He’s at least sober enough to get inside his house, stumbling all the way. There had been so many tempting drinks at the party, drinks of all colors that glowed and sparkled and some even shimmered. As always, he avoided the drink used to empty stomachs — he hates that, he tried it once and just felt… icky. Yes, icky seems like the perfect word to describe it.

Kurt blindly bumps into something that’s decidedly not inanimate and jumps when he realizes it’s Blaine; he’d almost forgotten about the existence of his Avox servant. Blaine hardly flinches and Kurt frowns, staring at him and probably standing way too close for either of them to be reasonably comfortable. Screw it; he’s drunk, he’s lonely, and he’s curious.

"Sit with me," he tells Blaine, swaying as he turns and drops ungracefully to the couch. "Come on."

Blaine hesitates but follows the order swiftly, sitting with his back straight a few feet away from Kurt, who scoffs.

"No, no, like," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Like actually with me, close to me, want to talk to you.”

He’s dangerously close to crossing a line, but part of Kurt’s brain is just too curious about Blaine to even think about that right now. He’s felt odd ever since the Avox walked up to his door and he can’t figure any way to puzzle out what’s odd about it that doesn’t involve directly interacting with someone that he really shouldn’t ever interact with. Not like this, that’s for sure.

It takes a few seconds but Blaine shifts closer, always with his head down as he listens for Kurt to tell him to stop. But Kurt doesn’t say a thing, so it isn’t until their legs are touching that Blaine freezes — with the barest of shivers. Kurt blinks at him until his vision clears enough, says, “Look at me.”

The first thing Kurt notices is Blaine’s cheek; there’s a faded scar that stretches from his temple to his jaw, something Kurt hadn’t spotted in all the time Blaine’s kept his head down the last few days. The next thing he notices is Blaine’s mouth, tight-lipped and baring no secrets. The last are Blaine’s eyes.

Kurt’s always had some kind of strange fascination with eyes, though it mainly manifests itself in disdain for alterations to the shape and color of them. Call him hopelessly sentimental, but he believes there’s something inherently wrong about making changes to that which bares the real person inside each of their sorry façades.

So, okay, maybe he gets a little bitter when he’s drunk.

But in Blaine’s eyes, Kurt’s dizzy mind finds what he pins down as reality without really thinking about it. They’re a shade of bright hazel, though a dark one — maybe it’s just the light. Maybe it’s what Kurt imagines seeing beyond just the color; that Blaine’s eyes hold a dull sadness, emotion brimming the likes of which Kurt can’t find in any other facet of his demeanor.

Dear god, he’s so drunk.

"Can you talk?" Kurt asks, blurts out more like. Blaine holds his gaze as he shakes his head slowly. "Okay, well, that’s one mystery solved."

Kurt thinks he might see a corner of Blaine’s mouth twitch, but he’s not about to trust his senses right now. He’s pretty sure the blue foamy drink he’d had really fucked him over. Or maybe it was drinking that and then the pink bubbly drink full of stars.

"Look, I know I’m not supposed to talk to you," Kurt says, dimly aware that he’s about to start rambling. "Except to, you know, tell you what to do. I don’t get that, why can’t I just talk to you like a friend? Avox ‘schmavox,’ you look like a person to me. I think I’d find you cute in another circumstance," he adds before his eyes go wide. "Don’t, don’t think I’m interested or anything, you can’t even tell me if you’re gay. I just, god, I’d like to talk to someone that doesn’t want to hear about what I think of the recent black-and-white trend, I wanna talk about real stuff, stuff that matters. Okay, well, fashion does matter, my life revolves around it — but that’s all there is, you know? Fashion, and food, and knowing when to gossip and when to keep your fucking mouth shut.

"And the Games. I love the trends that come out of them, and all the celebration is… is good, it’s fun, tonight was fun, but is that really all we’re here for? To watch—" Kurt stops when he notices that Blaine’s tense, strung tight through the set of his jaw and shoulders.

Kurt glances around them — nothing there, of course — and slumps back into the couch, utterly exhausted. He doesn’t even care that the blue in his hair tonight will probably get onto the fabric.

"I’m sorry," he finds himself saying, unsure why. "You don’t care about this." A thought comes to mind and Kurt furrows his brows. "What do you care about?”

Blaine’s eyes widen just enough for Kurt to tell that they’ve changed. He loosens a little at the question and raises his hands until his outspread palms face Kurt.

"Hands?"

Shaking his head, Blaine reaches for Kurt’s right hand where it rests on his thigh, fingers stopping just centimeters away as he looks at Kurt, a note of a request in his mostly blank expression. Kurt nods and lets Blaine take his hand. He turns it palm up and holds Kurt’s wrist loosely in one hand with calloused, unsure fingers. The index finger of his other hand traces one of the lines on Kurt’s palm, the uppermost of them.

"Which line is that? That’s the… life?" Blaine shakes his head. "Heart line?" Blaine nods, a tiny smile cracking through his eyes and mouth as he released his hold on Kurt. "You care about… the heart? Is this symbolically, or…"

Blaine points to his heart and nods gently. He withdraws back into himself a little, as if afraid he’s given away too much, but Kurt’s not ready for him to shut off and be passive again. So he kisses him.

It’s just a cheek kiss, barely a brush of lips against the scar, but Blaine’s immediately scrambling away to resume his usual position against the wall at the back of the living room, his heaving chest the only indication that anything just happened.

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut at his own misstep — god, his servant knows better than he does at this point — and stands, walking straight to his bedroom without another word except for “Goodnight.”

The stars have yet to be much of a comfort, and tonight is no different. It irks him more than it should, that he asked for the damn things and they aren’t even doing what they’re supposed to do. He’s starting to sober up, just a little, but that’s not making him feel any better — on the contrary, he feels sick, and not in the drank-way-too-much way.