fic: alcohol (alternative to feeling like yourself)
Title: alcohol (alternative to feeling like yourself)
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG
Length: 598
Summary: "Like you would never, ever, in like a million years, put the moves on Kurt. Right? Because he's awesome. And you're tall. But you're brothers. And that would just be not cool. Right?" A five things story.
Spoilers: Blame It On the Alcohol
Pairing/Characters: pre-Kurt/Blaine
Warnings: Intoxication of minors, poor choices
Notes: Apparently Blame It On the Alcohol is the gift that keeps one giving. That and I have a lot of head canon that needed an outlet. Title from the Barenaked Ladies song Alcohol
Disclaimer: Don't own, please don't sue me.
-i-
“It’s so cool you’re brothers.” Kurt’s friend shouts up at him for what feels like the millionth time that night. His face is shiny with sweat and his eyes are unfocused and Finn really hopes that’s because of the booze and not because of the fall off stage after he finished singing with Rachel. “I mean, brothers. That’s, like, bros. But like blood. Blood bros.” Kurt’s friend presses further into Finn’s side, arm stretched upward and not remotely long enough to fall across Finn’s shoulders so much as it cuts diagonally across his back.
“We’re actually step-brothers-” Finn says, a little uncomfortable. He does a quick scan of the room for Kurt’s red shirt, because it’s not Finn’s job to keep the Warbler guy company right? But Kurt is no where to be found.
It looked like he was getting along with Rachel just fine, maybe Finn can leave him with her and they can be drape-y and drunk together.
“Right, brothers. Totally legit. Like you would never, ever, in like a million years, put the moves on Kurt. Right? Because he’s awesome. And you’re tall. But you’re brothers. And that would just be not cool. Right?” Kurt’s Warbler is looking up at Finn expectantly and Finn doesn’t really know what to say so he just nods.
“Right.” Finn says slowly, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to. But the guy’s face splits open around a grin and he kind of nuzzles Finn’s arm for a second and sighs happily. “Brothers."
-ii-
For the second time in Kurt’s life, sharing his bedroom with a romantic interest is just not what he imagined it would be.
Blaine pressed impossibly close should not be this uncomfortable, and the fact that Blaine keeps giggling something about cherry chap stick when Kurt desperately needs him to shut up before his dad or Carole hear him is not helping matters. “Kurt,” Blaine’s voice is wrecked with laughter and Kurt cannot imagine what could be so funny about this entire situation. “Kurt,” Blaine’s nose touches Kurt’s shoulder through his pajama top and Blaine’s mouth elongates the vowel sound of his name, drops the ‘t’ all together because the alcohol seems to have taken control of Blaine’s mouth ( in more ways than one). Blaine’s breath falls in hot-damp exhales against Kurt’s arm and he twitches to get some space between them. “Blaine, you need to sleep. You’re going to be unhappy enough in the morning, believe me.”
Blaine goes quiet for a blissful second and then: “Kurt, I’m bored.”
Kurt bites back a groan and the overwhelming desire to smother the object of his affections with a decorative pillow. If he hadn’t sworn off alcohol almost a year ago, he sure as hell does then.
-iii-
“At least I didn’t throw up,” Blaine thinks, desperate to find a sliver lining, before Kurt says, "Well at least the night wasn't a total wash. You did manage to throw up on those hideous things Rachel was trying to pass off as shoes."
Throwing his head into his hands does not help with the hangover.
-iv-
For seven hours and twenty-four vindictive minutes after their coffee date turned verbal blood bath, Kurt changes Blaine’s ring tone from Teenage Dream to I Kissed a Girl.
Not that it matters, because Blaine doesn’t call.
-v-
It takes Blaine two days to muster the courage to call her. There’s a star next to her name in his contacts and it’s so ridiculously endearing that it keeps him from hanging up when she answers. “I’m sorry.” He says in lieu of a greeting, wishing there was a word bigger than sorry. Blaines been hearing sorry long enough to know apologies are mostly useless but this needs to be mean something in the stark light of sobreity because he doesn't know how else to convey the weight of remorse steadily building inside him. There’s a silent second that stretches too long between them, and he tells himself he deserves to be hung up on, before she speaks. “I’ve started a song. Would you like to hear it?”
It’s not what he was expecting, but he nods, phone clutched in his hand, “Yes, I'd love to.”
The End