The first time he noticed him was at the start-of-term party his dorm hosted to welcome the freshmen, which loosely translated to a party for all the older students to find younger, gullible, fresh meat to seduce between their sheets. He'd be a liar if he said that hadn't been his intention at first; he was notorious for bedding anyone who had a dick, moved, and was somewhat up to his standards. As someone who prided himself in not being shallow enough to have a type, that meant there were a lot of applicants vying for a position on his metaphorical list of conquests, and he didn't see the point in turning them down if they both wanted it. That was something he was adamant about; if the other guy only showed tiny signs of being unsure, of not giving full consent, he wouldn't touch them. If they regretted it later, after realizing there wasn't more to reap from the relationship, that he didn't fucking cuddle or magically invite them out to coffee after all, that wasn't his problem though, as he always made sure to completely clarify that he wasn't interested in continuing any relationship beyond that first night he shared with a guy. Some of his friends tried to convince him to leave behind his Casanova ways, that he was a senior now and supposed to be more serious, he was about to enter the real world and he should focus on real, important things and maybe try to establish a real, stable relationship, but the reasons they listed were precisely what turned him off to the idea – he was a senior now, and he wanted to enjoy his last year at college to its fullest extent.

So, when Blaine noticed Kurt Hummel for the first time, there was no romantic story to be told of how his entire world flipped on its axis and he was a changed man just by laying eyes on the other – well, boy. Kurt was four years his junior, and his face still held faint traces of his youth, whereas his own had sharpened and hardened over the time he had on him. There was no fairytale of the pale teen lighting up the entire room and everyone else fading away as Blaine caught sight of his soulmate. That didn't mean he didn't immediately wow Blaine; no, there was definitely something about him that demanded attention, whether it was his obvious beauty or the calm strength he radiated, or how he pulled focus without even doing anything other than standing quietly against a wall, or even that strange purity that seemed to come off him in waves, like he was something not to be tainted. So Blaine could at least say that something other than the sight of a new piece of ass he definitely wanted to taint drew him in from the start.

As he approached him, not like a race car chasing the finish line, but rather like a connoisseur would go about tasting a choice vintage, he had to admit he was astonished by the unconscious change in his methods, but decided to go with it. He didn't go over to him and start whispering about all the things he could show him, turn him on until his engines were revving enough to take the headfirst slide down the fast lane; he started with a sweet, but confident smile instead, uncorking the bottle. The boy looked startled, his blue eyes widening to make him look even more like a graceful deer, although one caught in headlights, and even in the dim light, Blaine could clearly see that there were dark spots appearing high on his cheeks. He averted his gaze, but when it flickered back up a second later, he smiled again and got a tentative twitch of lips back. He knew this was the best sign he could hope for to start decanting.

He made one of his special cocktails that usually went over well with inexperienced drinkers, because it tasted more like an exotic punch than alcohol; peach schnapps and Malibu rum with mango-pineapple juice. It was, admittedly, a rather “girly” drink, but he thought it was delicious and any guy he got to try it had agreed so far. Of course, he wasn't sure if they actually agreed or if they were just trying to flatter him, but he'd take credit nonetheless.

Two solo cups in hand, he made his way through the throng of people, who were dancing or talking, all of them drinking and sweating up a storm in the stifling heat of the packed room. The appreciative glances thrown his way didn't go unnoticed, but he didn't care about them in the least as he zeroed in on his objective: the tall, unusually pretty and painfully shy guy with the lithe body he couldn't wait to feel writhe beneath his own. He leaned against the wall next to him and thrust the cup out for him to take; the teen simply looked from him to the cup and back again, confusion and suspicion etched in those angelic features. It made Blaine crack a smile. “I swear I didn't drug it. I'm nothing if not anal about consent.” The boy chuckled and averted his gaze, the faint hints of a blush he'd seen earlier returning tenfold.

“That's probably what all creepy rapist guys say before luring intoxicated young boys into the back of their trucks,” he quipped, but accepted the cup nonetheless, although he didn't drink from it. It bothered Blaine a bit, but not enough to not laugh at the reply, reveling in the clear, high, but undoubtedly male tones of his voice.

“You're probably right. But I can assure you there's no truck to speak of, and although it's pretty hard, I do my best to give the sexual offenders' database a wide berth.” The guy emitted the most adorable giggle, causing Blaine's own smile to widen.

“Well, there's always that point where you can't resist temptation anymore. I'd at least like a name though before I drink this, so I can give the police the right one to put on there when I inevitably end up in your not-truck.”

“I'm Bruce Wayne and the not-truck is my Bat Mobile.” In response, the pale teen snorted, giving Blaine the satisfaction of knowing his joke was appreciated.

“Then I'm Captain America. You know, picture of patriotic masculinity.” The senior couldn't help but notice the bitter edge in the other guy's voice. Tactile and sensitive as he was, he reached out a hand to clasp the guy's shoulder.

“Captain America's got nothing on you.” The tall beauty looked away bashfully once more. Blaine cleared his throat, only then realizing he'd said those words out loud.

“I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson,” he continued and removed his hand to hold it out to the boy. “I'm in 122.”

“Kurt Hummel,” the guy – Kurt – replied and shook Blaine's hand after a moment's hesitation. “124, so I guess we're next door neighbors.”

Blaine gave him a strange look. “How did you manage to get on the first floor? The rooms there are usually reserved for seniors and the occasional, nerdy junior.”

Kurt bit his lip, the action drawing Blaine's attention, before he spoke up with a barely audible, “extenuating circumstances.” While he “ah”d and nodded in apparent understanding, Blaine was, in actuality, even more intrigued than before, if such a thing was possible. In any case, Kurt seemed grateful for his lack of probing, although still tense.

“So… what are you in for?” Blaine asked, hoping to lighten the mood and get rid of the sudden awkwardness following his initial question. To his delight, it worked, eliciting another adorable chuckle from the other boy.

“Judging stupidity, and fashion design with a minor in business. You?”

“The riveting college life, and music with a minor in business, too. We might see each other in class.”

Kurt quirked an eyebrow at him, and really, it shouldn't have been as sexy as it was, but, well – it fucking was. Blaine licked his lips and watched the boy's mouth move as he spoke, focusing hard to catch what he was saying.

“I highly doubt it, since you must either be a senior or a nerdy junior and in neither case you'd have to take the same classes as me. I'm all introductory this semester.”

The shorter man smiled. “I'm one of the TA's for one of the intro classes.” Noticing Kurt's astounded face, he quickly added, “nothing too serious, I'm just helping one of my favorite professors with a bunch of things like setting up the technology and copying handouts and such. I don't even get to help with the grading, but I need a killer reference letter and she promised she'd write it if I helped her out this semester.” He didn't mention how the grading part was mostly due to the fact that the professor in question, who happened to be his godmother, knew there was no way he wouldn't at least try to be inappropriate with one of her students, and this way, any threats pertaining to that pesky “conflict of interests” line his contract would have entailed could be avoided.

“Naw, so I can't even pump you for information about what's going to be on the test?” Kurt replied with a mock-pout, making Blaine think that there was something else he'd like him to pump him for. Had this been anyone else, he probably would have said it out loud, too, but something about Kurt warned him off to that approach.

“Well, I do still have connections. I like daisies and toaster strudels.”

“What, no pop-tarts? What kind of college student are you?”

“The exceptional, unique snowflake kind.”

Kurt cracked another smile, showing off tiny teeth and crinkled eyes. The sight made something within Blaine thaw out.

“Look –“ he began, but Kurt interrupted him.

“I know what you're going to say, but while it's really nice that you've come to put me out of my awkward misery, I'm not interested.”

It was Blaine's turn for his eyebrows to shoot up.

“What do you mean?” He really was puzzled; well, logically, he knew what Kurt probably meant, but he just had never had anyone say no to him right off the bat. Sure, some guys chose to retreat rather than set themselves up for the heartache that was climbing into bed with him, but there literally wasn't anyone he'd come on to who hadn't at least given it a shot at first. Did that make him an arrogant jerk, not going into a flirt thinking he'd be rejected? Maybe. He chose to consider himself healthily self-confident though.

“I'm not going to live the cliché about 80% of the freshmen here are on their way to fulfill,” the pale teen replied, gesturing to their fellow party-goers. “I'm not going to let some strange guy fuck me on my first night here and start off my college experience all bitter and pissed about the fact that I didn't get my slightly more realistic fairytale Marshall-and-Lily romance after all.”

Blaine gaped, too stunned to even give one of the charmingly snarky replies he was usually so good at thinking up.

“And don't even try to tell me that wasn't what you were going for, Blaine Anderson,” he pronounced Blaine's name like it was a title, making the curly-haired senior wonder who he'd been talking to, “or what the point of this,” Kurt again gestured to their surroundings, “whole thing is.”

Blaine was quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically bothered by Kurt's assessment of him, and the assumptions he'd thrown out there, in spite of the fact that he knew they were true for the most part.

“So you've got me all figured out, huh?” he finally spoke up, calmly and quietly but still loud enough to be heard over the steady untz untz untz of the music thumping from the speakers.

“I have… friends in high places. Who know things,” Kurt replied vaguely.

“Oh, and here I was going to compliment you on how very astute you are,” Blaine countered, probably sounding about 5 years old in his moment of petulance and feeling gloriously free in not caring one bit. He didn't like being judged.

Kurt, in turn, laughed, albeit a little incredulously. “So are you trying to tell me that it isn't true?”

Blaine threw up his hands. “No, by all means, believe everything they told you. I mean, I can't honestly deny every allegation, so I won't try. Sorry for bothering you.”

Sour and for the first time ever regretting his exploits, even if it was just a tiny little bit, he turned with a nod and forced smile. Kurt returned the gesture, not even trying to make him stay. He felt like an ass for being irked by that; he was well aware that he didn't have any right to the other boy, and that he was well within his rights in saying no, but it felt like a personal failure somehow. Especially considering the reason. He wondered who had tattled, but if he was being honest with himself, he knew that he was one of the main energy suppliers to the rumor mill, and it could have been basically anyone who'd spent more than half a month at NYU.

He didn't want to be honest with himself though. What he really wanted was to get shitfaced, and if anyone decided to go home with him anyway, good enough, but he wasn't going to put forth any more effort tonight.

. . .

When Blaine woke up the next day, the first thing he noticed was that he was, thankfully, alone; he didn't think he could deal with throwing out a random stranger with the way his head was thumping. The second thing was the reason why he'd woken up at such an ungodly hour: some really fucking obnoxious knocking on his wall. He also noticed he had no recollection of anything that happened after his decision to drink himself into oblivion, and briefly congratulated himself on a mission accomplished before cursing himself, and his neighbor, and making a mad dash to the toilet.

The unflattering (read: disgusting) sound of vomit hitting the porcelain of the toilet bowl echoed in the room and his head. The rhythmic “thud, thud, thud” of whatever his neighbor was doing against the wall wasn't helping matters; he really could only think of one thing that would result in that noise, and he had high hopes that their stamina would give out soon – at least to the extent that they would've moved to the bed by the time he'd manage to resemble a human being enough to allow himself to go back to his human bed.

After brushing his teeth and showering quickly, as well as downing a couple of Tylenols with a pint of water, he did exactly that, but sleep evaded him as the thumping grew, if anything, even louder. Gritting his teeth in aggravation, he stood back up and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and his slippers to make his way over to thoroughly chew out the offender. A few hard knocks would do the trick of conveying the feeling before he could actually voice it, and give the person a fair warning they didn't actually deserve, he figured. He was flattering himself on being nice when a middle-aged guy with a baseball cap and the most… well, ugly flannel shirt he'd ever seen opened. He gaped a bit at the scowl he was greeted with; he was the wronged party, for God's sake!

“Whaddaya want?” the guy asked, his voice gruff and his tone about as welcoming as his looks.

“Uh, I – are you actually a student here?” Blaine sounded insultingly incredulous even to his own ears.

The man chuckled, though the sound didn't hold much humor. “No. Now, what do you want?”

Grasping control of his bearings again, and his rage, the senior opened his mouth to speak. “Actually, could you stop with the noise? I don't know what you're doing in there, though I can guess,” he grimaced at the thought of the man having sex in any capacity, “but some of us had a late night and are trying to sleep.”

The guy just stared him down, his mouth in a grim line. “I'm sorry for the inconvenience,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I need to help my son get his room in order before catching my flight this afternoon. So actually, I'm not sorry at all.” Confirmed.

It was only then that Blaine dared to look behind the man, and saw the reason he had the worst hangover in about a year standing in the dorm room, a hammer and a wooden board in his hands. The conversation about their dorm rooms being right next to each other came back to him then, and he felt like slapping himself across the face.

“Oh… Kurt. Hi,” he greeted the pale teen stiffly after what would probably be considered an inordinate amount of gaping.

“Hello, Blaine,” Kurt replied, tension dripping from his voice and posture. “I'm sorry we're bothering you, but my father won't be convinced that I can actually set up a shelf and a closet on my own.” He glared fondly at the man in question, who chuckled again, although it sounded more jovial than before.

“So, let me state the obvious in saying you two know each other,” came Kurt's father's remark. The implied “how?” didn't go unnoticed by Blaine.

“Yeah, uh, we, uh, we met last night,” Kurt stuttered, and Blaine had no clue why he sounded so nervous. It's not like anything happened between them. He did enjoy the sight of his pale cheeks flushing red in broad daylight, though. “Dad, Blaine, Blaine, this is my dad, Burt Hummel.” They did the expected ‘nice to meet you' dance, and Blaine tried his best not to wince when Kurt's dad almost crushed his hand.

The three of them stood there in awkward silence. Blaine opened and closed his mouth like a fish, trying to think of something, anything, to say and break the ice, but in the end, he settled for a mumbled, “well, uh, yeah, nice to meet you,” and backing out of the doorway.

“We're almost done, and then I'll make sure to be extra quiet so you can sleep… Mr Luva-Luva,” Kurt added with a giggle. Burt's eyebrows raised infinitesimally, like he didn't want to acknowledge that he was thrown and confused by that comment in front of Blaine, but couldn't help but make his feelings known in some way.

Blaine, in turn, just groaned, knowing all too well what gin did to him, and that he had to have consumed a lot of it the night before. “Don't even tell me. I think I can do without the gory details,” he pleaded with Kurt, whose cerulean orbs were dancing with merriment. He idly thought that the teen's eyes were positively stunning, and wondered whether “cerulean” actually did the whirlwind of colors justice.

“I won't… but if you jump on any tables and start stripping to ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On' again, I won't stop anyone from filming it, no matter how tacky and unoriginal that song is. In fact, I'll be in the front row, and my YouTube account has quite a few subscribers.”

“Oh my God, who let Sam choose the music?” Blaine groaned again, making Kurt giggle.

“Is Sam the guy who got up on the table with you? Because I gotta tell you, you could learn a lesson or two from him.”

Not even bothering to answer in his intense need to hide his shame, Blaine bolted from the room, his usually even, olive complexion tainted by a rare pink tinge. No sooner was he back in bed, hiding his face under the pillow and having pulled the blanket on top for good measure, did the thumping of what he now knew to be a hammer against the wall resume. However, Kurt seemed to have been almost done when he had stormed next door, as it stopped about a couple of minutes later. Blaine sighed in relief before closing his eyes and sleeping off the remnants of alcohol in his blood, as well as his embarrassment.