When Blaine comes home he's perplexed; the apartment darkening, no Kurt in sight. When he'd left for class in the morning Kurt had kissed him soundly, effervescent and radiating warmth. Freshly showered, fragrant and compelling, Kurt was so much more tempting than his early morning lab. Blaine had leaned into the kiss, into promise and temptation, but Kurt had just pushed him away, flirty and firm, asking if Blaine would be home in time for dinner because he felt like cooking.

But there's no indication that Kurt's been cooking; in fact the only clue to be found in their tiny apartment is a half empty bottle of tequila that's been haphazardly set down on the edge of the table, dangerously close to the edge.

A search of the apartment turns up no more clues- no note, no signs that Kurt dressed to go out. Blaine doesn't think he misunderstood Kurt this morning, and he's reasonably sure they hadn't planned a date or been invited to a party. There's nothing on the calendar that he can see, and anyway if Kurt had gone out he'd know; Kurt getting ready is a small hurricane, a flurry of clothes to be optioned and the scent of bath and hair products; the sort of chaos that always leaves a mark.

Blaine checks his phone, confused and maybe a little worried, but there are no missed calls, no voicemails or text messages. Trying to keep some perspective, Blaine tries calling, only to go straight to Kurt's voicemail. It's obvious Kurt must have been drinking- the tequila isn't theirs, and it is definitely not Kurt's beverage of choice, so someone must have come over. He sends off a quick text, aiming for casual but a little worried because this is pretty strange; Kurt can be impulsive, but he's never thoughtless. Blaine finds himself rummaging through the kitchen; he's not a natural cook- focusing on dinner is as good a distraction as he can come up with. Even worried, sitting around staring at his phone and waiting for a text seems pretty pathetic.

By midnight, three hours have passed and he's still not heard from Kurt; Blaine has worked his way from puzzled, through annoyed, straight through to seriously freaked out. Methodically, he calls and texts all of their friends, but not many are answering their phones- it's late on a Friday night, three weeks till finals, and he's reasonably sure that most of their friends are out having fun and letting lose.

It's a quarter to one when his phone finally vibrates and it's ridiculous how fast he goes from relief to annoyed, because fuck, seriously why is Chase texting him right now anyway? He's texted every goddamn person who might have the slightest idea where Kurt might be and the only text he gets is from freaking Chase Shaw, whom he didn't text. Because Chase hates Kurt; he's never pulled any punches regarding Kurt (the words bitchy, condescending, cold and, hilariously, easy, have been used), nor has he ever disguised how badly he wants Blaine.

At first it was funny, he and Kurt had laughed about it; then it was annoying and with Chase's continued persistence it became insulting, and now the only reason Blaine still speaks to Chase at all is because they've been put into the same study group in their psychology seminar. He's not in the mood for anything but knowing where Kurt is; Chase won't have any pertinent information regarding Kurt, and at this moment, it's really all Blaine cares about.

So he's not sure why he checks the text anyway, and then he's sure he wishes he hadn't. Because it turns out Chase knows where Kurt is. Blaine is suspended; rooted between disbelief and something else, a small cracking and breaking; he's flushing hot then cold and his face is an absolute study of confusion and shock.

Not so perfect is he? Or is fucking other guys something else you excuse?

Blaine can't even bring himself to react to the downright bitchiness, can't even start to care that of course Chase would use this opportunity to try, yet again, to get into Blaine's pants. Right now, it's all moot, Chase might as well not even exist. The only thing that does exist is this picture on his phone, lost boyfriend finally found.

His brain seems to be sending out all sorts of harried signals, fingers and toes and skin are buzzing, crawling; he's shaking and confused and trying so hard to pretend that this isn't what it is. Little shocks are tracing through his vertebrae, his eyes are dry and some small part of his head feels broken, something important not connecting.

Then half an hour has passed and he's still standing, electric and edging towards something like frantic and angry and still staring at the picture. At some point he decides that he might want to sit down, that he'd quite like it because he can't feel his legs or his hands; really, all he can feel is his heart. It's pounding, just slamming inside his chest. And the voice, a tiny thing; the sound of hurting - oh my god, oh my god what the hell, oh my god what the fuck?

He's still staring, a look that's almost quizzical on his face, trying to make sense of the picture, when he hears a fumbling at the door. Kurt is so obviously very drunk when he comes in. So uncharacteristically wasted, all sloppy hair and a misbuttoned shirt- for a moment, Blaine loses the edges of his anger in pure bewilderment. Not for the first time this night he wonders, who is this man?

It's only a moment, a small break in the onslaught of hurt and fear and, Jesus, mind numbing amounts of anger. Blaine is still clutching his cell phone in hand, all quiet and watchful eyes and barely breathing as Kurt trips out of his boots, all of his grace and economy of movement absolutely abandoned. Kurt hasn't seen him yet, and it doesn't matter because he's so far gone he has no idea.

Kurt's usually fine tuned and careful ability to read the emotional quality of a room is well and truly lost; all he's thinking about right now is climbing into bed with his boyfriend and losing himself in Blaine; Blaine's smell and touch and homeness. Blaine is comfort and so solid and he's so so good at taking care of Kurt when he needs it, which is almost never because Kurt can take care of himself thank you very much. Except when he can't, which would be right now; right now he needs Blaine to fuck him senseless, he needs to be touched and hollowed and just slaughtered.

So it is a surprise, the worst kid of shock, to find himself met with a solid wall of Blaine, so angry and, oh, the barest hints of suppressed violence. But he's too drunk, too far gone to understand; to defend himself or explain in any kind of manner just what the hell is going on, why it is that Blaine has pictures of him on Jason's lap, lips and hands and obvious tongues together.

"Blaine," he's slurring, and trips trying to get to him, "No, no please, you…you've t'let me splain." Kurt's ended up on the floor somehow, and the struggle to get to his feet while Blaine stands over him is just pissing him off, making him feel like he's begging. He's confused and his head is swimming and he's trying to figure out how to make the words work and it's all futile anyway because Blaine isn't listening or looking. Kurt can't seem to get his head to switch gears or think, he's still somewhere in lust and need and Blaine is shouting, snarling accusations faster than Kurt can process. The more Kurt tries to talk, to catch up, the worse it seems to get.

"Just- God Kurt just shut up! I…" Blaine's hair is a mess from running his fingers through it, and he can't help but do it again, trying not to cry or throw a punch, desperate to salvage something, even if all he has is this little scrap of dignity. "I can't even fucking look at you right now." And he's gone, the slam of the door a lost little exclamation point on the whole scene. Kurt stares at the door, still stuck on his knees on the floor. Everything is too slow, understanding like molasses, seeping into him, coating him in shame like tar. He touches his cheek; it's a small noise, this breath, because it is strange, feeling these tears. Unexpected. He is so divorced from his body; this numb thing he cannot seem to control or fathom.