likesboys | disappear — yeah, well, you wanna try

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disappear — yeah, well, you wanna try

Kurt wakes up with a jolt to the sharp sound of Cat meowing from a good three feet away. His face is smashed into the cushions, and a quick brush of his fingers tells Kurt that the imprint of the fringe is deep and clear over his cheeks. The world doesn't pound yet, but it spins, and as he pulls himself up into a seated position, Kurt immediately remembers flashes from earlier in the evening — colorful lights, pulsing music, the sharp hint of alcohol in the air and bodies pressed close on the dance floor. Suddenly, the apartment feels too empty as he tries to piece everything together, step by step, rubbing at his eyes until his gaze falls on his cat.

"Don't judge," he warns with a pointed finger, yawning as he gets to his feet and nearly stumbles down again.

There are certain details which are oddly clear, while the rest of the world remains heavy and hidden under a blur. For instance, the unlocked chain of the door means that Neil was the one to send him home. The trash bin by the side of his couch means that he's had a lot more to drink than he ever has before. And, suddenly, more than anything else, Kurt remembers that he hasn't checked his mail today. He usually checks it at the end of the day, before his nightly shower, wanting a pile to go through before bed and whatever relevant letters waiting for him when he first wakes up.

And he just... hasn't checked his mail today.

So, with a groan and a stretch, and a pair of rolled eyes directed at Cat, Kurt stands up as straight as he can, striding directly for the door. He still feels... well, dizzy. Like the world doesn't matter. Like...

"There's a moment you know you're fucked!" he sings as he heads down the stairwell, conscious enough not to want to run into anyone on the elevator. "Not an inch more room to self-destruct. No more moves, oh yeah, the dead-end zone. Man, you just can't call your soul your own."

It's nice to sing and just not care who overhears.

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Blaine is awake in bed, trying to study but not particularly succeeding. He managed to sleep for awhile earlier, a two hour fitful nap he eventually gave up on in favor of television. But TV had been boring -- everything is boring without Kurt around -- so he'd tried studying for awhile instead. He has a test coming up in music theory next week and, while he isn't too worried about it, it's not like he has anything better to do.

A sound from outside catches his attention, brow furrowing as he strains to listen, wondering briefly if he should be alarmed. But it only takes him a few more moments to recognize what it is he's hearing -- singing -- and then a few more to realize who it is.

His stomach swoops and churns as he sets his book aside and slides out of bed on careful feet.

The singing doesn't stop as he nears his front door, far too loud and clear for this time of night. He's honestly surprised no one's yelled at Kurt to be quiet yet. It is Friday night, though; there's a high likelihood that most everyone else is actually out enjoying it.

Stepping out into the hall, the singing gets louder and Blaine's breath catches as he heads to the stairwell, opening the door to see Kurt, clearly drunk and disheveled, making his way down.

"Kurt?" Blaine says, his voice a mix of concern and shock. He looks-- well, frankly, he looks like he's been out partying all night, his eyes smeared with make-up and clothing bright and flashy, cheeks flushed pink with alcohol. Blaine kind of hates how good he looks like this and refuses to let himself linger on it too long as he steps into the stairwell. "You're, uh... you're not going out like that, are you?"

Kurt whips his gaze up before he can stop himself, the movement immediately dizzying as he grabs onto the banister of the stairs and grips it tight. A flight and a half up, he spots Blaine, who quickly descends the stairs until they're on the same level, little more than arm's reach apart. Blinking to help himself focus, Kurt narrows his eyes in a slight squint, then tilts his head with a smile and a deep exhale.

"Blaine," he says, placing emphasis on the name. "Mmm, no, I already... went out earlier. I just forgot to get my mail. So I'm getting my mail! You should come; there might be stuff in there of yours. So."

With a slight clearing of his throat, Kurt takes another step down, swaying slightly as he finds his balance again.

Kurt seems to eye him a little warily at first, but the way he says Blaine's name in a rush of breath makes something familiar and warm tingle at the base of Blaine's spine.

Though he quickly reins it in.

His brow furrows as Kurt continues and he steadfastly ignores the way his stomach twists a little at the reminder that actually, yes, there probably is some of his own mail still going to Kurt's address. Just as there are a still a lot of his things in Kurt's apartment. Unless, of course, Kurt's burned it all or given it away.

"You decided to go get your mail at one in the morning? While hammered?" With a soft sigh, Blaine takes the couple more steps down until he's just below Kurt, one hand reaching to barely touch his back as he turns him around. Kurt is radiating warmth and Blaine wants nothing more than to sling his arm around his middle and all but carry him back up the stairs, but he knows that touch is absolutely not welcome anymore.

Still, he can't just leave Kurt out here. Not like this.

"C'mon, no," he says, carefully to keep his voice quiet and calm. "It can wait 'til morning, Kurt. Let's get you back h-- back to your apartment."

"I am not hammered," Kurt protests at once, frowning to himself and wrapping one arm tightly across his chest. It's an accusation that shakes him, somehow. He doesn't want to be someone who makes Blaine feel like Kurt did back in Scandals. Doesn't want to be that dismissive, that clueless, and Kurt suddenly plops himself down on the step, crouching in dismay. Because he can't be absolutely sure. His head feels too much like he's wading through water for Kurt to really know whether or not he's been acting normally.

Or rationally, at least.

"I just had a few drinks and danced, okay? I just wanted to have a little fun for a change, not spend my Friday night all alone and miserable, so I went clubbing with Neil."

He doesn't know why he's justifying everything to Blaine. He's not sure why Blaine cares, why Blaine won't just give him space to slink and lick at his wounds. Even now, Kurt's aware of how desperate and depressing this probably looks. He's not meant to be a gay bar superstar, even when newly single.

It's a coping mechanism, and he can't stand the idea that Blaine might see through that.

"Is that so wrong?" Kurt breathes, brow furrowing as he rests his forehead against his palm, feeling slightly queasy.

"No, no, no," Blaine says, his voice quiet as a brand new swell of guilt slams into his already mounting worry. He's not trying to make Kurt feel any worse, but of course that's all he's doing. It's all he's really good at these days.

Taking a quiet breath, he crouches down to meet Kurt's level, one hand on the bannister and the other carefully kept to himself. He longs to reach out, to touch Kurt's knee or to sweep aside that loose strand of hair at Kurt's temple, brush the backs of his fingers across those flushed cheeks. But he knows that touch, any touch, wouldn't be welcome now.

"I'm not judging you, Kurt," he says, his voice utterly sincere. "And what you did tonight, whatever you did, it's not my business. I just... I want to make sure you get back okay. Safe. Okay?"

Kurt groans, not from nausea or pain, but sheer frustration, the force of which has him resting his forehead against the curve of Blaine's shoulder, heaving a deep sigh. He shouldn't be doing this. He knows that he shouldn't. Because Blaine's still in love with him, and maybe he's still more than a little in love with Blaine, but the world's turning around him again, and Kurt's not sure how he's supposed to find his own balance. He's not sure whether or not he's ready to stand on his own feet, not tonight, not after already having leaned on Neil for the majority of the day.

He just... misses. He aches with it, a want of friendship and for all the support they used to have for one another. Blaine's trying, but it's not the same, and Kurt huffs a breath that sounds far, far too much like a waver. Maybe even a sob.

"It was just dancing," he mutters. "And drinks. I really didn't do anything else. I didn't do anything."

Blaine isn't at all expecting it when Kurt leans forward to rest against his shoulder, his own breath catching for a moment as he goes absolutely still. Kurt smells of sweat and booze and cigarettes from the club, but underneath that is still the familiar, sweet smell of the shampoo Blaine knows so well, the one he used to borrow whenever he ran out of his own, and the expensive body wash Kurt favors.

Suddenly, everything aches and Blaine has to shut his eyes against it, has to force himself to push through, lifting shaky hands to Kurt's shoulders and gently pushing him back to meet his eyes.

"It's okay," he says, trying to mean it as much as he can. Honestly, he's relieved, deeply so. As much as Kurt is absolutely free to do anything he pleases, the idea of him with anyone else right now makes Blaine sick to his stomach. And of course he knows he has absolutely no right to feel that way, he can't stop it. It doesn't seem to work that way. "Even if you-- It doesn't matter, okay? You can do whatever you want now, but just... I'll help you back upstairs, okay? You should probably drink some water."

The worst part of being drunk is how quickly grief seems to spread, pervasive and licking through the system, as though feeding off the alcohol itself. Kurt feels sadness; he can't reason it away. He can't stop his heart from feeling like it's being torn in two just through Blaine being there at all. Even without being conscious of exactly what it is that hurts him, having Blaine next to him is at once comforting and torturous. He feels so incredibly safe with Blaine at his side. Yet, at the same time, he feels worthless. Dependent. Weak.

They aren't emotions Kurt's accustomed to have drawing up from Blaine, and his expression crumples for a moment, his body leaning against the strong grip Blaine uses to hold him upright. He won't cry. He can't cry. He will not.

He's stronger than this.

(No, he's really not.)

(He will be.)

"Alcohol has never been kind to me," he says at last, letting all other painful statements stay by the wayside. It's not that he has sense enough to keep them from spilling out. He just doesn't know how to put any of it into words.

It's not very difficult for anyone to tell when Kurt is trying not to cry and it certainly isn't for Blaine. Kurt's cheeks, already red from the booze, flush further and his eyes go glassy, lip quivering just a little as he tries to keep himself in check. And all of it, every little tic, makes Blaine's stomach twist with guilt and despair. He hates that look on Kurt's face, hates more that he had any hand at all in putting it there.

After swallowing the growing lump in his own throat, he pulls in a shuddered breath and squeezes Kurt's shoulders, sliding them down over his biceps.

"It tends to not be kind to most people," he says, voice soft and as even as he can make it. "Can you... Do you think you can stand up okay? We can take the elevator back up and get you to bed."

"Mmm," hums Kurt with a soft nod, legs trembling slightly as he gets to his feet, tugging heavily on Blaine all the while to keep upright. It's not the first time Blaine's found him this drunk. It's not the first time Blaine's had to help him back like this. But, god, Kurt only wishes that he had some type of revelation to pass onto Blaine, something that would draw them closer again, as it had last time. But there's nothing. Anything Kurt's yet to discover about himself feels like it only hints at weakness.

He's just not very mature where love is concerned, he supposes. Maybe it's time to focus more on the job. Auditions. School.

"Sorry for having you do this," he breathes, slightly calmer as his gaze remains heavily pinned to the ground.

Kurt does manage to pull himself to his feet without too much trouble, Blaine careful to keep his hands close just in case. Carefully, he slings an arm around his middle once he's fully standing, grateful for his shorter stature and the fact that Kurt can so easily rest against him as he turns them to head back up the stairs. There are only about ten steps before they hit Blaine's floor, which should be absolutely doable, and then they can head down the hall toward the elevators.

Pulling in another breath and hiding a wince, Blaine shakes his head. "No, please," he says, carefully leading Kurt up the steps, one at a time. "Don't apologize. Not for anything." After all, it's the absolute least he can do.

And somehow he has the feeling Kurt may not even be exactly grateful come morning.

"I really want us to be friends," Kurt says softly, barely audible at all as he leans heavily against Blaine's body. There's no greater awareness, no calling out of memories, nothing that sparks with Blaine's warmth and solidness by his side. His mind's too far gone, lost to alcohol and whims. But there's that one thought which continues to course through his mind. Unchanged. Just there. Constant. Demanding attention.

He's so lonely without Blaine, without anyone from home in his life regularly anymore, and he hates it. No matter how many friends he makes at school, or how many friends he makes who came in from outside Darrow, it isn't the same as having an anchor.

"I want you around," he mumbles, rubbing at his brow as they breech the last step.

The guilt in Blaine's stomach only twists tighter with every word Kurt says. He can't help but wonder how much of it is just the alcohol or how Kurt will even remember come tomorrow.

But he can maybe cling to it for the night. As badly as he wants to beg Kurt to take him back, to love him again, he's had a few weeks now to understand that he can't do that. That the very most he can hope for right now is friendship. That it very well may be the most he can ever hope for.

"I want that, too," he says, the words a little thick in his throat as he and Kurt make their way into the hallway. "I'm sorry I-- At dinner the other night. I'm really sorry about that. "

It takes a while for Kurt to decide whether or not he wants this apology. Blaine doesn't really have a reason to apologize this time, Kurt thinks, the thoughts hazy but guided by all the time he's spent thinking about that evening since. Blaine was just being honest. Openly so, loudly so, but it was a type of honesty and communication that Kurt doesn't want to dissuade in the other boy, even if it means that they'll inevitably need to spend more time apart while Blaine's heart moves on.

(A selfish, pointless portion of his heart murmurs that he doesn't exactly want Blaine to move on... but even now, Kurt knows it'd be for the best.)

"It's okay," says Kurt with a sigh, because it's the only thing that's true. Wanted or not, needed or not, Kurt knows that he'll be okay, and there's something, even if just a thin vein of hope, that tells him Blaine will be okay, too. It'll just take time.

It doesn't feel okay, nothing feels okay anymore, but Blaine nods all the same, a small part of him relieved that at least Kurt doesn't seem to hold that night against him. Not too much, anyway.

Then again, after everything else Blaine has done, his actions that night are really very minor.

With a sigh, he stops at the elevator, releasing Kurt long enough to press the call button. "Holding up okay?" he asks when he turns back around, still unsure whether or not too touch or get too close. Kurt seems to be walking okay, really. He probably doesn't even need Blaine's help at all.

In a move that's probably more unwise than not, Kurt slings an arm around Blaine, holding him close. He falls quiet, not wanting to give himself away, or how much that alone still tugs at his chest, even when his mind feels foggy and unable to focus. Licking at his lips, Kurt's brows furrow again, and he's asking himself the questions he's not yet ready for — the ones where he just can't help but think, if he were a little more forgiving, if he were a little more trusting, maybe they could get back something that was wonderful. They've risked life and limb for one another. They've done so much here.

Kurt's gaze skirts to the side, and he wonders about Rachel, all the times she doubted Finn. Tested him, back in high school. Sometimes, Kurt thinks that's what he needs, but to put love through hoops like that doesn't seem fair either.

So instead, he focuses on his feet, capable at least of watching their progress without doubt.

"Yeah," Kurt murmurs softly, hand clutching the back of Blaine's shirt. The elevator rings as they reach Kurt's floor, Kurt taking a deep breath as he turns in the direction of his room, hand still tight in the fabric.

It's a relief when Kurt comes to him, though Blaine knows it's because he's seeking the support and it's familiar. There's no deeper meaning to it. Still, he relaxes a little, his arm curling around Kurt's lower back to help before they step out into the hall of Kurt's floor.

He's walking better with every step, clearly sobering before they even get to the door.

Blaine still has a key to the apartment, carries it on a ring along with his own, as well as the ones he needs for the store. But he doesn't fish it out right now, partially afraid of how presumptuous it might look, but more that Kurt will and ask for it back.

"I can't believe Neil just left you like this," he murmurs, one hand rubbing Kurt's back while hoping that's not too weird. "Did he at least walk you back here?"

Kurt immediately shakes his head at the mention of Neil, quick enough nearly to stumble. The last thing he wants is for any blame or judgment to be thrown Neil's way. Neil's been more than helpful. It's not his fault he's incapable of piecing together a fractured heart.

"No, no. Neil made sure I was inside, I drank water, had a bin just in case it was too much. I was asleep for a while before I decided to go grab the mail. It's not... he didn't do anything wrong," mutters Kurt, shoving his hand into his pocket and fishing out his keys, the lot of them clinking as he raises them and hands them over to Blaine. "Could you...?"

Dragging his free hand down his face, Kurt breathes in and out again, treating it almost as an exercise. He can do this. It's getting easier, he tells himself.

Taking the key from Kurt, Blaine easily slips it in the lock and opens the door, quietly ushering Kurt inside and flipping on the light switch. He's relieved to hear that Neil did help Kurt get upstairs and relaxes a little as he tosses Kurt's keys on the foyer table and heads to the kitchen.

"Go lie down. I'll get you some water," he says, happy to find something to do, something to focus on. It's easier when Kurt isn't pressed so close to him even if being here, in this apartment, is still a little disconcerting.

He pulls down a glass from the cupboard and quickly fills it from the tap as he calls out quietly, "Do you still keep the Advil in the same place?"

"Yeah," says Kurt, heaving a sigh as he meanders his way on over to the bedroom, flipping on the light and pausing in the doorway. He hasn't bought new sheets yet, simply switching through the sets that they had already; when they changed the covers as often as they did, having so many in the house made it feel wasteful to think about purchasing another. Suddenly, he worries about what impression Blaine might get from it.

But there's no time to change them, so Kurt falls back on the mattress, rolling on over to the far side of the bed and watching the ceiling seemingly swim above him.

The last night he spent with Blaine in his memory rings loud and clear, too much space between them as Blaine's breath quavered off to the side.

After filling the glass with cold water and collecting a couple Advils, Blaine heads into the bedroom to find Kurt already curled on the mattress, just as ordered. The sight makes something twinge in his chest, longing mixed with concern, but mostly just a bone-deep need for Kurt to be okay. He knows it's only alcohol, knows that Kurt just needs to drink some more water and sleep it off. The pills should hopefully lessen the hangover he'll likely have tomorrow, but even if they don't, he'll eventually be okay.

But it's just... after this, after Blaine's made sure Kurt's taken his shoes off and gotten under the covers, once he's sure Kurt's in no danger of drowning in his own vomit, there's nothing more he can do. He won't be here tomorrow to feed him something greasy or make sure to pull the blinds close against the sun and keep the TV volume low. He just has to leave and hope for the best.

"Here," he says, patting Kurt lightly on the leg as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, gently trying to encourage him to sit up. "If you take some of these, it should help tomorrow. And drink as much of this as you can, okay?"

Gaze rising up to meet Blaine's, Kurt exhales deeply and sits up, leaning against Blaine and reaching out for the glass. Sipping obediently from it, Kurt manages to calm down somehow. Maybe because Blaine's instructions were sound, maybe because he's been so steady, different than how he was during their dinner. But calm doesn't take away the ache deeper in his chest, the one that tells him how pathetic this must look to Blaine. Even when Kurt tries to tell himself that he didn't just go clubbing to get over the thought of Blaine, he doesn't believe it.

More than anything, he wishes they could head back in time. Give themselves something to fight for, reroute the train tracks.

"I'll be okay," Kurt murmurs once the glass is mostly empty, a hand brushing along the length of Blaine's forearm. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, okay? I'm just going to go right to sleep."

It's not the first time Kurt's apologized tonight, but it still sounds horribly wrong. Blaine shakes his head, gaze momentarily drawn to where Kurt's touching his arm, skin on skin contact that nearly gives him goosebumps even though he knows it's nothing but friendly.

And maybe not even that.

"No, shhh," he says quietly, reaching over to pat Kurt's hand. Just the top of it. "Nothing to be sorry for. I just want you to feel better. Do you want, uhm-- If you need me to come up tomorrow morning to make you breakfast, I can do that. Just call or text or something. I don't have to be into work until the afternoon so I'll have time."

Kurt lets out a few shallow breaths, processing Blaine's words. Would it be okay for Kurt to text him tomorrow? If Blaine plans on doing that, can't Kurt just invite him to stay the night? Make it all easier? He squeezes his eyes shut shortly after the thought, pushing it out of mind and trying to settle himself enough to sleep.

"Yeah, I'll let you know," Kurt says, nodding his head vigorously before letting momentum settle him back on the bed, burying his cheek against the pillow and his nose more deeply against the fabric, holding it to himself to block everything out. "I'm... I'll text you. Sometime. Get lunch? But now I need to... just sleep this off. And never go clubbing again."

Something in Blaine's chest breaks a little more as he takes the water glass from Kurt so Kurt can settle back into the bed. The bedding is achingly familiar and with Kurt nestled into it, face smashed into the pillow as Blaine gently draws the comforter up over him, he can't help but reminded of so many nights where he was able and welcome to slide into the other side.

Luckily, Kurt's eyes are closed, leaving him blissfully unaware to the way Blaine's own start to sting as he starts heading for the door, quietly placing the trashcan near the bed just in case. He lets himself indulge in a few more moments of watching -- just to be sure he's really okay, he tells himself -- before turning the lights off.

Only after he's sure he can speak clearly, he says, "Sleep well, Kurt."

The I love you, he manages to keep to himself as he makes his way back to the kitchen to put the glass in the dishwasher. He doesn't let himself linger any, doesn't want to see all the ways the apartment still looks the same or all the ways Kurt has tried to erase his presence. He just flips off the light and quietly leaves, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

He pretends to sleep. It's not that hard, surprisingly. He tells himself to hold still, to even out his breathing, to do whatever it takes to reassure Blaine enough for him to leave, and every direct order he gives himself lulls him further into that smooth, even rhythm of breathing. Maybe he really does almost fall asleep. Almost. Up until he hears Blaine's words and has to seize up, every part of his body, to keep Blaine from coming back. Because Blaine can't come back, not now, otherwise Kurt knows deep in his chest that his resolve will crumble and that, above everything, can't happen right now.

But his breath starts to waver as soon as he hears Blaine's footsteps retreat, hears the slide of the dishwasher's tray, far too loud for a model from recent years. And he hears the door shut. Hears the lock slide. And that's it, that's enough, that's too much as Kurt suddenly pushes his face further into the pillow, tears sliding hot and seeping into the fabric. He doesn't cry loudly, too afraid of drawing Blaine back somehow; instead, he sniffles and muffles his cries in the cushion, the heels of his palms pressing deeply against his eyes, as though he might be able to stem the flow.

When he murmurs apologies under his breath, stomach turning and twisting, he can't tell who he's directing them towards.

Maybe both Blaine and himself.

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disappear — yeah, well, you wanna try

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