Relationship: Klaine
Rating: R (mostly for language)
Word Count: 7708/53,000+ so far
Warnings: swearing, intense homophobic language, violence, angst, underage drinking, past hookups
Summary: Skank!Kurt, Nerd!Blaine AU in season 2/3. Cause everyone has to have one, right?

Author's Note- This is somehow the longest chapter yet. I hope you like it, there's maybe one or two more parts left. Let me know what you think and feel free to talk to me about anything!

Rick the Stick was having a party on Friday and Kurt was sure as shit going to be there.

Not that Kurt was generally welcome to the local high school shindigs, but Rick threw parties with his college-age brother, which meant quality booze and a decent chance of getting laid with a guy within five years of Kurt's own age instead of closeted middle-aged creeps at Scandals. Plus, it pissed the jocks off when Kurt showed up and really, he had to get his fun somewhere. After spilling his guts to Blaine a few weeks ago, he was jumpy and moody and kept having these stupid bad dreams (not nightmares, nightmares were for babies) and he couldn't make himself relax.

So, party. And booze.

Blaine was off having another awkward family dinner and Kurt had winced in sympathy, but he was secretly glad Anderson would be occupied most of the night and wouldn't wonder where Kurt was. A house party with lots of alcohol and horny bastards all under one roof was no place for Poindexter. They could sniff out innocent virgins like a hawk and Blaine would get eaten alive if Kurt wasn't there to bail him out.

But tonight, Blaine was safe with his parents, and Kurt was free of his dad, who was on a date with Carol, so he decided he'd take one night for himself and just loosen up. Karofsky still hadn't made a move and the waiting and anticipation was driving Kurt crazy.

It was one more twisted way Karofsky used to mess with Kurt's head last year, after all. He wouldn't call for days or weeks at a time, drawing out the time between meetings until Kurt was so stressed out and paranoid he'd spend half the day jumping at the slightest noises and glued to his phone in case he missed a text. Kurt had never figured out if he liked the long periods between the events (he wasn't calling them dates, no matter what Karofsky insisted) or the short ones. The short ones meant everything happened faster, but at least he didn't have to deal the constant terror and hyperawareness that came from week-long breaks.

Kurt pushed the memories in the back of his head and walked to the party, intent on drinking enough to get his mind to stop thinking for a while.

The party was loud, crowded, and Kurt was exhausted after only an hour. Music pounded through his skull as he threw back another cup of who-knew-what that didn't affect him. Like, at all. Kurt scowled at the stupid cup and shoved his other hand deep in his jacket pocket, leaning against the wall, alone. All around him, boys and girls were making out and grinding and having a good ol' time and Kurt couldn't make himself join in.

Every time a guy caught his eye, Karofsky's face appeared and Kurt felt sick and panicked and Jesus, that was frustrating beyond all hell. At least he hadn't spotted the great dick here yet. Santana winked at him as she passed, clutching a huge college guy with muscles and Kurt rolled his eyes, storming off to the makeshift bar in the kitchen. Maybe he could swipe a whole bottle for himself.

Puck had abandoned him hours ago, off hooking up with one of the cheerleaders who was not Quinn, and Kurt secretly hoped Quinn wasn't around to see that. That was a can of worms Kurt really hoped he'd never have to deal with. He pushed his way through dancing teens, dodging red solo cups and boobs until he found the kitchen.

"Hey," Quinn appeared at his side, clutching his arm and giggling. "Didn't think I'd see you here after—after You-Know-Who!" She took a gulp of her drink and laughed when Kurt pushed her off with a smile. She was flushed and still in her giggly-phase, twirling her hair around her finger and eying the boy behind Kurt with a flirty smirk.

"Karofsky's not Voldemort," Kurt grumbled. He glared at the kid trying to hand him a beer and grabbed a half-full vodka bottle from under the table.

"Not the point. You've been grumpy lately," Quinn remarked, jumping onto the counter and smoothing her skirt. She reached over and snatched the bottle from his hands, pouring some into her cup. "Got anything to do with the way Anderson keeps staring at you like a lost puppy?" The judgmental look she shot Kurt lost some of its power when she nearly toppled off the counter.

Kurt tugged her down to the floor, where she could do much less damage to herself. "Where's Boy Toy #3? Move on already?" He drawled, smirking. She shot him a dirty look.

"Quinn! There you are!" A blonde blur brushed past Kurt and grabbed Quinn into a sloppy kiss, which she returned. Enthusiastically.

"Apparently not," Kurt snorted, because of course. He moodily filled his cup with the vodka and added a few mixers. He wasn't really paying attention.

"Just because you're not—eep!—getting any—" Quinn glared at Kurt over Sam's shoulder. Dear God, they were sickening together.

"Okay, was there a reason you found me? Or did you just need a distraction before Sam could stick his tongue down your throat." Kurt gave her a bitchy look as he took a gulp of his drink. It tasted like pineapple.

Sam pulled off and slung an arm around his girlfriend, smiling dazedly. "Actually yeah!" He said brightly. "Thought you'd wanna know, I saw Blaine with some guy—"

Kurt's brain shorted out. "What?" He gaped at Sam, catching his slipping drink at the last second before it spilled all over his favorite pair of studded boots. Blaine was here?!

"Yeah, I thought that too!" Sam grinned. "Anyway, they looked pretty happy but I—"

"I'm gonna kill him," Kurt muttered, dumping his drink in the sink.

"—thought you'd wanna check the guy out and make sure everything's, you know…"

"I knew you'd be a jealous fucker so I came to find you and tell you to get your man," Quinn finished, grinning maliciously. "Pretty sure he was talking to Cole. Remember Cole?"

Kurt growled under his breath. He remembered Cole. He definitely remembered Cole, the college boy that had a thing for preying on naive virgins or insecure boys looking for something more than a fuck. Cole specialized in making boys feel special and then leaving after getting a few orgasms, usually while stomping all over their hearts in the process.

"Thanks," Kurt spat at her. "Thanks for leaving Blaine with that trash; I really appreciate everyone making my sex life their business. It's fucking delightful!" He shouted as Quinn turned back to making out with Sam. She flipped him off without breaking away.

Whatever. He had to find Blaine and kick his ass for showing up here without Kurt. Blaine screamed "virgin!," he was going to get snapped up by some creep if Kurt didn't find him soon.

"Blaine!" Kurt called into the living room, but he only got a few eye rolls and a few whatevers between the pounding bass and something vaguely like singing. Honestly, Kurt thought, moving through the crowded rooms, you'd think finding the dork would be easy seeing as he'd stick out like a sore thumb here. "Blaine!" Still nothing. Kurt was reminded of how much he really hated parties when a girl was shoved into him by a group of laughing kids. She kept trying to kiss his lips, which Kurt found hard to avoid because the rooms were so freaking tiny until he somehow managed slip out of her clingy grip and pawn her onto Jacob Ben Israel. Jew-Fro looked like he'd creamed his pants the second the girl touched him, but Kurt wasn't about to check because gross.

Finally, Kurt spotted a yellow and black checkered shirt through gyrating bodies. Got him. Kurt shoved his way through the crowd to the hall, finding Blaine pinned between the wall and a guy with a polo shirt and blond spiked hair. Who was currently doing his best to suck out Blaine's tongue.

Something flared in Kurt's stomach (not jealously, okay, it's not) and Kurt grabbed the douchebag's shoulder and pulled him off Blaine, smiling grimly at the twin 'heys!' from their mouths. Blaine's face instantly brightened and Cole's fell back into an overly confident smirk that Kurt once thought was pretty hot. Now it just made Kurt want to punch him in the face.

"Hey, gorgeous! Miss me?" Cole winked his stupidly gorgeous blue eyes and skimmed over Kurt's outfit, nodding appreciatively at Kurt's skintight silver pants and form-fitting black studded vest. "Damn, Kurt, you really know how to pull off the sexy bad boy look, huh?" He moved in for a hug, which Kurt grudgingly accepted, until Cole's arms drifted down and hands squeezed his ass. No fucking way.

Shoving him off, Kurt smiled tightly. "Like I miss my zits, Cole. Keep it in your pants, jackass." He fixed his glare on Blaine, who wilted. "The fuck are you doing here, Anderson? With him of all people?" Cole let out an injured noise but Kurt ignored him.

Blaine crossed his arms defiantly. "I'm sixteen, Kurt, you're—you're not my babysitter!" he insisted, swaying a little.

Oh fuck, he's drunk. Kurt realized, finally noticing the way Blaine's cheeks were tinged red and the dizziness in his eyes.

Stumbling forward, Blaine grabbed onto Cole's arm. "I was just—just tryin' to have some fun," Blaine continued, eyes wide and earnest and unfocused. "I never—never have fun; an' you don't want me but—but Cole does and he's cute an'—"

"Puck texted you, didn't he?" Kurt interrupted, because he wasn't an idiot. He wasn't even going to address the fact that Blaine thought Kurt didn't want him. Because…no. Not here, not when Karofsky could pop out at any moment. He hadn't seen any of the asshole's buddies yet, but the night was young. He could still turn up. And a drunken Karofsky was not something Kurt wanted to deal with when there was an audience.

Blaine blushed. "N—no, he—yeah." He looked miserable. Cole rubbed his back, letting his hand roam down until Kurt's glare stopped him. He released Blaine with a snort.

"Jesus, you can't even lie when you're smashed." Kurt stared at Blaine in wonder.

Blaine nodded his head in agreement, but Cole rolled his eyes. "Do you mind, Hummel? We're kind in the middle of something, unless you know," he smirked, moving closer and trailing his fingers along Kurt's sides. "Thinkin' about joining in, baby? We could teach Blaine all sorts of things," He said in a husky voice, like he thought Kurt was going to forget their last hookup when Cole left Kurt in a bathtub in a frat house without his clothes. Not likely.

Kurt slapped at the wandering hands with a fierce glare. "Don't touch me again," he growled. Blaine stared at them with wide eyes, body shifting towards Kurt but then away, but Kurt pulled him to his side and kept him there with a tight grip around Blaine's arm. Cole rolled his eyes at the sight. "We're leaving now, keep your dick to yourself, okay?" Kurt said, falsely polite and dripping disdain all over the place. Honestly, he was pushing his luck with the older boy, who didn't seem to notice Kurt making fun of him.

"Aw, c'mon, Kurt, we had good times together, right? C'mon!" Cole practically whined and Kurt shot him a withering look.

"Back. Off. Rosen. Not interested. Neither is Blaine." Kurt snarled, tightening his grip on Blaine's arm. Blaine slumped against his side and let his hands wind around Kurt's waist. "He's drunk; do you really need another lesson in consent and jailbait?"

Cole snorted, expression souring. "Fuckin' hell. You used to be fun, Hummel, what's with the choirboy act? Not like we all know you're secretly beggin' for it." He lifted an eyebrow. "You always used to be up for fuck, want a reminder?" Waving down towards his crotch, Cole laughed at Kurt's annoyed reaction.

"Kurt's not a slut," Blaine slurred with a glare. He lifted a swaying finger to point at Cole's face. "Not a whore." He declared.

While it was sweet of Blaine to defend his honor, Kurt had enough. "Fuck off, Cole." Kurt rolled his eyes and pushed Blaine out, following the stumbling kid to the front porch. Cole let them go with a loud curse.

The cool November air felt wonderful to Kurt, but Blaine started shivering until Kurt gave him his jacket. Sliding it on ungracefully, Blaine smiled widely at Kurt.

"What?" Kurt asked suspiciously.

Blaine motioned for Kurt to move in closer and grabbed a fistful of Kurt's shirt. "You're…" He grinned like he was about to reveal some huge secret and Kurt eyed him nervously. "You're actually…nice!" Blaine laughed in Kurt's confused face and patted his back with the tact of someone that didn't realize they were drunk. "Defendin' my honor!" He nodded to himself and tried to take a step before practically falling into Kurt.

"Anderson, how much have you had to drink?" Kurt narrowed his eyes at Blaine, who had changed to petting Kurt's arm and leaning in heavily. His hot breath fanned over Kurt's neck and Kurt swallowed, willing his dick under control. This was so not the time.

Shrugging, Blaine let his head fall on Kurt's shoulder and breathed in deeply. "You smell nice."

"Blaine."

Out of nowhere, Puck popped up with Santana and slapped Kurt's back with a whoop of glee. Kurt jerked away from Blaine to shove Puck off, blushing furiously without really knowing why. "Dammit, Puckerman!" Kurt growled, pushing Puck back into the porch's seat swing. Puck went easily, laughing and winking at Blaine. Blaine looked sad without Kurt next to him, but Santana slung an arm around his shoulders and shoved a red cup into Blaine's hands. He drank it happily, swaying slightly.

"You guys are finally getting together, right?" Puck smirked, leaning back into the seat and swinging gently. Santana flounced past Kurt and fell next to him with a self-satisfied leer.

"Yeah!"

"NO." Kurt glared at Blaine, who ignored him in favor of downing the rest of his drink. He grinned brightly at Kurt and plastered himself to Kurt's back, sighing in happiness. Christ. And yet, Kurt couldn't seem to make himself shove Blaine off. Blaine clung to Kurt's back like a limpet and really, Kurt was not drunk enough for this.

Puck groaned loudly and Santana shot him a judgmental expression. "Come on, Kurt, you're allowed to have fun y'know," Puck practically whined. Santana nodded emphatically and turned to catch Puck in a wet kiss.

"I just—" Kurt cut himself off when a group of girls stumbled out of the house, giggling. He waited until they passed before trying again. "My sex life is none of your business." Kurt crossed his arms in the cool air and glared at Puck. "Speaking off, texting Blaine?!"

Puck shrugged. "He was complaining in Glee that he's too boring, so I told him to get his ass over here. And that you were here." He smirked in a stupidly self-satisfied way that made Kurt want to hit him.

"Also I told him that you don't play by the rules so…" Santana snickered. "Blaine needed to lighten up; being a goody two-shoes is lame."

There was an insistent tapping on his shoulder and Kurt turned his exasperated expression on Blaine. "I snuck out of my house!" Blaine said proudly. "And it was awesome!" He smiled so widely Kurt had to snort.

Kurt turned back to Puck. "I'm still kicking your ass," he stated, ignoring the way Blaine still clung to his side. "Both of yours." He fixed his glare on Santana as well.

Santana snorted. "Hummel, you need to remove that stick from your ass. It's exhausting being around your guys' sexual tension." She waved towards Blaine, who blushed.

"Kurt cock-blocked me earlier," Blaine said sadly. "But he won't go out with me." He wallowed for a minute before whipping his head up like something occurred to him. "Am I not good enough?" His eyes grew shiny and wet and he took a step backwards. Guilt twisted Kurt's stomach and he silently cursed as Puck laughed uproariously.

"Is that what Cole was bitching about in there?" Puck wiped his streaming eyes, still snorting with laughter. "Jesus, Hummel, only you."

"Cole's a dick." Kurt insisted, trying to overlook the way Blaine's face looked like a kicked puppy. "You remember the shit he put me through." His voice was too defensive and Kurt silently cursed himself.

"Yeah, you don't care at all." Puck raised a judging eyebrow and Kurt gave him the finger. Reaching behind him, Kurt caught Blaine's arm and nudged him towards the driveway. Blaine didn't resist, instead turning and storming off, but not before Kurt caught a glimpse of wet cheeks and furrowed eyebrows.

Great, now Anderson was pissed at him. Kurt watched him for a few steps before scrubbing at his face in frustration and shooting a glare at a snickering Santana.

"Fuck my life," Kurt muttered. "Anderson! WAIT!" He called after Blaine just as Blaine disappeared behind a large SUV in the driveway. "Blaine!" Kurt stopped short when he turned the corner of the car, inhaling sharply.

Karofsky stood in front of a frozen Blaine, looking nearly as shocked as Kurt. His eyes flickered from Kurt to Blaine, back to Kurt.

After spilling his secrets to Blaine only a week before, Kurt was nowhere near ready to speak to his tormentor. Every look, every word Karofsky spoke to him threw Kurt back to last year and he nearly choked on the sudden onslaught of memories pressing on his brain now that Karofsky was right there.

"Didn't think you'd be here," Karofsky said hesitantly. He glanced at Blaine, who still hadn't moved. Kurt didn't answer and Karofsky shoved his hands into his pockets. "Why is he looking at me like that?" He said with an edge to his voice, inclining his head towards Blaine. His brow furrowed. "He's wearing your jacket." Karofsky said, voice tinged with jealousy.

Kurt made his legs move to Blaine, stepping into a protective stance slightly in front of him. "Leave him alone. We're leaving," Kurt bit out. Blaine's hand snuck out and gripped Kurt's, squeezing. Karofsky's face clouded over at the sight.

"Whatever, Hummel," He scoffed, shaking his head. Like he thought Kurt would fall for his false disinterest. "What would I want with two fairies like you?" The way his hands were balled into fists in his pockets betrayed him.

"I know what you did," Blaine spoke up behind Kurt. Kurt whipped his head around, silently warning Blaine to shut up, but Blaine glared at Karofsky instead. If Kurt thought he'd seen Blaine angry before, it was nothing compared to the expression on Blaine's face now. He didn't look drunk; he looked like he'd happily tear Karofsky apart with his bare hands.

It made Kurt feel sick.

"Blaine—"

"He's lying!" Karofsky snarled at Blaine, his face almost unrecognizable under the rage. "You fucking idiot, Hummel's lying! He asked for everything!"

Blaine actually growled and Kurt grabbed his arm to stop Blaine from launching himself at the football player with at least a hundred pounds on him. "Walk away, Karofsky." Kurt said calmly, proud of the way his voice never wavered. "We'll talk. Just walk away. He's drunk, he doesn't know what he's saying."

"I know exactly what I'm sayin', Kurt!" Blaine tried to pull out of Kurt's grip, but the alcohol messed with his head and coordination enough that Kurt was able to restrain him easily. Blaine growled in frustration and muttered angrily under his breath.

"We're actually gonna talk?" Karofsky narrowed his eyes at Kurt, ignoring Blaine's disgruntled mumbling. "Like talk talk? About us?" Something suspiciously like hope bled into his eyes, and Kurt forced back a gag.

"Yeah," Kurt lied woodenly. "You still have my number."

"Coffee?" Karofsky asked, shifting on his feet. Like he was nervous. "Lima Bean?"

Blaine growled again but Kurt elbowed him sharply. "Yeah. One day." Kurt agreed in a tight voice. He pushed Blaine towards the road. "We're going now." His tone left no room for argument and Karofsky didn't speak as Kurt shoved Blaine forward. Rick's house wasn't too far from his own, so Kurt had walked. Blaine's car was out of the question, even if Kurt hadn't been drinking, the encounter with Karofsky left him too shaky to trust himself behind a wheel. It wasn't until they turned the corner and were out of sight of the party that Kurt could breathe.

He stopped walking and drew in a shuddery breath, trembling all over. Holy fuck, he'd been face to face with him and nothing happened. Kurt let out a choking laugh that sounded more like a sob and he released his deathly tight grip on Blaine's arm to press the heels of his palms to his eyes. He had to collect himself, but his chest tightened and refused to release.

"Kurt?" Blaine said softly, standing close enough that Kurt could feel his presence with closed eyes. "Hey. You okay?" Unsteady hands tried rubbing Kurt's upper arms soothingly, but Kurt jumped at the contact and stepped back.

"Don't—" Kurt choked out, hands out defensively. His skin still crawled, even though he knew it was Blaine in front of him, not Karofsky. Blaine's face fell into a tortured and guilty expression that slapped Kurt. "Just—not now," Kurt muttered, forcing himself to grab Blaine's arm and drag him down the street. Luckily, Blaine didn't protest, though he slipped occasionally.

The road was dark and empty, with only occasional streetlights throwing the odd glow of light in small spheres to guide them. Kurt made the walk mechanically, relying on muscle memory rather than actually paying attention to the passing houses. He kept his mind carefully blank, focusing on his feet so he didn't have to think so much. Thinking was overrated.

Blaine tugged at his sleeve insistently, jolting Kurt out of his daze. His eyes were glassy and his face was pale. "I'm—I don't feel—" Blaine started haltingly. Kurt understood not a moment too soon, shoving Blaine behind the nearby house's bushes just before Blaine emptied his stomach with a sickening retch.

The acrid smell burned Kurt's nose, but he stayed, rubbing Blaine's back as he emptied his stomach again, and again. Blaine coughed, loud enough that Kurt worriedly glanced at the darkened house to make sure no lights had gone on. Trying to explain why a high school kid was vomiting in their bush at one in the morning to the Vanders was not an experience Kurt wanted to go through. They were close to the Hummel's house, though.

"Feeling better?" Kurt asked, squatting down to Blaine's eye level where the poor kid was hunched over. "It tastes a hell of lot worse coming up than going down, but puking usually helps." Kurt felt Blaine's clammy forehead, hot and covered in sweat.

Blaine kept his head down, avoiding Kurt's eyes. He tugged Kurt's jacket around himself protectively. "'M fine," he muttered, almost petulantly. He made no effort to stand up straight, though.

"My house is like, four down from here. Think you can make it?" Kurt found his hands carding through Blaine's hair. The gel had loosened and he let his fingers trail through the escaping curls. Blaine leaned into the touch. He nodded hesitantly, so Kurt gently nudged him to an upright position. Blaine stared at his feet, then Kurt. "You think you can walk?" Kurt gestured to the street. In the dim light, Blaine thought for a second and then shook his head pathetically.

"M' legs feel weird," he whispered with sad eyes.

Biting back a groan, Kurt slipped an arm around Blaine's torso, guiding Blaine's arm over his shoulders to support Blaine's weight. Blaine looked miserable, but he got his feet under enough control to match Kurt's slow pace and took one shaky step after the other. "Sorry," Blaine muttered. Kurt squeezed his hip in response.

Honestly, Blaine was proving to be one of the more cooperative drunks Kurt had taken care of yet. Puck usually passed out and Quinn generally wound up either yelling or crying at everyone in her sight. By contrast, Blaine was downright mellow.

At the end of Kurt's driveway, Blaine stopped in his tracks. He just shook his head when Kurt tried to urge him forward.

"Jesus, Blaine, it's like literally twenty feet to my door." Kurt snapped impatiently. He was tired, sore, and really fucking cold from walking outside in November without a coat. Which was currently on Blaine, by the way. He wanted his fucking bed. With Blaine in it (so he could make sure the kid survived the night, not for anything else, okay?).

Blaine shook his head again, but curled his fingers in Kurt's shirt and pulled him in. He swayed a little and Kurt automatically brought up his hands to hold Blaine steady.

"If you puke on my jacket, I will kick your ass," Kurt said, alarmed at the pallor of Blaine's face. "Drunk or not, I swear to you." Blaine barked out a laugh and leaned into Kurt's shoulder, taking deep, even breaths. It took a few minutes, but Blaine eventually got himself under control.

"Not gonna throw up," Blaine grunted. Still clutching Kurt's shirt, he dragged his eyes up. "Don't go." He said, clearly. "I'm—I don't want you. To meet him alone." The fuzziness in Blaine's eyes cleared at the thought.

Kurt groaned inwardly and tried to push Blaine to the door, but Blaine held firm. "Come on, Blaine." Kurt said, exhausted with the whole damn night.

"Promise me." Blaine said stubbornly. He poked Kurt's chest with an accusing finger, swaying until Kurt caught him again. "You don't meet him alone." He declared, echoing Kurt's words from only a few weeks ago. It was infuriating.

"I can take care of myself, Blaine." Kurt clenched his jaw shut.

Rolling his eyes, Blaine shook his head. "Not what I meant. You're just—you're not alone." Blaine looked annoyed, like Kurt wasn't understanding something important. Kurt stared at him, baffled. Blaine huffed angrily.

"Blaine, I'm fine. I'm good." Kurt tried to resist a shiver at Blaine's closeness. "Seriously, you don't have to worry about me." Nobody ever really does, after all. Except his dad.

Blaine glared at him, disgruntled. "You're an idiot." He said firmly, enunciating every word. "I'm not drunk. But you're dumb." He finally released Kurt's shirt, stepping back to cross his arms petulantly.

Utterly lost, Kurt ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing the exhaustion out of his face. "Anderson, you're fucking drunk," Kurt grumbled. "C'mon, get your ass inside." Blaine didn't fight Kurt's guidance to the porch, but he did fling his arms around Kurt as soon as Kurt got them through the door.

"Even though you're being stupid," Blaine mumbled into Kurt's shoulder and hugged Kurt close. "I still care about you, dummy."

Kurt returned the embrace but didn't know what to say.

Because Kurt was clearly a masochist, he made Blaine sleep in his bed that night with him. At first Blaine resisted, muttering something about Kurt being "a stupid martyr way too often to be healthy" and trying to take the downstairs couch. It took Kurt reminding him three times of how pissed and disappointed Burt would be if he found his favorite adopted son passed out from drinking in his living room in a few hours when he left for work for Blaine to give up and fall into Kurt's bed.

Kurt didn't silently preen when Blaine rubbed his face all over his pillow, proclaiming the damn thing to be like a perfect cloud that smelled like Kurt. That would be weird.

Instead, Kurt forced Blaine to borrow some sleepwear, brush his teeth with a spare toothbrush, drink a whole glass of water, and swallow a few painkillers before he let him back into the bed. Then, once he changed into sweatpants and an old tank top, he poked Blaine into lying on his side, ignoring Blaine's sleepy protests.

"Not gonna puke," Blaine mumbled grumpily, swatting at Kurt's hand.

Seriously, the things Kurt did to take care of this dumb kid.

"Don't want you to die choking on your own vomit in my bed," Kurt scowled at Blaine in the dark. "It'd be awkward." Blaine muttered something, twisting around when Kurt slipped into the space behind him.

"Told you," Blaine mumbled, looking at Kurt with a sleepy grin. "You're actually a nice person!" The little pipsqueak even tried to tap his nose, pouting when Kurt caught his wrist.

"Stop ruining my badass reputation and go to sleep, Anderson," Kurt growled without much heat. Blaine grinned at him again, because Kurt's threats had long ago lost their meaning, but obeyed and faced away from Kurt.

The bed was warmer with another body, and Kurt was close enough to hear Blaine's steady heartbeat in the small bed. He could reach out and touch Blaine. His hand moved without his permission and pressed against Blaine's clothed shoulder, which was solid and real. For a second, they could have been real lovers, sharing a bed together and being happy.

It was so fucking domestic Kurt almost bolted from the bed and slept on the couch because they'd never have that. Ever. But Kurt, again, liked to torture himself with things he couldn't have so he turned over and ignored the way the bed rose and dipped with Blaine's even breaths and the soft sighs and snuffles that came for sharing a bed.

If falling asleep sharing a bed with Blaine was torture, waking up with him was agony. Blaine was damn clingy at night apparently, and somehow managed to wind himself around Kurt so he was half-on top of Kurt's chest, face pressed into the curve of his neck, and legs tangled up with Kurt's. This much contact with another person (Blaine) was way too much to ask of Kurt in the morning and Kurt groaned, stretching under Blaine's weight and feeling every point of contact between them blaze under his skin like fire. Like he'd said; agony.

Blaine's thigh was also really close to a certain area, by the way, and if he didn't stop shifting in his sleep, things were about to become incredibly awkward for all those involved.

Carefully nudging Blaine to turn over, Kurt slid out of the bed, snorting when he saw Blaine grumpily cuddle up to Kurt's now abandoned pillow. Blaine nuzzled into it like a dog.

"I swear, you're part puppy, Anderson," Kurt muttered to himself, dragging himself down the stairs to get started on breakfast for his dad. If left to his own devices, Burt would eat scrambled eggs and bacon every morning. There was a deal between them that whoever woke up first made breakfast, so Kurt made it his mission to win every morning so Burt could get egg whites and fresh fruit instead of grease. Burt pretended to mind, but Kurt appreciated him sucking it up.

He just wanted his sick dad around for a long time, and Burt's diet was one way he could help.

Blaine showed up in the kitchen a few hours later, long after Burt had left. He moved like a zombie, half-open eyes bloodshot and hair sticking out in every direction. Kurt sipped his coffee and tried not to laugh as Blaine carefully dragged out a table and collapsed at the table.

"How are you so perfect so early?" Blaine complained, waving his hands around at Kurt's perfectly dressed appearance before letting his head fall to the table with a groan. "Why's it so bright?" he muttered into the wood.

"It's called a hangover," Kurt said helpfully, standing up to reheat the breakfast he'd left in the microwave. Blaine got bacon because greasy food worked wonderfully on hangovers, though he'd waited until Burt had left to make it.

Blaine groaned in reply.

The microwave beeped and Kurt got the plate out and plopped it in front of Blaine along with a bottle of Tylenol and Gatorade. Blaine wrinkled his nose at the greasy food.

"Drink that whole bottle, you'll feel better," Kurt said, sitting back down in his spot and taking his mug. Blaine glared at it with jealousy.

"No coffee?" He pouted.

Jesus. Those puppy eyes were cruel. Kurt shook his head and raised an eyebrow. "You're dehydrated; coffee'll make it worse. Eat your breakfast." He ordered.

Blaine scowled at the plate, but dragged a fork through the scrambled eggs and shoved it into his mouth without a word. A few bites in, Blaine woke up enough to thank Kurt for taking care of him, though Kurt just brushed it off. Friends didn't let friends hook up with creeps or pass out in bushes, okay, it wasn't anything more than that.

It shouldn't feel so good to be taking care of Blaine. Really.

"So, it's Saturday," Blaine said, once the Gatorade was half-finished and his plate was in the dishwasher. "You busy?" He asked almost shyly.

"I guess I could lower myself to your presence," Kurt rolled his eyes. Blaine didn't have to know that Kurt really didn't mind. It beat hiding alone in his room or wandering the park and getting dirty looks from the yuppies with babies.

Luckily, Blaine saw through his bullshit way too easily and grinned, bright and happy. "I left my car at Rick's," he said, frowning. "Um."

Kurt held out his hand. "Give me your keys and I'll drive it here. So you don't have to walk outside in my pjs." He was surprised when Blaine nodded and walked upstairs to get them without a pause. Blaine loved that stupidly old Chevy and never let anyone drive it. The trust he gave Kurt was a heady feeling and Kurt stared as Blaine disappeared around the corner.

Then again, he did let Kurt ride him around on Kurt's motorcycle, even though he called Kurt's baby a "deathtrap" on more than one occasion.

Kurt didn't know what to make of the whole situation so he let it go.

Monday morning found Kurt in McKinley's guidance counselor's office with no clear idea of how he got there. Blaine had shrugged when Mr. Schue cornered him at his locker and dragged Kurt off, motioning that he'd text Kurt later. Mr. Schue didn't answer Kurt's questions but pushed Kurt through the office door and left, though not without a really worrisome grin. McKinley made no sense, though Kurt had given up understanding the school years ago. He warily walked to the few chair and sat down, letting his backpack slide to the floor.

Karofsky was in the chair next to his, equally mystified. He kept stealing glances at Kurt, but Kurt ignored him in favor of glaring at Ms. Pillsbury across, the slim red-head that everyone knew Mr. Schue had a crush on. She didn't seem disturbed, instead smiling widely and looking at them with huge Bambi eyes. She was dressed almost as frumpy as Rachel, and Kurt felt his hands twitch with the urge to rip off the unnecessary frills that made her look about fifty.

It wasn't the first time Kurt had been told to attend a few sessions with Emma Pillsbury, though he usually just blew her off. The office hadn't changed too much, though she had more pamphlets in the display behind her than last year. Kurt's personal favorite was the one boldly proclaiming I Can't Stop Touching Myself! with a rainbow. There were two piles on her desk and Kurt eyed them with apprehension. The last time someone gave him pamphlets was when he suffered through the sex talk with his dad, and Kurt had no doubt that this occasion would be equally as horrifying.

The three of them sat in silence for several minutes with Kurt slouched back in his chair, Karofsky practically on the edge of his, and Ms. Pillsbury leaning on her desk eagerly. The muted noise of the school changing periods was the only signal that any time had passed. Finally, Kurt gave up.

"Is there a reason I'm here?" he said to Ms. Pillsbury stiffly, not looking at Karofsky. "Because I have a million other places to be and none of them involve being so close to this asshole." He hated being so close to him. No sane person would ever let them be in the same room together, not after multiple fights broke out between them and now he was expected to tolerate that asshole's presence? It made no sense; Kurt and Karofsky had no reason to see each other and none of the teachers even know about the after school attack Kurt launched on Karofsky the day he told Blaine his story. A sickening thought occurred to him and he froze up.

Blaine wouldn't have told. Right?

The room was suddenly stifling and it was hard to breathe, but somehow he calmed himself down enough to hear Ms. Pillsbury talking to them.

"Well, Will and I were talking about how you two really seemed to do well in Glee when you were a part of it," she started brightly, heedless of the incredulous looks she got from Kurt and Karofsky. "We really feel like Glee could be a big help to both of you! But Kurt, since you don't want to work with Dave, and you two have a, um," she stumbled a little, seeing the glares Kurt and Karofsky exchanged. "Violent history, we thought that a few sessions with me could help turn enemies into, well," she lifted her shoulders into a shrug, "Friends!" Holy Christ, she actually believed herself too. At least Blaine didn't tell. Kurt stared at her in disbelief.

"You want us to talk about our feelings?" Karofsky guessed, looking confused. He glanced at Kurt. "To each other?" He paled at the look of death Kurt returned.

Ms. Pillsbury faltered at Kurt rolling his eyes, but pressed on. "Well, yes. Studies show that talking fixes everything!" She stood up, grabbing her pamphlets and passing them out to the boys. They were bright and colorful and cheerful. Against his better judgment, Kurt flipped through the titles.

Why You Hate The World and Everything In It, one said, black and gloomy. 10 Steps to Befriending a Bully was another, followed by Help, I have a Potty Mouth! and it went on, listing every problem everyone seemed to have with Kurt. It was pretty insulting, actually. Kurt glanced at Karofsky's pile. The top said You're Not a Bully, You're Misunderstood (And How To Stop Acting Out Your Fears On Others!) and Kurt was pretty done with the world at the moment.

"You're fucking joking, right?" Kurt said bluntly, taking some pleasure in Ms. Pillsbury's flinch at the curse. "This whole thing is a just a bullshit excuse for your boyfriend to use me to impress you."

Her eyes widened, horrified. "Kurt—"

"There's nothing wrong with me, why does everyone think that have to fix me?! I'm fine, I just don't want to be stuck in this godforsaken room with this jackass every other day for an hour; why can't you guys leave me alone?!" Kurt seethed. He clenched his hands into tight fists, grounding himself with the tiny pricks of pain from his nails digging into his palms.

"I'm okay with it," Karofsky interrupted, mumbling.

What? Kurt whipped his head around to stare at Karofsky. The other boy looked down at his shoes, avoiding Kurt's shocked expression. "I wanna talk." Karofsky muttered, barely above a whisper.

Ms. Pillsbury fixed an expectant look on Kurt, smiling in a way she probably thought was comforting but Kurt was too busy having his mind blown by a contrite Karofsky to feeling anything other than numb. "We've been meeting for a few weeks," she explained gently to Kurt, gesturing to Karofsky and Karofsky nodded, his shoulders hunched defensively. "He has a few things he wants to say to you, if you want to listen." Ms. Pillsbury looked at him with a half-smile. "I sort of sprung this on him too but I," she nodded happily. "I think you're both ready."

"I'm sorry," Kaorfsky muttered, so low Kurt thought he was hearing things. Because there was no way…

"What?" Kurt asked, slightly alarmed at how shiny Karofsky's eyes were getting. A remorseful Karofsky was definitely not something Kurt was emotionally equipped to handle.

"I am," Karofsky muttered, fiddling with his hands.

"What?" Kurt repeated. Because seriously, what?

"I'm sorry, okay!" Karofsky snapped, glaring at Kurt with red eyes. "I'm just—I'm sorry. For what I did." He said it sullenly and sniffed, loud and wet and Kurt just stared. This was not how he pictured the meeting going. He looked back at Ms. Pillsbury incredulously, but she just continued to smile.

"You're…" Kurt stared back at him, feeling like the world was tilting sideways. Nothing was real; nothing made sense in this bizarre, alternate reality he was in. If he looked outside, there were probably flying pigs and dogs walking on their hind legs.

Karofsky dropped his head in his heads and his leg shook up and down nervously. He wiped his eyes, then his nose, then looked back up at Kurt through red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes.

"I want to try," Karofsky swallowed nervously and the bottom dropped out of Kurt's stomach. "I want to try again. With us. I'm…better, y'know? Not…not like it was. I'm sorry."

"No." The words couldn't come out of Kurt's mouth fast enough. "What the fuck, Karofsky? Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Kurt stared at him in shock, barely able to keep his voice to a whisper-shout. Ms. Pillsbury was frowning now, and Kurt knew right then that Karofsky hadn't told her everything. She wouldn't be so confused if he had.

"I want to try again." Karofsky said again, face falling when Kurt didn't readily agree. To anyone else, it would sound like Karofsky just wanted to be friends, but Kurt knew the real reason. He wasn't stupid.

Somehow, even after everything, Karofsky couldn't see that they'd never been together together? No matter how many stupid fucking rose bouquets he'd bought as an apology for punching Kurt's face or breaking Kurt's ribs or calling Kurt a whore, they'd never been anything other than fucker and fuckee. And the best part of dropping this stupid bombshell on Kurt in front of an adult meant Kurt couldn't actually confront the dickhead about his true intentions. "You—you—no! Why the fuck would I ever want anything with you after what you did to me?!" Kurt puttered, his breathing turning ragged. Ms. Pillsbury remained in her seat a cross the desk, still and useless as usual. Kurt glared at her for putting him in this situation and not helping.

Karofsky's face flushed in embarrassment. "Kurt—"

"No." Kurt shook his head, falling back against his chair. "No, I can't, just no…" Christ, just the thought of being with him again made his chest seize up and suddenly, the room felt too small, like the walls were suddenly too close. He rubbed his face, trying to focus his breathing and calm down, but panic started to claw up his throat and he just had to get out.

"Kurt!" Karofsky's voice turned pleading and that caught Kurt's attention. The look on his face, like he was terrified of being rejected, like Kurt was going to hurt him…just no. He didn't get to feel like the victim. Not after the shit he pulled.

Kurt stood up abruptly, yanking his backpack over his shoulder violently. Ms. Pillsbury started at the movement, moving her hand towards her cell phone. Probably to call for fucking Will. Fuck them. Neither Schue nor Pillsbury cared; Kurt was just a charity case they wanted to use to feel better about themselves. Karofsky watched him with huge eyes and Kurt wanted to hit him. He started to walk away but Karofsky grabbed his sleeve and tugged. A thousand memories of being grabbed and thrown and slapped echoed through Kurt's brain and he turned sharply, rage roaring through him. Ms. Pillsbury stared at them, frozen in place, and Kurt glared at her before leaning into Karofsky's space.

"Maybe a better person than me could have forgiven you," Kurt sneered in his face, close enough to smell the stench of fear pouring off of Karofsky. "But I'm no hero. Fuck you. Stay the hell away from me and Blaine, we won't say anything. I hate you, David," Kurt snarled. Karofsky's first name tasted like ash in his mouth, but Kurt knew it would get the boy's attention. "I'm never going to forgive you and you need to leave me the fuck alone." It was harsh, but true. Kurt met Karofsky's wide eyes, praying that the way his heart beat like a jackhammer wasn't noticeable. He'd never get anywhere if he showed fear.

Karofsky stared back, almost shellshocked. Ms. Pillsbury kept looking between them and Kurt saw she understood that there was something else going on that she hadn't been told.

He didn't care enough to explain it to her. Karofsky could, for all the shits Kurt gave.

"Just…leave me alone." Kurt stepped out of his grip and walked away, leaving Karofsky alone in the chair with their guidance counselor, trying not to give away how badly his hands were shaking. The door banged shut behind him, but Kurt barely heard anything beyond the rushing blood in his ears and his heart pounding in his throat.

He had to pull over halfway home to throw up on the side of the road, ripping off his helmet with numb and shaking hands and choking and heaving until he lost his coffee and breakfast into the dead grass. It was another half hour before he could breathe well enough to be sure that he wasn't going to pass out on the bike.

Panic attacks were such a bitch.