"Honey! I'm home!" Blaine proclaimed as we both entered our New York apartment.
Yes. He'd been drinking. And no, I have not. I was sober enough to guide us home.
"Blaine! Stop that!" I scolded as I watched him try eating the dirt out of our bamboo plant.
"Ssssshhhhh-" he began, walking toward me with his fingers up and eyes closed,"-do you hear that?"
"What? Blaine shut up!"
"No no no no no... It's very real."
I stared at him as he went into a giggle fit.
"You need to go to bed now."
He gives me a sad look before turning on a heel and slouching to the bedroom.
"I feel pretty!Oh so pretty!I feel pretty and witty and-" he sings with a chuckle before continuing..." GAAAAAAY!!"
"Oh. My. God." I say as I watch him dance on the bed. In his underwear. This is the mother of all face palms.
"Kurt!!!" He yells as he flops back down on the mattress. "My tummy needs a blow job!"
"Blaine... are you sick?"
He didn't answer. He just leaped up and... Well. He didn't make it to the bathroom. There goes my beautiful carpets.
Being the oh-so-helpful boyfriend I am, I pick him up bridal style and set him under the covers, while he sobs.
"The sand..." He whispers.
"Honey, the sand will be fine..."
"No! You don't understand!"
"Please elaborate."
He mumbles under his breathe, something about the living room and carrots. This continues until he begins to sing again. This time with less enthusiasm.
"When I was younger I sawMy daddy cry..."
Then he cries. He leaps forward into my arms. And just... Sobs. I hear him hiccup and attempt to breath steadily. I rub his naked shoulders and kiss the top of his curls.
"Please don't ever leave me..."
"Aww... I won't sweetheart."
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The next morning I woke up to an awful retching sound coming from the bathroom.
"Shouldn't of been drinking so much..." I say from the door frame.