WARNINGs:

This is my first Glee project. Let me know what needs working on.

Also, this story is about Klaine (Kurt & Blaine), which means BOYxBOY relationships. You were warned.

It was supposed to be a oneshot, but it will probably become a little bigger (seriously, just a little, because I don't have the time to work on a huge story without driving myself nuts). Considering I like smut (though I don't really appreciate the blunt & descriptive stuff), rating just might go up later (keyword: might).

Lastly, no one is going to make me say it, because it's too depressing… but, hey, if this is uploaded on a FANFICTION website, the math isn't so hard. (LOL)

(NOT SO) QUICK EXPLANATION:

So it's been like, what? Two months since "Blame it on the alcohol" aired (Glee TV series season 2, episode 14), and I'm still not over it, even though the show is back next week with the last six episodes of the season (and FINALLY starting canon Klaine! YES!).

I really like the Rachel-Kurt friendship idea, but I can't get over the fact that she tried to get Blaine with her. What gets me irked, though, is not exactly that, because Rachel was, after all, drunk – even if Blaine wasn't the second time (ANOTHER reason why I HATE alcohol). What got me really mad at her character was that last sequence where she spouts at Kurt: "Who cares about you? I may be getting a boyfriend out of this…"

I might not ever be able to live it down, and that is the reason why canon Hummelberry friendship doesn't sound convincing to me anymore – at least not until she apologizes, or something.

So, yeah, I came up with a million different endings for that episode, or, at least, sequences where Blaine returns from that toilet, or how they make up (it was a rather nasty argument, and then, next thing we know, they're happily running around again… go figure) etc. What appealed to me the most was this.

BLAINE BLAMED IT ON THE ALCOHOL

Chapter 1: My fault

Ow!

My head hurts violently!

I can't remember how I got here, but I sure know where "here" is. The sheets are unmistakable, their impregnated smell of cloves and cedar make me comfortable in a way that rarely happens. Despite the fact that I don't have much difficulties to befriend or talk to people, that does certainly not mean that I feel at ease with anyone.

Or course, this isn't the case with Kurt, as he has managed to charm his way into my good sides, since the first time he used that timid voice to stop me down the main staircase of Dalton Academy. Even if he tried not to show it, by being outright and talkative, the shy undertones of his voice and the nervousness he inadvertedly exuded clearly ratted out his "new student" line. Even that obvious lie, however, wasn't enough to make me the least bit aware around him.

It could have just been Kurt's antics, or his lightly-colored eyes filled with uncertainty, or maybe it was the soft feeling of his hands when I practically dragged the "new kid" through Dalton halls, or maybe all of these. However, that sweet and yet spicy smell definitely played some sort of role in this quickly established friendship of ours.

It was that same smell that was currently engulfing my senses, with an intensity it never had before. It should have felt invasive, perhaps even nauseating, to have someone else's smell come so close and strong. What it did, however, was engulf me comfortably, lulling me further, almost back to sleep. Curiosity was what compelled me to open my eyes, to ascertain what exactly was going around me.

And then I nearly went into shock, because, despite the fact that I somehow knew I was on a bed, and that Kurt's smell was acutely present, my alcohol-affected mind had not been able to connect these two pieces of information. When I opened my eyes, it took some time to process the image my eyes were reflecting into understandable data.

Right there, in front of me, was Kurt, resting on his side, facing me. His skin is still pristine in the early hours of morning, lips slightly parted as he breathed peacefully, the rhythm stable. A serene look dominated his face, substituting the scrutiny ever-present when he is conscious, as it rested on the soft pillows. All of it screamed vulnerability, but that wasn't what got me so fluttered.

What was bothering me most, at that moment, was something I couldn't stop looking at, and my mind was conjecturing millions of scenarios to justify it, none of it presenting a suitable explanation. Kurt's shoulder was exposed by the duvet that was not reaching it, and I couldn't find myself able to stop staring at its milky surface. It wasn't the skin itself that had me nervous, it was the meaning behind it showing that was driving me crazy.

I had seen his pajamas before, and I knew that he slept with clothes that covered his limbs completely. The fact that there was nothing there this time was setting alarms in my head, and, the more I thought about it, the more my headache got worse. That, in turn, made me increasingly aware of the alcohol still present in my body, reminding me then that there was an even larger quantity in my brain the previous night.

Oh, shit.

I did NOT – or, at least, I'm hoping I didn't – do what I'm thinking I did, and, by "I", I really do mean "me", because I know Kurt's in love with me. How would he be able to say "no" if I came onto him? Oh, I know he would try to resist it – I've no doubt about that – but I also know I get quite… diligent when there's even the tiniest bit of alcohol in my system. Forget the fact that I like him – a lot – but as a friend; I didn't think that alone would be enough for me to… pursue him.

Really, I am such a jerk. What am I to do now? What do I say?

"Sorry, Kurt. I was totally drunk." Well, that would be great for me, but I just know he'll make that really, really sad face, which I can already imagine vividly, and then he'll try to pretend it didn't mean anything. I know that wouldn't be true either, because he is just so compassionate about every little thing, so something this big would definitely not be belittled by him. Finally, to top it all off, depending on what expression I'd make, he'd try to make me – me! – feel better.

It's one of the things I like about him so much: this duality between his bitchy and selfish side, against his sweet and caring side, the latter being one he doesn't show often, unless it's to someone really close. I like watching these two, though I know they're just part of one very interesting guy.

Bottom line, I like Kurt, and I want him in my life, though not undressed in my bed every morning, but simply by my side, with me. I could never live with myself if I hurt him, and that is exactly what would happen if I blow him off now… Especially after I already told him "no", because I didn't want to ruin our friendship. Hell, no matter how he reacts, this would definitely shake our bond, one way or another. Even if he does try to pretend that doing… this… means nothing, I know he'd never be able to be normal around me again.

I'd never be able to look at those beautiful eyes without feeling guilty again.

With Kurt's eyelids closed as they are now, I have some sort of preview of what that would be like, and I find myself dreading it already. Even if I am not particularly attracted to him – though I had not given it any thought at all, until that fateful Valentine's week – it seems I am not completely immune to him either.

And then, as if I somehow called him, Kurt stirs a little, and the blanket which had revealed only that one creamy shoulder travels down, uncovering half of his upper body, pooling at his at the curve of his hips. My suspicions are now confirmed, as that part of him is devoid of any clothing, though I can't help but to stare at it, marveled by the absolute silky appearance that still manages to maintain a boyish aspect.

I am possessed by the desire to touch it, to confirm if it feels as soft as it looks. Considering I probably spent the whole night doing just that, maybe it is not so strange that I want to repeat the experience, at least where touching his skin is concerned.

That still didn't come out right, no pun intended.

Well, as some level of logic has apparently returned, I decide it is time to ascertain my current state of dressing – or lack thereof – in order to gather more clues as to what really happened last night. A part of me is already certain, but another part – a bigger part – is desperate to find some other explanation.

I hesitate for a few more minutes, as I try to think of all the reasons why I shouldn't do that right now – amongst which, I confess, I included snuggling against the beckoning warmth Kurt is radiating. However, pushing my fears aside, I raise the covers just a bit.

My surprised gasp escapes not because I verify my own state of undress, but because I see my friend's. It hadn't dawned on me, until then, that he was close enough for me to run this risk. For some reason, most probably alcohol-related, I had completely ignored this fact, thus my unwarranted astonishment. The worst of it is that I can't bring myself to stop looking: though I knew Kurt had fair-colored skin, it had never occurred to me that it ran all the way his toes.

It was pretty obvious, I realize, but it's just one of those facts that we don't stop to acknowledge, we just incorporate them, but when we're put face-to-face with it, we realize it's a new thought.

There it was, however, right in front of me, and I couldn't bring myself to cover the truth again. My eyes, for whatever reason, will not unglue themselves from Kurt's form, particularly his hips, that discreet little lump of his pelvis that protrudes just a little more as he lies sideways. Luckily, he remains blissfully oblivious to my rather intensive staring.

During the long minutes I am frozen there, fearing he'd wake up, but unable to stop looking, I panic myself into moving again, finally covering ourselves once more, and thus diminishing the effect alabaster skin had cast on me. All the while, my thoughts keep replaying scenes of our encounters, through a new light, but not one of them reflects the previous night's activities. The more moments I remember, the more I think the label "jerk" is deserved.

The scenes my mind displays are pictured backwards, as if Kurt and I had switched our character roles in a play. Except, the more "Kurt" talked to countertenor me, the more my heartbeat accelerated, for happy or sad reasons. As I watch him in my own skin, I pick up a lot of subtleties I had not noticed before, little moments that I now know made my friend's heart contract ever so painfully, especially during a kiss with Rachel Berry, right in front of me – practically in my face – or rather, Kurt's.

This little bit of memory comes to me suddenly, and it is the only thing I can remember from last night, so far. Funny that kissing New Direction's main singer is the only memory I can recall at the moment, despite the fact that it was Kurt who woke up beside me.

Which only proves, again, how much of a jerk I've been – regardless of the fact that I was drunk. I can't bring myself to stop thinking it, and I become more frustrated at myself as I do.

Just how badly have I hurt him? Would last night be the ultimate stab? Would this be the last mistake he'd allow me, before cutting me off? After all, there is only so much a person can take, and, as I'm becoming increasingly aware, Kurt's quota is way overdue.

Suddenly, he stirs again. Despite my quietness, this time my friend does open his eyes. First, Kurt seems confused, as if he can't quite understand what I am doing in front of him when he wakes up. In seconds, his expression changes from hazy to shocked, obviously aware of what happened.

At least he wasn't drunk.

We look at each other for almost a minute, and Kurt tries countless times to say something, his mouth forming many shapes, always stopping himself before actually uttering any syllable at all. On the other hand, I don't even try it, already conscious that there is nothing I can say… Or so I thought, until Kurt finally managed to pronounce one simple word.

"Sorry," he says, voice lower than a whisper, immersed in embarrassment. His fingers grip the covers as he involuntarily tries to hide all of his body with the blankets, halfway up his chin.

That one small verbette pulled at my heart. That voice, those eyes, all of him screamed sincerity at me. What really hurt, though, was the fact that, I could tell, he was not asking forgiveness for last night... I know without a doubt that it was my insistence that had torn at him. No, he was saying "sorry for not being able to resist", or, in other wording, "I'm sorry I'm in love with you".

Such a realization hit me as if someone threw giant rocks at my head.

I don't have to love Kurt; just because he loves me, it doesn't mean that I have to reciprocate those feelings, and I know that as sure as I know my pop music. However, that most certainly did not mean that my friend had to be sorry for loving anyone, including me.

No. From my perspective, anyone who found himself (or herself, you never know) the object of the affections of someone as amazing as Kurt should be proud. I, for one, feel honored, even if I do not return it.

Raising my upper body, causing the duvet to fall to my lap, my hand reached out on its own volition, touching the tips of his fingers that were still just barely visible. He flinches, but does not move away, nor does he relax. Those grayish eyes search mine, scared, but brave enough to hear whatever I have to say, as if it were his penitence.

I had intended to tell him not to feel sorry, or that he should have more faith in himself… or, possibly, say "sorry" myself, for not being lucky enough to match his feelings.

What I say, though, surprises us both.

"Go out with me."

TBC

This is the first time I write a story as I post it. Normally, I only start posting once I finish writing the whole thing. However, I wanted this up before Glee resumed its second season, so I decided to test some adrenaline. (EDIT: REVISED.)

I'm not so sure how far I'm going to take this little idea, but I do intend to have at least one more chapter up.

For now, logging out!

KaiLi (Syaoran-Lover)