felt sordid and used and filthy at Ryan’s hands. The secrets shared between himself and Ryan in the moments when Blaine has given up, stopped trying to fight what wasn’t worth fighting for in the first place - they smolder inside him, white hot with shame and disgust for himself. He can’t stand to think that Kurt will uncover those, but he knows now that Kurt isn’t giving up.

“Blaine, I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions, okay?”

Seeing no way out, and maybe not wanting a way out, Blaine nods.

“Have you ever said no to Ryan when he is wanting to or trying to initiate intimacy?” Kurt’s question is clinical, it’s practiced and that makes it somehow easier to answer. Blaine nods, not looking at Kurt. He examines the lines of Kurt’s bed, the way the colors coordinate, thinks about how soft Kurt’s sheets are.

“When you did, did he listen?” Frowning, Blaine starts to answer then stops.

“That’s not-” He starts, and Kurt interrupts,

“Yes or no, Blaine.” But that isn’t fair, Blaine thinks. It’s more complicated than that.

“No.” He says at last, turning to stare at Kurt. “Please let me explain.”

“Explain what?”Kurt’s voice is rising, becoming shrill, and his hands coming off of the arms of the chair are agitated.

“It’s not like you’re implying, really. It’s not like I fought him, or even tried to. Yes, I said no,” One time in particular, he thinks, over and over, “But I never fought. And I could have. Please don’t make this out to be...” He tries but can’t bring himself to say the word they are dancing around, “something it isn’t. I just - we have problems, and I have problems and I guess,” Blaine is shrugging and looking away again. “Sex just… I guess it’s just not for me. Our relationship has lots of problems but he loves me, really, Kurt, and he would never hurt me on purpose, not the way you mean.”

It’s so still in the wake of his speech, Blaine is almost afraid to look at Kurt. And when he does, Kurt literally takes his breath away, the depth of anger on his face is stunning. Something must run over his face, because Kurt reacts immediately, jumping and coming over to him, grabbing his hand, hard.

“I’m not mad at you, I promise.” Blaine swallows down the inherent fear, nodding. He must look such a fool to Kurt, so weak; his need for constant reassurance is pathetic really, but he’s helpless to it.

“Kurt, can we just…not talk about this anymore?” He pleads hesitantly while squeezing back, his fingers almost numb from the strength of Kurt’s grip.

But Kurt is shaking his head, lost in thought. When he looks at Blaine it’s level, but the look in his eyes - Kurt looks distraught and lost. When he reaches up, Blaine starts to jerk back, until he feels Kurt’s fingers on his cheek. He didn’t even realize he’s been crying.

“How did this happen, Blaine? How can you make excuses for him?”

“Because,” And oh, he feels like a child, voice quavering, and he can’t, he cannot look at Kurt and talk about this. But Kurt must know, must understand something because he’s reeling Blaine in, pressing his face into his neck, hands running soothing and slow up and down his back. “I was so inexperienced when we met, and I wasn’t ready for a lot of stuff but I was so scared that he would leave and once I did it, I couldn’t take it back.” Sniffling, he inhales, taking in as much comfort as he can from Kurt’s scent.

“What do you mean, you couldn’t take it back?”

Blaine leans away, fingers picking at the hem of his jeans.

“Well once you have sex with someone, it’s not like you can back out later and say you don’t want to anymore right? And it wasn’t a big deal, really.” Eyes wide, he means what he’s saying, his sincerity thick in the words, “But then there was one night,” closing his eyes, Blaine reminds himself to breathe. Maybe if he explains it all, gives Kurt the whole story, he’ll understand. Maybe it will feel better to get it out, to cut the words out of his skin and put them into the universe.

“Ryan was drunk and I just… I didn’t want to be with him like that, it felt wrong and it wasn’t him and I tried to say no but he kept… he just has this way of talking to me and I get so turned around. He has an answer for everything, a way around every excuse. I really didn’t want to, but he kept pressing and then it was happening and I didn’t… I couldn’t… I mean he’s my boyfriend, it’s not like I could fight him off, I’d already had sex with him countless times before, right?”

“Blaine, I really need you to hear what I am going to say, okay? When you say no, it means no. I don’t care if you didn’t fight back, he should have listened.” Kurt is kneeling at his feet, hands on Blaine’s knees now, face open and earnest and young. Staring, Blaine shifts.

“Come on.” He stands, pulling Kurt with him. “That can’t be comfortable. Let’s put your food away and do something. Go for a walk, watch a movie.” He tries to cover the way he is jittering, feeling itchy and too exposed. Kurt must sense that he really isn’t ready to talk anymore, at least not then. Stretching a bit, he smirks and runs a finger over his bangs, carefully feeling their placement.

“I’m not suitably fabulous for a walk. Let’s watch a movie. I’ll pick something because you have questionable taste.” He quirks an eyebrow at Blaine’s outfit, and turns to pack away the food, placing leftovers in his mini fridge. Studying his outfit, Blaine tries to pinpoint where he’s gone wrong. Still turned away, rearranging the items in the small space, Kurt speaks.

“The shirt and the shoes Blaine. The shoes are a never, the shirt is just unfortunate when paired with them.” Laughing, Blaine nudges Kurt with one of his offending shoes, ignoring Kurt’s protest as he tips over, before crawling into Kurt’s bed.

“Too tired to sit in the chairs, can we watch from here?” Aiming for light and playful, Blaine hopes that Kurt will agree. He feels sore, tenderized by the night’s revelations. Insecure after having exposed so much to Kurt, let him so deeply in.

“Blaine.” Kurt’s sigh is guilty and sad. He knows without asking what Kurt is trying to say.

“Please Kurt? It’s just… I can’t feel alone right now, please? Friends do this, right?” Working to ignore the subtext, vibrating and filling the spaces between them with tension, Blaine shifts, waiting for Kurt to decide. Finally, he stands, and after setting up the movie, comes and crawls carefully over Blaine. He lays still as Kurt arranges some pillows, then lifts his head when Kurt nudges it with his arm. With a sigh, he sinks back against Kurt, who tentatively puts his arm around him, hand coming to rest flat on his stomach.

Not wanting to press his luck, Blaine just lays, still and absorbing. Eventually he feels Kurt relaxing, leaning in and tightening his hold until they are pressed together. For long minutes he watches the TV screen blindly. The weight of the night, of the words and what Kurt said begin to lay over him, smothering and too bright.

And Kurt must feel it, the fine tremor just under his skin. Even if he can’t see the tears, slow-coursing and quiet, he can feel it in the vibrations of Blaine’s skin. He doesn’t speak, neither of them does; instead they lay in silence. Kurt’s arm is strong around him, a band tethering him to something good. Something warm. A safe place, because right now, Kurt is the only safe haven he has.

~*~

He falls asleep at some point, face still wet with tears. When he wakes up, it is dark. Someone has covered them both with a blanket; they are still wrapped together, fingers tangled next to his heart. His heart, which is staccato-beating, both panicked and pleased. Blaine wants so much to just lay there, to fall back asleep and wake in the morning. To wake and smell Kurt’s bed on his clothes. To feel Kurt behind him, long limbs brushing against him.

Blaine wants nothing more than to turn. It’s dark, so dark in the room, which feels like anonymity. No one knows him, in this moment. No one needs to know that right now, the only thing on earth he wants is the boy behind him. And not as a friend. Because Blaine wants to turn, to run his fingers all over Kurt’s skin, to feel the nuances of texture and strength in his bones and skin. To kiss each hollow of Kurt’s body, sampling each way in which Kurt’s smell winds through him. It is dark, and in the darkness, he’s never loved anything the way he loves Kurt Hummel.

^*~*

When morning comes, he’s alone, for which he is thankful. He’s not sure he can handle seeing Kurt right now - not still reeling from the night before, the truths he revealed, the outpouring of love that had struck him dumb and senseless in the middle of the night. The way he’d lain awake, aching and confused, turned on and frightened because he’d never felt anything close to that level of wanting and intensity for his boyfriend. His boyfriend. Who is waiting for a phone call, who he has deliberately chosen not to speak to for almost two days.

His boyfriend.

The thought is sobering. He slips out of Kurt and Kevin’s room quietly, Kevin still asleep in his bed, Kurt nowhere to be found. When he opens his door, Jeff is at his laptop, hair in all directions, looking like he hasn’t slept, and for a minute, Blaine wants to turn back around and just run. Because he can’t talk, he can’t feel, he can’t fucking interact with another person and be expected to resemble anything close to a human being.

They’ve never been particularly close, Jeff and he, although Blaine does count him as a friend. So it is surprising and gratifying when Jeff looks up and sees him; Blaine can tell that Jeff is really seeing - his expression softens and he regards Blaine for a minute.

“You need sleep or do you want me to clear out for a bit?” Shaking his head, Blaine grabs his iPod and crawls into his bed, pulling his blankets on and over him. He must look awful, he knows, but he can’t even bring himself to care. The smell of Kurt and his sheets is clinging to his clothes. Blaine pulls the comforter over his head, creating a small cocoon redolent of this one small lingering pleasure. It stings, equal parts wanting and guilt. Blaine turns on his iPod and closes his eyes. He’ll think about this later.