“You don’t even know what I would do.” Kurt mused, a grin pulling at his lips. He couldn’t help but be amused at once again not being the one hung over. “Here,” He set the aspirin in Blaine’s palm and waited for him to realize he might need to sit up to get any water to go along with them.
In all honesty, he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about being around Blaine again. It will probably be easier when they’re both up and about. For now he’s not sure how this is going to go. It felt similar to last time, but calmer. It helped that he could see how different Blaine was feeling compared to before when he was radiating a mess. Other than that though… It wasn’t quite like he remembered. No parents to worry about or dramatic friends, Kurt didn’t even quite look like he used to, and sympathy was harder to access despite having more knowledge of hangovers now. Between one or two nights as a human with Oliver, and again once he was functioning more normally again, Kurt has removed his title of designated driver. On the bright side, the sped healing made it much harder to get drunk and removed most all potential hangover; his body would be healed by the time morning rolled around. And yet, Kurt still wasn’t much for regularly drinking. Regardless, the point was that he couldn’t bring himself to feel any different than he did at the moment- detached in a way, like this wont last or isn’t really real yet. So as he glanced around the room once more, he was just trying to notice any changes made.
“I don’t wanna know what you’d do if that was your opening act,” he groaned. Blaine clutched the pills like they were a rope tossed to a drowning man but so far? Made no inclination that he was willing to move from his hiding spot. Kurt came to him. Whiled tucked away underneath the pillow–hangover or not–he stole those precious few moments to digest the idea now that he was more awake. Kurt was here. Of his own free will. No doubt to check up on him after that horrid string of texts that Blaine drunkenly sent but wasn’t so wasted at that point that he was given the gift of forgetting. This means something. Doesn’t it? Was it some masochistic streak that he couldn’t shake that had his heart leaping in his chest when he allowed himself to answer that question with a ‘yes’? Maybe. But he couldn’t help himself from feeling so anyway.
His room was pretty much the same. A little in disarray from the string of clothes that ran from the door to his bed. A tie tossed at the beginning, a cardigan followed and socks, shoes, belt being the last pieces of clothing at the foot of his bed. He slept in the rest. There were other small changes dotted about. Dalton books scattered on his desk. His blazer hung on the back of his chair with a tie folded neatly on top of the lapel. There was one thing that remained unchanging, unmoving in spite of his parents efforts to get him to put them away after a month or two because he ‘deserved to give himself a break’. Every photo of the two of them together that they’d either picked out matching frames for. Or his favorite ones of Kurt he’d framed himself? Those were precisely where he’d placed them. His dresser, the desk, his bed stand. Refusing to let them out of his sight–they remained. Finally, the bed creaked underneath his shifting weight as he slowly sat up and let the pillow fall away. Tired, squinted eyes glanced up at Kurt as he shoved the pills in his mouth and held them with his tongue. “Water, please?”
pianokeysandbowties 