Kurt felt terrible.

In fact, “terrible” didn’t really begin to describe the searing pain penetrating in and around his temples and eye sockets, but with his mind currently occupied by pain, he wasn’t in a position to give a more descriptive assessment.

However, he was aware of a couple of things. First and foremost, of course, Kurt was very aware of the headache; its persistent thrumming wouldn’t let him forget for a moment. Secondly, he felt a faint bubbling in his gut, coupled with a pooling of saliva in his mouth: both alarming indicators that sooner or later, he’d be violently sick.

Waking up was turning out to be a long, drawn-out process. His eyes were so caked with sleep that they fluttered heavily like a honey-covered moth for a full minute before opening at all. And once he’d finally managed to open his lids, Kurt quickly clamped them shut again, moaning piteously as the faintest sliver of life fragmented his vision, leaving him unable to focus on anything.

It was odd how seasick Kurt felt, considering that the closest he’d ever gotten to a boat was watching Titanic. But seasick was the only way he could describe this feeling. The edges of everything blurred, bending back and forth as if he were rocking on a deck. Perhaps he’d be sick sooner rather than later, he thought.

Pulling himself tighter against his pillow, he twisted his fists into the fabric, grazing his face against the soft cottony pillowcase as his cheek bumped against something small, cool, and plastic. For a moment, he was reminded of The Princess and the Pea, and he thought that maybe he’d been going overboard on the moisturizing if his skin was that sensitive. Despite the little lump, (whatever it was), he felt a sudden comforting sensation envelope him as he burrowed his head into the bedding. This is where I belong, he thought, deciding in that moment to never leave his bed again.

However, something was niggling at him. The scent was familiar but out of place. Not unpleasant though, far from it, in fact. The faintest tinge of coffee mingled with an unidentifiable spice made his nose twitch reflexively. He’d kill for a mug of stuff right about now. You know, if he could lift his head.

“Kurt, are you awake?” a hoarse voice murmured, the breeze it exuded tickling the hairs at the back of his head Maybe I'm dreaming, he thought. Curling in deeper, he groaned in response, and the voice pressed again, a little louder this time, “Kurt?"

This time when Kurt opened his eyes, he gave his vision a moment to settle, letting the objects around him come slowly into focus. A ripped pocket on a shirt was the first thing he noticed: charcoal grey over a layer of purple, exposed under frayed edges. It moved lightly in soft even waves. The small plastic nub, which had imprinted uncomfortably on his cheek, suddenly registered in his brain, and he realised its significance. He was lying on Blaine’s chest.

Rolling over onto his back, Kurt dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning as his cheeks flooded red. “Kurt? Are you ok?” Blaine asked, his voice stressed and far too loud for Kurt’s current delicate state. “Frruummpphhh…”he muttered in reply, his hands stilling their kneading massage of his eye sockets. “Kurt say something!” Blaine asked again, the rasping urgency in his voice finally catching the other boy’s attention.

Stretching open his fingers, Kurt peeked through the slats at Blaine and said in a small serrated voice, “Hi.”

“Thank god, I’ve been so worried, Kurt! I stayed awake all night to make sure you were ok, but I kept thinking maybe I should have called an ambulance or-”

“Blaine, stop. Just… you’re yelling, why are you yelling? And why would you call an ambulance? It’s a hangover. I get that you’re not too familiar with such things but they’re uh,” he winced, closing his fingers again, “pretty common.”

Blaine’s weight shifted on the bed, and Kurt assumed he was sitting up. His observation was confirmed when Blaine’s voice came from above his head, “Kurt, don’t you remember anything?”

What an odd question, he thought. Well, odd until it dawned on him that events from the previous evening were not quite as linear in his head as they maybe should be. In fact, with slowly dawning alarm, Kurt noticed a lot of dark spaces where his memories should be. Removing his hands from his eyes, he laid his arms at his sides, squinting at the ceiling as he tried to jog his memory.

There’d been alcohol, a lot of alcohol. A heavy bottle of wine in his hands, gone light, red Solo cups crushed under the weight of his fist, and a couple of evil looking vials filled to the brim with green liquid that had quickly vanished. If evil had a taste, he thought, it would definitely be green.

There was a scarf too. A beautiful McQueen scarf he knew cost over $600 (after all he’d eyed it longingly enough times on the website). His hand jumped reflexively to his throat, scratching at the cool bare skin.

“I took it off. I was afraid you’d choke on it in your sleep,” Blaine said, answering Kurt’s un-verbalised question. How did he so often know what Kurt was thinking? Looking up, Kurt watched Blaine through a trellis of lashes.

“Thanks…”he said as he rose ungracefully into a sitting position. “I remember bits… What happened to your shirt?” he asked, indicating the large tear in the fabric.

“That’s not important right now,” Blaine said softly, playing self-consciously with the frayed edges of the tear. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Kurt sifted through the images in his mind one by one. Faces kept flashing by, as if he were rapidly flipping through a magazine. A few were featured more frequently than the others, with various expressions in assorted scenarios. One in particular caught his mind’s eye, repeating over and over. Finally he gave Blaine an answer, “I remember him giving me a drink.”

“Kurt, I…I think he might have put something in your drink,” Blaine said, sore red eyes teeming with unshed tears. Kurt felt an ache in his chest, he wanted so much to brush them aside with the pads of his thumb.

“I think you’re right Blaine. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

“Why on earth are you sorry, Kurt? You have nothing to be sorry about,” Blaine said, grasping his hand.

“No, I know, but well, he’s your friend or whatever. It can’t be easy finding out that he did that,” Kurt responded, gazing into his eyes, still luminous even though they were clearly tired.

But they were furrowing now, a prominent crease bridging the gap between them. “Sebastian is not my friend,” he paused, “Wait, you don’t mean…? Jeremiah?!”

“Of course I mean Jeremiah! He’s the one who made the drink! Why on earth would you think Seb would do that?!” Kurt said, voice rising in pitch defensively as he dropped Blaine’s hands. Ok so maybe I told you he’s been a bit ‘heavy’ lately, but I’m not stupid enough to date a monster, I’d know if he was like that! Wouldn’t I…?

“Because, you disappeared! Kurt, I was terrified. I knew something was wrong, and I came up here and he-he had you in here and he was pawing over you and you were barely conscious, and he-”

“But he’s my boyfriend–” Kurt interrupted. Ok, yeah, that was a lame argument, he thought.

“So what Kurt?! That doesn’t give him – that doesn’t give anyone the right to do what he did!”

“But he didn’t do anything!”

“That’s because I interrupted him! And if it wasn’t for Jeremiah-” Jeremiah’s name was a bright crimson flag flashing in Kurt’s mind, goading him.

“Jeremiah! Jeremiah! Jeremiah!” he snapped with the petulance of a child, “Who the hell is he Blaine? You’ve never even mentioned him before, and then you just turn up with him after you left in the middle of the night saying you were ‘sick’ dressed like…” Kurt’s hands gesture in front of him, adjectives evaporating into steam off of his angry tongue.

He paused, visibly shaking as the steady thrumming pain in his head escalated. Then he thought of the last couple of weeks, of how Blaine had obviously avoided him, missed phone calls, been unavailable… and it finally seemed to click.

“Is this why you’ve been acting so weird? Why you’ve been avoiding me, not answering your phone or replying to my messages?”

Blaine looked flabbergasted. “Wha-What? You think I…? Huh?” Blaine stuttered, words failing him as he stared incredulously at Kurt.

Eventually Blaine was able to cobble together a more coherent string of words, as his hands made deliberate gestures to punctuate them, “Kurt, why does it even mater? What should matter is that Sebastian tried to assault you and –”

“This is insane Blaine!” Kurt trilled shrilly, exacerbating the headache that was leaning precariously over the barrier between painful and full-on migraine. But at this precise moment, Kurt couldn’t care less.

You see, Kurt was a lot of things: sassy as a sidekick, sexy as hell in skinny jeans, a flawless dancer, a heart-wrenching countertenor…but he was also stubborn. As stubborn as white silk stained red with wine, which was ironic considering Kurt’s current physical state; his skin was excreting a lingering bitter tang of spirits, and his alabaster cheeks were flooded with hot red blood.

So right now, with the world’s worst hangover, lying in a wrinkled heap in half his clothes and with half his memories, feeling confused and humiliated, Kurt ignored the sage words of his best friend, (the personification of rational and trustworthy), and punched the big, red, imaginary self-destruct button instead.

“I know I told you he’s been… heavy. But he’s just… he’s not capable of this!” Kurt argued feebly.

“How do you know what he’s capable of? You barely know him-”

“Well right now it feels like I barely know you!”

Kurt’s words were lightening, tearing a fork through the centre of the room. All was silent as they waited on the precipice, not breathing; counting down. Then, as inevitable as accompanying thunder, Blaine choked on a sob, eyes saturated with tears he could no longer hold, and he leapt off the bed towards the door.

“Blaine –Blaine where are you going?” Kurt cried, crawling woozily to the edge of the bed. Blaine was a blurring figure, retreating out his door, leaving him behind.

Kurt called again, voice breaking and desperate, “Bl-aine!”

Blaine turned in the doorway. “No, Kurt, I can’t. I can’t fight for you…with you anymore! If you really can’t see… well I can’t stay to watch.”

The door didn’t slam as Blaine left, but it might as well have. It echoed loudly against the hollow walls of Kurt’s head, keeping rhythm with the splintering ache that swung back across his nerves.

Kurt had really done it this time.