Kurt is beginning to suspect Puck has been spiking his Shirley Temples, and he's on his fourth. At first, he thought the difference in taste was that Rachel's Dads had proper Rose's grenadine and Schweppes soda, that his Shirley Temple was of a classier caliber than those served at Breadstix. But he thinks now that it's the vodka. His hands feel heavy and not entirely like they're attached to him, and when he turns his head, the room seems to lag before it catches up. He's lost track of the conversation that's happening around him, feels like he's doing the mental equivalent of dog-paddling just to keep track of who is talking, so he can look at them and act like he's still successfully processing language.

He's sitting on the sofa between Tina and Mike. More and more, he's feeling like an extension of the couch, like the border between him and cushion is dissolving. It's weird. On a pillow on the floor, between him and Tina, sits Mercedes, leaning her head against his thigh. They're all very happy, even Mike is uncommonly talkative. He and Tina keep reaching across Kurt to touch each other, brushing against Kurt in the process. Kurt can't remember exactly how he ended up between them. Someone must have put him here, because he wouldn't voluntarily have compromised his own personal space this much. It's not that bad though, not really.

On the little stage, Blaine and Santana are singing that old Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton duet, "Islands in the Stream". They're really hamming up the sentimentally, and the laughter in the room is loud. Kurt finds himself laughing too, as they take their bows. Blaine looks sober still, so Kurt is confident Puck hasn't slipped anything into the bottled water Blaine is drinking, which is good, because they promised each other they wouldn't drink. Which is also bad, because Kurt suspects he is, at least, tipsy. Kurt sighs and tries to think of ways to wreak vengeance upon Puck, who is talking quietly with Quinn by the bar. But Kurt isn't sure he can come up with anything that will be worse than what Puck is already doing to himself with that hairdo.

In the quiet after the music, Kurt realizes Tina is saying his name. He tears his gaze away from Blaine's backside as he bends to select another song. "Yes?" he says to Tina.

"Oh my god, Kurt, are you drunk?" She takes his hand, the one holding his glass, and draws it close enough to bend over it and sniff.

"I think Puck—" he says, but is cut off as the opening piano of "Waterloo" rip-ripples through the room.

"Oh my god! Abba!" Mercedes shrieks and jumps to her feet fast enough it makes Kurt dizzy. She races up to the stage to share Santana's microphone.

"Oh my god!" Kurt yells, because it is apparently the thing to do.

"...so drunk, Kurt, are you okay?" Tina is looking at him still, grinning.

"I'm fine," he insists, trying to compose his face to what he remembers sober feels like. He's definitely not drunk. He knows what drunk feels like. It feels like sad movies and vomiting on Miss Pillsbury's shoes.

But then Mike is grabbing his arm and saying something like, "Man, we got to get you moving."

Then Tina has his other arm, and he's being dragged to his feet and toward the dance floor. His head sort of rolls on his shoulders and he looks at Blaine, who is pointing at him and making his most devastatingly charismatic show-face as he sings, "Promise to love you forever more."

Kurt feels all fluttery and wobbly; Blaine winks at him. Kurt stumbles, still staring at his boyfriend. Tina catches him, as he mouths to Blaine, "I'm so sorry."

Why Mike thinks moving is the solution to intoxication is beyond Kurt, but he's at least grateful for Tina and Mike's support, since the dance floor seems to be tilting away from each step. "Oh, boy," he says as he teeters into Brittany, who is dancing with Artie and Sugar. She recovers like a gazelle, catches his eye, and pumps her fist in what has to be the universal sign for 'Rock On!' And then Tina is pulling at his hands, getting him to face her, grinning, and sliding her hands up to his elbows. And from behind, a pair of hands comes to rest lightly on his hips, stabilizing him and guiding him into a rhythm. That's Mike. Which, okay, that has happened before, but only in the context of Booty Camp. And—oh—is he having some kind of drunk dancing threesome with Mike and Tina?

He panics a little, looking for Blaine again, who is still emoting nothing but sex appeal and singing, "I tried to hold you back, but you were stronger." There's no help there, but, wow, his boyfriend is sexy.

"Come on, Kurt," Tina sing-songs at him, "Show us what you can do!"

Kurt turns his attention back to Tina, who is pulling and pushing at his arms, trying to get him to move his shoulders. Mike is pressing his left hip forward in a suggestion of a step. And Kurt decides he isn't so drunk that he can't still dance. Between Mike and Tina, he finds his balance and his rhythm. They spent so much time together in rehearsal, especially for "ABC", it's fun and any lingering discomfort is fading into the joy of music and motion. Muscle memory rouses, helps counteract his chemically induced clumsiness.

Soon he's grinning at Tina and matching her moves easily. His confidence is returning. Or, it had been, until Tina decides (unwisely) to spin him. She grabs his hand, lifts it, Mike pushes a little, and he's twirling, which makes the whole room yaw sickeningly, and then he's stumbling forward into Mike with all the grace of a drunk giraffe.

He ends up with his face mashed against Mike's chest, and Mike's hands on his shoulders as Mike says, "Whoopsie." Tina's laughter bubbles up behind him. Kurt wonders if Tina and Mike are so close they've become telepathic and these dancing shenanigans are part of some evil plot to embarrass him in front of Blaine, not to mention the rest of New Directions. So he thinks of the best revenge he can for the situation.

He straightens up, meets Mike's amused gaze, and shimmies. Fiercely.

Mike laughs, which kind of makes him sparkle, and then he gives Kurt a silly-stern, challenging look. He shimmies right back at Kurt, adding a dip of his knees in the middle—and a wink. And it is on.

In the years to come, Kurt decides it will be remembered as The Great Shimmy Off of 2012, though there is no clear winner. Kurt hears Sugar screaming his name, and Tina urging on Mike. Artie is yelling general encouragement, and Brittany is shimmying right alongside them. Even Finn, Rory, and Sam are getting into it from the sidelines, where they've been hanging out by the piano.

But then the music fades, as it must, and it's over. Breathing heavily, Kurt steps back from Mike. He sees Brittany whispering into Tina's ear, and then dragging her off to the stereo. Blaine is tucking his microphone back into the stand and jogging down off the stage, flushed and sweaty, toward Kurt.

Kurt rakes his hands through his sweat-damp hair, heedless of the mayhem he's causing his 'do. He's not so far gone that he doesn't resist the impulse to grab Blaine and kiss him senseless. He morphs it into grabbing Blaine's hand. "You were so hot up there, Blaine," he says earnestly, squeezing. It's important Blaine knows this.

Blaine smiles at him, lips parted around his heavy breathing. His gaze is amused and has the weight and intensity to it that Kurt associates with Blaine's intimate affection. "You're a little drunk, aren't you?" He squeezes back.

"I'm so— ack!" Kurt is grabbed around the waist from behind and dragged away from Blaine just as he the music starts again with a very familiar see-sawing hook. His hand slips from Blaine's, though he keeps reaching back. Blaine is laughing at him. Which is unfair.

All the Single Ladies...

"Oh my god," he yelps. How the heck did he end up the center of attention? Where's Rachel?

All the Single Ladies...

"Dance with us, Kuuurt," Brittany pleads, hauling him up the edge of the stage.

All the Single Ladies...

He lets the music calm him as he gets on the stage flanked by Brittany and Tina. This song is like an old friend. He looks at Blaine, who appears both surprised and expectant. He doesn't look at anyone else, instead he closes his eyes and centers himself in the song. His body knows this dance. His body loves it. And though it's been over a year since he's done it, the memory is stirring up fresh in his blood, catching hold in the muscles of his thighs, hips, and arms. When he opens his eyes and starts moving, it's effortless.

Time has passed though, and Kurt is a much better dancer, knows how to move in ways he didn't before. He also knows how to fuck. So instead of the shallow swivel and tilt of his hips he once did, he locks his gaze with Blaine's and rolls his pelvis deeply, grinding out the moves, making them shameless and obscene, and filling them with filthy promises as he mouths along with Beyonce, nodding and flicking his hair. There is a small voice in the back of his head reminding him that wouldn't be caught dead doing it this way sober.

That voice is easy to ignore: the way Blaine is outright gawking at him makes all the rest disappear. He's barely aware of the catcalls and whoops and exclamations of surprise. There's just Blaine, flushed, wide-eyed, and stunned; and that is all the encouragement Kurt needs to put all his effort into erasing whatever vestiges of the sexless baby penguin version of himself may yet reside in Blaine's mind.

The music stops, and he takes a deep bow, staggering forward a little despite himself. His head is swimming, his body thrumming hot. He needs a shower. He needs—

Blaine's hands are on his shoulders, steadying him as he straightens, Kurt leans into him as he trips off the stage. He's aware of his back being slapped. Tina's "Damn, Kurt!" and Brittany's "Unicorn pow-wer!".

But the exultation doesn't last long, soon Rachel is bounding up to the stage telling everyone to hush. "I believe it's well past time for a Rachel Berry solo," she announces into the microphone. "And since you weren't blessed with my performance at Sectionals this year, well. This one's for you, Finn," she says, and launches into Berlin's "Take My Breath Away."

"Kurt," Blaine says, his gaze traveling hungrily over Kurt's face, lingering at his mouth, but he doesn't lean in for a kiss. Instead he offers his hand and asks, his voice low and rough, "Would you dance with me?"

It's a slow song, so Kurt hesitates, taking a step back. His dancing up there was probably more than enough for one night. He's almost afraid to look to see how the other boys are looking at him, just hopes they're turning their attention to dance partners. He sees Sam tentatively approaching Mercedes (wonders why Shane isn't there), Puck with Quinn in his arms, Mike spinning slowly with Tina, Rory being rejected by Sugar, who dances with herself.

Then there's a gentle shove between his shoulder blades and Santana says, "Kurt, your pretty boy is gagging for it. Put him out of his misery." and Kurt tumbles into Blaine's waiting embrace.

"Um, okay," Kurt says, reeling a little, and feeling again the alcohol in his blood, in his brain. He pushes back a little from Blaine, but keeps hold of him.

"I've got you," Blaine says, sliding his hands down the back of Kurt's sweaty shirt and tucking his thumbs into Kurt's waistband.

"I'm sorry," Kurt mumbles, folds his arms around Blaine's shoulders, and lets Blaine support much of his weight. Slow dancing doesn't require much more than leaning, swaying, and shuffling.

"For what?"

"Drinking. I didn't mean to, but Puck—"

Blaine says, "It's okay."

"Ugh. I hope I didn't humiliate myself too badly up there."

"Oh, no. You didn't. Not at all," Blaine reassures and tugs, pulling Kurt's pelvis flush against his own. Suddenly, the hard line of Blaine's erect cock is right there pressing against him, and they are not alone. Kurt feels a giddy rush of lust discordantly braided together with anxiety. Then Blaine is leaning into him, even closer, his breath ticklish near Kurt's ear. "That was so fucking hot, Kurt. You were so uninhibited, it was gorgeous."

And Kurt whispers back with a little groan, "I want to kiss you so so badly."

"Then kiss me."

"But—" Kissing is not something they do in front of other people. Ever. It's an unspoken rule. They just don't do it.

"They're our friends, Kurt. We're celebrating. Kiss me," Blaine murmurs, low and seductive.

So Kurt steels his nerve, ignores the pounding of his heart, and he does. He kisses Blaine just as Rachel sings, "If only for today, I am unafraid".

No one even notices.

~*~

The worst thing about being drunk, Kurt decides, is not being able to sober up when you're tired of being drunk. He's still whirly and vague, and the floor still seems like it's tilting, trying to foil his ability to walk. How he danced earlier is a mystery. And he's sleepy, but every time he tried to nap in Blaine's car, he couldn't, because when he closed his eyes, he felt like he was being tipped upside down.

Fortunately, Blaine has him, an arm wrapped around his waist, leading him along the breezeway from the garage to the servants' entrance. Kurt would just call it the back door or the side door or something, but on Blaine's house, it's the servants' entrance. Kurt find this ridiculous, but Blaine assures him, this is the most discreet way into his house with a tipsy boyfriend who is laughing too loudly at nothing. The other plus is that Kurt had already asked permission to stay at Blaine's tonight. Blaine's parents are home, but the Hummel-Hudson house has been feeling a bit crowded since Sam moved in and Rachel has been hanging around more. It makes it harder for Kurt and Blaine to get uninterrupted time alone in Kurt's bedroom. Someone always seems to knock and spoil the mood. So they're at Blaine's tonight, trying to be quiet so word of Kurt's inebriation doesn't get back to Burt and Carole.

Blaine gets him upstairs and seated on Blaine's bed, with several exhortations to be quiet and wait and he'll be right back. Then Blaine leaves him alone. Kurt toes off his shoes and crawls up Blaine's bed until he reaches the pillows. He grabs one, and slumps into it, face first. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Blaine, but he can still feel himself endlessly tipping over and over and over. His grip on the pillow tightens but it doesn't help. He opens his eyes with a gasp and rolls over onto his back, stares at the ceiling light, but has to close one eye so he's not seeing double. He feels awful, but at least he's not nauseated.

Shortly, Blaine returns with a carafe of water, a glass, and a bottle of aspirin. "The aspirin's for the morning," Blaine says, "But you should drink the water now."

Kurt nods weakly, scooting up against the pillows as Blaine pours him a glass. He hands it to Kurt, and Kurt takes it gratefully. His whole mouth was starting to taste dry and sour. He drains the glass and lets Blaine take it from him to refill it. "Paybacks are hell, huh?" he says.

That makes Blaine smile. "Nah," he says. "I don't mind." He settles on the bed next to Kurt and passes him his refill.

Kurt sips from the second glass and sets it aside so he can flop back into the pillows. "Ugh, Blaine, when does it wear off?"

"Depends," Blaine says. "You should have eaten more of Rachel's food."

"Maybe," Kurt says. "If I'd known there was vodka in my drink." Kurt sighs.

"Are you hungry?"

Kurt shrugs. "I can't tell."

"Okay, well, let me know if you want anything. I can make you food. It can help."

They sit in silence for a while, Kurt contemplating the inside of his brain case, Blaine just quiet.

They were both so hot and bothered at the party, Kurt can't fathom how much cooler everything is right now between them. It's got to be the booze messing him up as he processes it. Maybe it means he'll be back to himself soon. "Do you want to make out?" he asks Blaine.

Blaine is shaking his head before Kurt's even finished speaking. "No, not when you're like this."

"I'm sorry," Kurt says. "It's Friday. Friday is like, the day we fuck, and I screwed it up."

"No, Kurt, it's fine. And not your fault. Just remind me to collect a paper bag full of the neighbor's dog's poop and leave it burning on Puck's doorstep. I can't believe we've been cock-blocked by Puckzilla."

Kurt laughs. "I'm sure he thought he was helping you get laid tonight. I don't think he thinks I put out."

"I think you put that notion to rest tonight."

"Oooh, yeah." Kurt smiles and straightens his arms stretching toward the ceiling, looking at his hands as he twists and turns them, framing the patterns in the plasterwork between his thumbs and forefingers. "'Single Ladies' is so much fun. Did I tell you about the time I taught the football team?"

"Yes," Blaine says, "but it's a good story, you can tell it again if you want."

Kurt blows a raspberry at the ceiling and drops his arms. "No, I don't want to be that guy."

"Kurt, you could never be that guy. You're constitutionally incapable."

Then something occurs to Kurt. "Hmmph," he says.

"What?" Blaine asks.

"I guess I don't really put out, do I?"

That earns him a rare, "Huh?"

"I mean, I don't let you fuck me. And that's what guys mean when they say 'put out' isn't it?"

"I think it just means making oneself sexually accessible, Kurt, to whatever. Don't worry about it," Blaine says. "Anyway, to say you haven't 'let me' implies I've been trying, and I haven't been, so it's not an issue."

Kurt feels there must be something significant about the number of words Blaine just used to essentially say, 'It's okay.'

"But you want to," Kurt says, "And I'm not accessible."

"Kurt," Blaine says carefully. "We talked about this already. It's all fine. I'm perfectly happy with what we do together."

"I've started thinking about it," Kurt admits. He may as well take advantage of the boldness imparted by his current blood chemistry, before it wears off.

"Thinking about...?" Blaine blinks at him.

"You fucking me. I mean, thinking about it like I'm actually trying to imagine it, instead of just acknowledging it as something physically possible."

"Oh," Blaine says, shifting up against the pillows and drawing his knees up so he can fold his arms and lean upon them. Kurt feels Blaine's gaze on him, so he turns his head to meet and hold it, reaches out to run his fingertips up Blaine's thigh, following along the outside seam of his pants. Blaine doesn't smile, says, "Kurt, you're not sober."

"I know, but I'm not so drunk we can't talk."

"This seems like the sort of conversation we should have when you're sober."

Kurt shakes his head. "No, because I probably couldn't talk about this while I'm sober."

"So are you saying you want to? You want me to fuck you?"

"No, no," Kurt says, "I'm not. I'm just saying I started thinking about it, and thinking about it? It's not as awful as it used to be."

"Awful?" Blaine asks, bewildered. "Why was it awful? I mean, you clearly don't have a problem with me, you know, liking it or—"

"No, Blaine, it's not awful like that, just." Kurt sighs. It's hard to find the right words. "I got really messed up in my own head, I think. When I first started thinking about sex."

"You mean fantasizing?"

"Yes," Kurt says. "Which is why, I think, I starting focusing on romance instead of stuff."

"By stuff you mean...?"

"Sex, the penetrative sort. Particularly me being on the receiving end of it."

"Okay," Blaine says slowly, "But I think I'm missing out on the why. Did something happen? More than just the usual trauma of puberty?"

Kurt rolls to his side, and Blaine reaches a hand out to take one of his. "Yes, but," Kurt starts. "Nothing that I wouldn't imagine other gay kids go through sometimes. I don't know."

"Do you want to talk about it? You don't have to."

"I know, and yeah, I think maybe I do. Or at least I should."

"Okay," Blaine says. He scoots down and stretches out beside Kurt, turning to face him and keeping his grip on his hand. "I'm listening. Kurt, I'm here for you."

Kurt takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. He's still not sure how to organize the feelings into words, let alone construct a narrative out of it. But he starts where he thinks is right. "You know I had a crush on Finn, right. Like a huge crush. I thought I was in love with him."

Blaine nods. "Yes, I knew about that," and when Kurt doesn't say anything more right away, he continues, "Honestly, I was a little intimidated by him at first, because of that. But then I got to know him better, and know you, and—"

"He wouldn't have been a good boyfriend for me."

Blaine smiles. "Maybe not so much."

"Yeah," Kurt says, with a self-deprecating grimace, "Well, he was supposed to be my friend. Back then when I was in love with him? I thought he was my friend."

"He is your friend, isn't he?"

"Oh, of course, he is now, but things got pretty bad between us for a while."

"What happened?"

Kurt sighs. "It's a long story. You don't need to know all of it."

"Okay, tell me the important parts."

"Okay," Kurt says and closes his eyes, letting himself experience the tilt while he tries to put it all together. He starts talking, navigating the feelings with his words, trying to find his way through to the other side. "So, the thing with Finn is he was nice to me. Or, at least he was less mean, at the start.

"Sometimes he looked at me like he actually saw me and not just the school's resident queer kid." Kurt makes a face, but he doesn't open his eyes, afraid that whatever he may see in Blaine's eyes will make him want to stop talking and just reach for Blaine for wordless comfort. "He seemed like he cared. Like I was a real person to him. He was the only one of them who did."

"Them?" Blaine prompts gently when Kurt falls into a pause.

"The boys, the jocks. The ones who would either not talk to me or sit near me or even look at me, and the ones who looked at me far too much, who tossed me in the dumpster every morning, haunted my steps, shoved me into lockers, called me names. Basically every boy at McKinley."

"But Finn was different." Blaine runs his thumb over Kurt's knuckles, a gentle, grounding touch.

"Yes," Kurt says. Tears needle his eyes as the immediacy of the old emotion floods back to him. The little kindnesses that meant so much to him, that were like bright stepping stones through the nightmare morass of his schooldays. "He was. I wanted so much to have a friend who was a boy. I mean, at that point, I just wanted a friend, but having a boy as a friend was something extra precious to me.

"So I'd take anything I could get that wasn't outright hostility or neglect. Even if it was just Finn chastising Puck after a locker check or holding my bag and my jacket while the others tossed me."

"Oh, Kurt..." Blaine says, and he sounds so sad, Kurt has to open his eyes. His vision is blurry with unshed tears, but he finds Blaine's eyes, gentle and sympathetic.

"Did they ever do that to you, Blaine, at your old school?"

"Throw me in the dumpster? No. I'd get teased, for being small and a little nerdy, but mostly I kept my head down. It was only bad after I came out and had the audacity to be out. Before that, no one really knew. But after. I've told you about after."

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand. Sees moisture brightening Blaine's eyes, too. "Everyone knew about me. Before I even told anyone. They all knew. They all assumed. I was Mister Cellophane. It was practically my theme song. I was either not even there, or I was just a thing—a horrible idea to punish—not a person."

"I'm sorry," Blaine says.

"Doesn't matter anymore," Kurt mumbles. "But back then, I thought Finn was different. Even though he knew, like everyone else knew, he liked me anyway. Even after I came out. And he was so handsome, and he'd talk to me, and he'd smile at me. God, he'd smile. Like really smile. Sometimes it even felt like..." Kurt trails off in a useless gust of breath. He remembers how it felt, the ache of it, the yearning, the terrible desperation of false hope, the kind that makes you lie to yourself.

"Like what, Kurt?"

"Like he might like me too, you know, the same way. That it was possible. Even though I knew he had the thing with Quinn, and Rachel, sort of. I knew he was straight, I did. But it was enough to keep the hope alive a little, even though I knew it was hopeless."

"I-I've had crushes on straight guys before," Blaine says tentatively. "It isn't easy. I bet it would suck even more if he were a close friend."

"It wasn't all bad," Kurt said. "It was, at first anyway, wonderful. We'd hang out, help each other with difficult stuff, confide things. We could talk about my Mom and his Dad and understand each other. It was like having a friend, a boy friend, not a boyfriend, but a boy friend, and that—just that—was, for me, amazing."

"That sounds like friendship to me," Blaine says. "What went wrong?"

Kurt sighs. "After we moved in together. The first time, before our parents got married. We had to share a room."

"Ah, and that didn't work out?"

"No. I— It really didn't. I redecorated the room for us both. Finn didn't like it and freaked out. He said some things, like mean things, to me. About me.

"He used the f-word, and I don't mean fuck. My Dad came downstairs when he heard the yelling. Overheard what Finn said and made him leave, even though he and Carole had barely been there a week." Kurt feels tears hot in his eyes, his heart fluttering like a scared, caged bird; like it all just happened yesterday.

"And that was when I realized, I wasn't a person to him either. I had trusted him, I thought I loved him, and after everything, all I was to him was some kind of awful, awful bogeyman."

"Kurt," Blaine says gently. "Oh."

"That moment, with him yelling at me, scared of me? Disgusted by me and the way I felt for him?" A hot anger sweeps up under his skin to merge with the sadness and old fear. It pushes the words out of his mouth faster than he can think them. "Disgusted by who I was, when I had thought he was one of my closest friends? When all I did was love him, Blaine? In that moment, I've never felt so wrong, just altogether wrong.

"I hadn't done anything to him. All I'd done was feel and hope and daydream and try to be his friend. I don't know. Maybe I looked at him too much, and I flirted sometimes with him—more at him, I guess—but, hell, that's not really anything is it? People look at each other. Boys flirt with girls, and girls flirt with boys. All the time. But it was unacceptable for me, apparently. It was especially terrible for me to have those kind of thoughts and feelings. So I tried— I stopped."

Blaine doesn't say anything immediately, as Kurt catches his breath. Blaine looks down at their joined hands, flexes his fingers and interlaces them with Kurt's. He holds on tightly, and asks softly, "You mean, you stopped fantasizing."

"About sex, yeah," Kurt says. "Because I felt like I was violating whoever I fantasized about, because he couldn't consent to it.

"And that really scared me because I didn't want to end up like Mr. Ryerson, some kind of predatory pervert. So I stopped thinking about it."

"Kurt, they're fantasies. You're allowed to have those thoughts, those feelings."

"I know that, Blaine. I do. Intellectually, anyway."

"You're especially allowed to think of me that way," Blaine says with a cautious smile.

Kurt returns the smile weakly and exhales heavily. "So that's why. When I start to think about being fucked, even if it's you, it reminds me of how I used to, sometimes, think about. Oh, god, it hurts to even say it out loud."

"You had fantasies about Finn."

Kurt glances away. "Yes," he says.

"So, it was something you wanted."

"Yes," Kurt says, "I used to imagine what it would be like if he—" Kurt breaks off with a deep and sudden inhalation. He can't exhale straight away, the emotions and memories are stuck in his chest with his air. How he used to lie in bed in his basement bedroom, staring wide-eyed into the dark, so young and already half-afraid of his feelings and the way his body was changing. Unable to stop himself from wondering and imagining. And how those normal little ordinary fears morphed so quickly—when Finn threw all of back into his face, as if it were some kind of violent act for Kurt to just feel—into things so alien, monstrous, and ugly. Things he never intended them to be. Things he never wanted.

He swallows and shuts his eyes. Eventually Kurt loosens his lungs and continues, "It's all polluted with that... shame. And how betrayed I felt, too, I guess. So I don't really imagine it or think about it too much anymore, because it brings those feelings back and I don't want to feel that way even for a second with you."

"I don't ever want you to feel that way with me either. Kurt."

"I don't, and I'm not, Blaine, I'm not ashamed of anything we do. I love what we do together. All of it. I think it's perfect and beautiful and good and right and hot and I love you."

"I love you, too," Blaine says, and then adds, "And for what it's worth, I kind of want to punch Finn the next time I see him."

Kurt gives Blaine a wry smile.

"I hope you know now you're not wrong, Kurt. You never have been. There's nothing to feel ashamed about. What's shameful are the people who think they have some right to police your private thoughts and feelings and then abuse you for them."

"I do know."

"And one day, I hope. I hope, but I don't expect, you'll let me show you how amazing you make me feel, because I love it, so much, when you fuck me."

"Don't hold your breath," Kurt says dryly. It would be nice if it were this easy, if confessing the secret and the pain would magically make it go away. It has eased, though, that's for certain. Kurt finds it strange how powerful the speaking of words can be. When he talks to Blaine during sex, it makes everything more real. But talking about his shame just now, it makes it all less. Maybe that's how you tell if a feeling is true or not. Speak it and see whether it is empowered, or whether it diminishes.

"I won't," Blaine says, "It's okay." Then he tugs on Kurt's hand, trying to pull him into an embrace.

Kurt resists the pull as he realizes just how much in need of a shower he is, and how much he wants to brush his teeth. "No," he says, "I'm gross. I need a shower before I can cuddle." He looks Blaine over. "And so do you."

"You must be sobering up," Blaine says with a grin.

Kurt closes his eyes, doesn't feel the unsettling tip. He opens his eyes and rolls his head, nothing spins or lags. "I think I am."

"Good," Blaine says, "then you can join me in the shower and I won't feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

Kurt smiles. "All right, then," he says, and it is okay.