Kurt thought he was asleep.

He knew because Kurt was sitting, legs crossed on the bed, watching him as though he was going to disappear – as though he was a ghost that would tumble through his open fingertips like sand. He knew the feeling; of watching someone with desperate eyes, wondering if they would be solid if you reached out to feel the skin. He knew the feeling, and that was why he couldn't blame Kurt for watching and wondering.

Blaine knew he was drunk, too. He could feel the fuzziness drifting through his mind, smothering rational thought as he tried to remember all the things he had done, tried to remember where he was and why he was there. He could recall lips against his, singing loudly, staring at a giant and wondering where he had come from; who had he kissed? He had kissed Kurt? Whoops – that might be why Kurt was staring at him, wondering what it had meant. But, no, that wasn't right; Kurt didn't smell like lilacs and lavender, he smelt like coffee, vanilla and honey.

Plus, Blaine was sure that Kurt's lips would taste like heaven and music rather than pink.

He let his body shift, snuggling into the pillows, tense to feel Kurt's reaction. He could almost feel the other boy's eyes on him and, rationally, he knew that it was because he was in Kurt's bed and Kurt had every right to stare, but he liked to think that it was because Kurt wanted to touch too. And, oh. Oh.

Kurt had put a hand to his forehead.

There wasn't anything wrong with that, of course. Blaine admitted to himself, in a sort of mental slur, that Kurt's soft hands felt amazing against his own slightly heated skin. The brush of the pads of his fingers was delicious, pushing his loose curls away from his eyes. He wondered if Kurt could tell he wasn't actually asleep; as if the slight 'o' of his mouth and an accidental jerk of his eyes under closed lids would give him away. It didn't seem to, though, and Blaine felt Kurt crawl a little closer, silk touching at skin as Kurt's knee nudged Blaine's hand without him realising. He didn't mind it, either.

Blaine could feel himself tense a little and he had to physically force himself to keep breathing steadily, waiting with an anxious excitement for Kurt to do more. He couldn't really grasp whether or not that was strange – was it wrong for him to want Kurt to keep touching? He just assumed that it was drunkenness and, tomorrow morning, when the brightness of the day flickered over them, he could pretend it didn't happen.

The fingers had moved from his forehead to his cheek now, Kurt obviously feeling the slight scratch of stubble. His palm cupped Blaine's cheek and Blaine almost choked on his gasp, needing to squeeze his eyes tight and wanting to lean into the touch, but not being allowed. It was painfully familiar, wanting to touch and not being allowed, but he pushed those memories to the side. He would not think about things like that while Kurt was touching him with perfect, wonderful innocence.

"Blaine Anderson," Kurt whispered, and Blaine wanted to stop breathing so he could remember the wistful need, the desperate tone, as well as possible. "Blaine Anderson-Hummel." He heard Kurt laugh brokenly, a little nervous and needy, and he didn't quite understand why but he hurt. Blaine Anderson-Hummel sounded good in his head – so why, he asked himself, why did it seem to upset Kurt? Of course, under the drunken light-headedness he knew, but lost in the innocence of first-time alcohol he couldn't wrap his mind around his friend's sadness.

Kurt's hand slipped away from his face quite suddenly and it felt strange to feel cold there. He had liked the warmth of palm on cheek and he wished he could admit to Kurt that he was awake, that he wanted him to keep touching and whispering perfect dreams to him. Blaine couldn't help wondering, dreaming in a fuzzy drunken kind of way; did Kurt dream about marriages and children, picking pre-schools and wondering if they'd ever have the private versus public debate? Did Kurt wonder if a marriage would last, if they'd ever be able to get married, to see Burt Hummel hand his son over – or, maybe not, maybe it would be Blaine being handed over. Maybe they'd both decide that no one would be given away, seeing as they'd be giving each other to themselves.

The bed moved, weight shifting as Kurt curled up opposite Blaine. He dared to open one eye, to glance over, only to see the plane of Kurt's back, curled and tight. It was shaking a little, the ripple of silk unfamiliar to Blaine's eyes – the urge to wrap himself around Kurt and never let go was the opposite. It was warm and as old as his need to sing, his desire to open himself and perform. He didn't want to wonder what that meant; why he wanted to curl around Kurt and run his hand down his back, soothing away the pain.

Blaine almost broke his pretend to sleep promise when he heart a quiet sob.

Both his eyes opened as he watched Kurt, heard him turn and press his face into the cold side of the pillow, as if the slight chill would freeze up the pain. He saw Kurt's little hand clench into the fabric and he wished he could reach over, draw the hand back and press it back to his cheek and whisper please, please don't. He had become the one to wipe away Kurt's tears but in this moment, this desperate, needy, personal moment, there was nothing he could do but watch the hurt.

Dozy, but wanting, Blaine let himself move in an awkward, incredibly false turn, still faking slumber as his hand touched at Kurt's back. The other boy stiffened, turned his head – but Blaine's eyes were closed now, his breath perfectly even. Kurt turned in the bed, his hand reaching down to run along Blaine's knuckles, wrapping around his fingertips. Blaine let Kurt hold his hand as he pretended to sleep, knowing, deep down, that Kurt needed more.

One day, he was sure, he could give Kurt that. But not now. Not until there was no more pink taste in his mouth and not until he was sure he wouldn't break Kurt's heart.