Usually Kurt watches with clinical detachment as his bludgers hit their desired target. There's a certain sense of self satisfaction that accompanies the unpleasant sound of iron connecting with flesh and bone. It meant he'd done his job well, achieved a desired goal.

Today, however, he can't help the grimace of sympathetic pain that washes over him as he views the resulting injury to Blaine Anderson's arm. The Hufflepuff captain had been getting far too smug (oh, who was Kurt kidding? Anderson had been smug for years.) and far too close to winning. Kurt had had no choice, really. He was a beater, that's what they did - they beat.

But that annoying little twinge of guilt wouldn't go away, even hours later when a win had been secured and the game was long since over. It nagged at his conscious as he tried to sleep, shifting restlessly on the bed in an attempt to get comfortable. Ugh.

It was all Anderson's fault, of course. He'd somehow manage to worm his way into Kurt's brain over the past two years and seemed likely to stay there, despite Kurt's determined attempts to dislodge him. It was that smile. That stupid, sunny grin that seemed to be a perpetual fixture on the other boy's face. Kurt shouldn't have find it charming, but he absolutely does and he hates Blaine all the more for it.

And now, ugh. Now he knows he's not going to be able to sleep until he does something about the sense of contrition over being the one to wipe said grin off his face. He huffed and frowned, giving up on sleep in favor of rolling out of bed and slipping on his robe.

Blaine, he knew, was spending the night in the Hospital Wing while his arm healed. Kurt slipped out of the Slytherin commons and through the corridors, careful to stick to the shadows in case Filch or any of the professors were hanging about. Eventually he found himself standing over the Hufflepuff's cot, questioning what the hell he was even doing.

Too late to turn back now, he supposed. If he did, he'd never get to sleep.

"Anderson," he softly shook the other boy's shoulder. "Anderson, wake up."

Blaine stirred, making quiet sleepy sounds, and eventually cracked a bleary eye open. "Hmmgh?" He mumbled unintelligibly, eyes eventually finding Kurt and brows knitting in confusion. "Hummel..? Wha--"

"I'm sorry about your arm," Kurt blurted out before the other boy could get another word in. "It looked... unpleasant, and I'm sorry."

"S'okay." Blaine looked more confused than ever. "S'part of the game. S'okay."

Kurt nodded, the line of his shoulders visibly relaxing, his conscious eased. It was still incredibly awkward, but at least he'd be able to sleep now. "Well..." he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "That was all. You should probably rest up. ...Good night."

"Um, yeah." Blaine's voice was still thick with sleep and obviously still not certain what was going on. "Thanks, I guess. G'night."

Kurt turned, moving towards the exit, and paused. He honestly had no idea what had come over him, but he found himself retracing his steps to Blaine's bed, and the next thing he knew he was bending down to brush his lips against the other boy's cheek in a lightning quick peck. Blaine's cheek was warm and slightly scratchy with stubble, and he smelled... good. Nice. Like spicy soap and clean boy.

Kurt flushed and jerked away abruptly. Seriously. What the hell was he doing? He shook his head and scurried out of the hospital wing without looking back once. He really had to get some sleep. Maybe he'd wake up and all this would just be a really bizarre dream.

...And hopefully Anderson would come to the same conclusion.