A/N- Hello, you lovely readers, you! Have we all missed one another? Well look what happened. I became indulgent over the holidays and wrote this fun little fic. This is NOT the third instalment of the WMUI verse, that will be arriving in February. I had this little idea on my mind for a while and decided to get it out of my system before tackling 'Once in a Lifetime.' (That's the title of the WMUI one) because this one is easy to write, whereas I'm heavily invested in my WMUI verse and needed to clear the books in RL before letting it consume me once more. Get me. I'm so pretentious.

So, this fic is fun, like I said, but be warned for angst later on. You should also know that Blaine deals with depression in this (hence the angst) so just be aware if that's a trigger for any of you. This is my indulgence. It is not supposed to be realistic at all, just relax and go with it, but if it's not your thing then I understand!

This first chapter is a very brief scene setter, after that they become much longer, and there will be approx 18 chapters in total which I have nearly finished writing. Updates will be every Friday, Sunday and Wednesday, and I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Becky :)

"Fuck!"

Blaine Anderson notices several things as he sits. First, his head feels like it may explode. Second, he is not in his own hotel room and third, he's in bed with another guy.

"Oh holy shit!" he whispers, scrambling out of the bed and surveying the room. Bottles lie everywhere. Wine, vodka, beer...and is that...champagne? It is to his relief that he is fully clothed, and a quick peek under the covers tells him the random stranger is too, but he still feels overwhelming guilt and shame as he runs a hand through his hair and searches desperately for his belongings. He finds his wallet next to the room phone, credit card by the side- presumably used to fund their excesses the night before. His own room key lies randomly on the floor next to a half eaten bunch of grapes for some absurd reason, and he locates his cell phone on the dressing table next to a piece of paper which he scans quickly then pockets, pulling on his shoes and cursing several times during the process. Standing, and trying not to stagger backwards from the searing pain in his head, Blaine takes one last, lingering look at the stranger before he runs.

"Get up, get up!" Blaine yells, sprinting into his own room and bursting through the adjoining door to where his best friend, Santana, lies sleeping. "Get up! Now! We have to go!"

"What?" she asks, sitting and rubbing blearily at her eyes. Her lips curve into a devilish grin when she sees Blaine standing there, and she appears almost cat-like as she crawls across the bed toward him. "So...someone didn't come home last night," she purrs. "Care to explain?"

"I uh..." he starts, but thinks better of it and shakes his head. "Not right now, no. We need to leave."

"Why?" Santana asks in confusion. "Our flight isn't until three, and it's not even eight."

"We'll get an earlier one...I'll pay," he adds, seeing the mutinous look on her face. "Please Santana, I'm begging you, I've...I've done something," he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. "Something really terrible and I just want to get out of here."

"Jeez, you have a one night stand and suddenly the end of the world is nigh," she mutters angrily as she strides toward the bathroom. "Fine. We'll go. But you can pack my stuff."

Blaine sweats for the entire flight home. Whether it's through nerves, panic or simply excess alcohol he cannot tell, but he shifts and squirms uncomfortably in his seat the whole time until Santana hits him over the head with her book and snaps at him to stay still. The familiar New York skyline does nothing to comfort him either, just makes him feel as though the weight of the world is pressing down on him as the cab takes them back to their cramped apartment where he shuts himself away in his room. The knock on the door comes almost immediately, followed by the uninvited arrival of Santana who rolls her eyes at him before setting two mugs of tea on his nightstand and joining him on the bed.

"So. What happened?"

"Ugh," Blaine groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't remember."

"Any of it?" his friend asks in surprise.

"Um..."

The truth is, Blaine does remember. Bits. Flirting, laughing, smiling softly and taking the young man by surprise when he leaned up and daringly placed a gentle kiss to his cheek- not wanting to be so bold as to claim his lips. And the stranger himself...yes, he can remember him perfectly. Tall, lean yet strong, he carried himself with an air of aloofness which crumbled at some point during the evening leaving him completely open and honest in Blaine's company. He had started the evening by rolling his piercing blue eyes at Blaine's jokes, coolly informing him that he doesn't laugh and muttering something about hating his smile. But Blaine had persisted, grinning broadly when the man had thrown his head back and laughed loudly at something he said, showing off a beautiful smile which Blaine had deemed worthy of a kiss. It still wasn't on the lips though, he had raised the back of the strangers hand and kissed it softly, keeping eye contact all the while and feeling sparks of longing surging between them. Longing and arousal coupled with hope- the sweet promise of...something. But then the stranger had broken the moment by laughing nervously and suggesting they did shots...and the rest of the evening had faded to a blur.

"I remember drinking. A lot," Blaine offers weakly, pulling himself out of his reviere. "And I'm pretty sure that there was a limo involved at some point. But other than that...nothing."

"Let me fill you in," Santana says, handing him a mug and settling back against the headboard. "We were already drunk when the gayest guy I have ever seen walks in trailed by some doe-eyed girl who was dressed like she was twelve. Like us, a gay bff and his best hag."

"You're not a hag!" Blaine protests.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Santana preens. "Clearly," she retorts. "Anyway. You were staring, because you're as subtle as a brick when it comes to these things. I went to use the bathroom and when I returned you and the guy were grinding together on the dance floor in an act that was almost too explicit even for me. And the girl looked majorly affronted."

"I don't think...no," Blaine says quietly, shaking his head. "That's not... I remember dancing," he concedes. "But I wouldn't have behaved like that."

"Well you did," she says, sniggering at the memory of Blaine acting so completely out of character. "Anyway. I ordered another drink and settled in to watch, only you'd left with him while my back was turned."

"What?!" Blaine cries. "I left a Vegas bar with a complete stranger and you didn't think to come after me?!"

"Well you were a stranger to him, too."

"But you know me!" Blaine says, shocked. "Jeez. Thanks for looking out for me."

"Meh, you're a big boy," she smirks. "Besides, who am I to stand in the way of you finally getting laid?"

"Oh no," Blaine says quickly. "No, no. We didn't...uh...no. There was...no. We didn't um...have sex," he whispers, shamefaced. "None of that went on."

Santana stares, stony faced. "Are you kidding me?"

"No."

"Then can I ask why you're acting like you've committed the most heinous crime known to man?" she screeches. "You hauled my ass out of bed at eight this morning and paid over a thousand dollars for us to get an earlier flight. You hightailed it out of Vegas because...what? Huh?"

"Because..." Blaine splutters, "because...it's wrong, isn't it? To do that to someone."

"Do what?" Santana cries, trying not to laugh. "You didn't do anything. You told me this morning you'd done something terrible."

"I...we..." Blaine tries, before giving in. "Yeah. You're right. Just me being dumb. That's all."

"Try explaining that to daddy when he gets his credit card bill," Santana smirks. "Oh yeah, sorry about that. I got drunk in Vegas, didn't sleep with a guy and then legged it for no reason whatsoever."

"It's not like that!" Blaine snaps, cheeks flaring with indignant rage. "I ran away because...because I didn't want it to be all awkward when he woke up," he says desperately. "I've never done anything like that, ever. I felt...still feel...like the worlds worst person. I wouldn't know what to say, how to act. How do you tell a complete stranger that you're...never mind," he trails off, running a hand through his hair which has become wildly disheveled.

"So you ran all the way back to New York because you couldn't face speaking with the guy? You do realize that there's a pretty good chance he liked you, since he took you back to his room?"

"Yeah, where we both passed out," he bites.

"And he probably woke up this morning hoping for at least a blow job from the hot piece of ass he had picked up for just that purpose," she says, shaking her head as she stands. "I don't get you."

"I'm not like that!" Blaine cries. "And as for him liking me..." he pauses, something akin to pleasure stirring inside him at the very thought. "Well...that's irrelevant. I'm never gonna see him again, and one night like that...it would have been wrong."

"Whatever, weirdo," Santana says as she saunters towards the door. "I'll be in my room."

"I am not weird!" Blaine calls after her.

"You're an eighteen year old virgin."

"It's hard to find someone to fall in love with in Ohio!"

"Oh Blaine," Santana laughs, turning in the doorway to face him once more. "Who said anything about love? Besides, you're not in Ohio anymore. You had a guy hitting on you, flirting with you, practically begging you to fuck his brains out, taking you back to his room and you run away after a little making out."

"We didn't make out," Blaine whispers, immediately regretting the words once they're out of his mouth, but then making the whole thing even worse. "I never even kissed him."

"Okay, I'm gonna go, cause I just cannot believe what I'm hearing," she says, holding her hands up. "Just remember to change my water into wine when you're done being more pious than Jesus himself."

She storms out and he sits there wondering how on earth his actions- or lack of- have managed to offend his friend so much, but she is back a moment later, pulling him into a tight hug and kissing his cheek. "I'm not mad," she murmurs into his hair.

"Thank goodness," Blaine sighs, hugging her back. "I was worried."

"Why do I always need to reassure you of that?" she asks, pulling back to look at him. "We've been friends with each other since we were five. You know what I'm like."

"I do," he nods, then offers a sad smile. "But I always assume everyone's mad at me about something unless they confirm otherwise."

"Maybe you should stop thinking like that? You're a cutie, Blaine. You're a good guy with a good heart and an unreasonably pretty face. People like you, people want to get to know you- and some want to get to know you better than others."

But Blaine shakes his head, staring down at his comforter. "He's gone, Santana. I had a chance and I blew it in the most spectacular style. As I always do."

"There will be others," she says convincingly, lifting Blaine's chin with her finger when he shakes his head once more. "There will. C'mon. Don't be sad. Want me to go to the bakery on the corner and get us both a muffin?"

"Yes please," he says with a little pout that has Santana wondering if he's five instead of eighteen.

"Okay. Back in a few."

The front door slams and it is only then that Blaine lets out the breath he feels as if he's been holding since he woke in a Vegas hotel room all those hours ago. Taking the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, he stares down at it before blinking and rubbing his eyes hard, but the words remain the same. Printed across the top in bold it simply says:

Certificate of Marriage.

Between Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel.

"Oh," Blaine breathes, quite unable to form any kind of coherent thought. "Fuck."