Artist: egobus

Link to the beautiful art can be found on tumblr, lj, and ao3

Beta: idoltina

Notes: Written as part of the 2013 klaine reversebigbang, and I am very lucky to have been able to write for such wonderful art. Thank you, egobus!

Thanks to thetardisblue for the formatting help.

This fic was completed (minus some minor edits) in late June, before the passing of Cory Monteith. As such it contains Finn Hudson as a relatively minor character.

This is how it could have happened.

Apartment 207 has been empty for a while now.

It's been at least three months - ever since that couple, Kris and Chris (and Kurt was never quite sure which was which) moved back to Indiana, or Indianapolis, or wherever it was they were from. Kurt expected someone to move in relatively quickly, but instead there had been minor renovations for a few weeks and then the hall had gone - and remains - silent. Instead of taking the occasional overly intense interest in their neighbors ("They must be drug addicts, Kurt! Why else do they not go to work during the day? It's very sinister. It will make a wonderful character study for when I have to play more the more dramatic, gritty, and tortured roles!"), Rachel has been forced to go back to seething about her dance teacher and simultaneously plotting her takeover of NYADA and eventual Tony acceptance speeches.

The vacant apartment has become a part of life, something Kurt hardly ever thinks of anymore, and so he's surprised one Thursday afternoon in June as he rounds the top of the stairs. He still has his headphones in, and is cursing his new and extremely fashionable navy cardigan for colluding with the sudden New York heat to ruin his carefully chosen ensemble. Luckily his hair has lasted through his day at Vogue; working in fashion full time again (even if it's only until school starts up in a few months) means that it's all the more important for him to look his best. He doesn't want to give any tongues a reason to wag, and in that building they barely even need a reason.

He thinks there's still some ice cream in the freezer, and he plans to spend the rest of his Thursday watching whatever marathon TV Land or their DVR has to offer. It's been a long week - a long month, really, with finals and his decision to stay and work rather than spend the summer back in Ohio - and he's going to take tonight to relax. Rachel won't be home yet; she's taking a tap class at some studio in SoHo three nights a week, so perhaps he'll order the good Chinese and indulge in extra potstickers without fear of their shameless theft. It's nice to have the loft to himself, his own space in a city that feels very crowded, especially living with Rachel Berry. Oh, sometimes on Thursdays that take-out place does the extra spicy sauce, if he orders extra he can take some to -

He shifts his weight and nearly trips over the boxes while digging for his keys. It takes him a moment - he pauses Kristen's assertion that she's gonna make him pop-u-lar - to realize that they're piled around the door to 207. And not only is the door wide open, but someone is singing inside. Singing California Girls, no less, and if he'd been paying attention as he climbed the stairs he might have heard it before, even if it seems to be drifting from the back of the apartment. He looks over the boxes, curious to know who they'll be sharing a hallway with; he hopes that at least these people know how to either come home quietly or at a reasonable hour, a skill that seemed to be beyond the Krises. The only clue he finds is a box labelled Sam's room, with a smiley face, so maybe there's a Samantha or something. The box on top of it must be labelled on the other side. Whoever they are they seem to have their boxes neatly labelled, and at least one of them has a very nice voice, although the taste in music is most certainly questionable.

The tune switches from Katy Perry to Beach Boys (Wouldn't it be nice if we were older-), but the fact that the voice is coming closer takes a few moments to register. He's still standing in front of his apartment door, gaping with keys in his hand, when a figure appears around the door and bends to rotate and then pick up a box. He's about Kurt's age, probably, short and well muscled, with dark curls that are a little tousled and a nicely fitted white t-shirt. His eyes land on Kurt and he stands up, box in his arms, blinking quickly into a surprised smile.

"Hi," he says a little breathlessly, and their eyes meet - this new neighbor doesn't give him the Manhattan once over, at least not in the practiced, judgmental way he's become used to. His eyes are warm, and Kurt steps away from his door without really thinking about it.

"Hi," he replies. "You must be one of the new neighbors."

His neighbor seems either not to notice or care that Kurt is making near mortifying statement of the obvious because his grin widens and he shifts a little, box in hand. "I am. I'll probably end asking you lots of annoying questions. I'm new here."

"My name's Kurt."

But cute probably-neighbor can't take the hand Kurt's offering, because of the box, so there's an awkward moment until he shifts to brace the box and lean against the doorjamb. He wipes his hand on his sweats quickly, like maybe he's hoping that Kurt won't notice, and then his dry palm and fingers are wrapping around Kurt's. "Blaine."

"Blaine..." Kurt echoes it automatically, trying the name on his tongue. It feels comfortable there, rolls off like it's been waiting there, just for this moment. He shakes that thought off almost before its fully formed - ridiculous. Blaine grins and grabs the box again.

"It's nice to meet you."

"You too." The box doesn't look heavy, exactly, but Kurt should probably let him go back to his moving instead of staring (not ogling, he is not ogling) in the hallway.

What was it again, that saying about loving thy neighbor?

What he says instead of well, I've got to go, so see you soon and welcome to the building is "Your box doesn't have a smiley face."

Blaine blinks at him (and oh, eyelashes) and his eyes dart down to the box after a pause.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I labelled the boxes, so..."

"Your..." he makes a show of glancing down, "...Sam didn't help?"

Blaine snorts. "If he had his way 'packing' would have been shoving all our stuff into garbage bags."

And that doesn't really tell him anything except that Sam is most likely not a Samantha.

Blaine's still talking. "...I didn't mean that - Sam's a really great guy, he just... isn't into packing. Unless it's the x-box. He'll be here later, he's working right now. I'm just..." he waves an arm. "...getting everything sort of laid out."

"What a great roommate," Kurt offers, eyes on Blaine's, waiting for a reaction.

Blaine's grin just gets wider and it's infectious. "I try."

Someone laughs in the stairwell, and whatever was happening - Kurt isn't great at identifying these things, but it had felt for a second there like Blaine's eyes on his was leading to something - slips away with their breath.

"Well I'd better -"

Blaine exhales. "My hair's not - I usually - it's all in the box."

Kurt's eyes flick to the small box on the ground. "Your hair?"

"No, I..." Blaine huffs out a half laugh. "My hair usually looks better than this. But we've been moving all day, so I didn't put anything..."

Kurt sees that the box is labelled Hair Products in emphatically underlined letters. A man after his own heart.

"Oh."

He clears his throat, sees Blaine shift awkwardly, cheeks slightly pink from what might be more than a day full of trips up and down the stairs. And then Kurt's mouth is opening again. "For what it's worth, I like it."

Blaine tilts his head. "What?"

"Your hair."

Now Blaine's definitely blushing, eyelashes fluttering a little as he shifts to hold the box in his arms closer to his hip. "Oh." Kurt swears he sees him scuff a toe. "Thanks."

There's another pause; Blaine looks up, and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds.

He waves his keys. "I'd better -"

"Of course!" Blaine responds immediately. "It was nice to meet you."

Blaine turns into 207 and the words you too don't quite make it to Kurt's lips.

Two weeks later, Kurt's digging through his bag again, frustrated beyond belief that he can't feel the metal of his bulkiest keychain. It's a warm Saturday, and after post-morning yoga, he feels stretched out and relaxed, ready for another Rachel-less day to catch up on emails and perhaps finish re-reading Patti's autobiography. Maybe he'll keep working on his latest musical endeavor (although he isn't sure if he has the energy to compose everything alone after Pip Pip Hooray). His latest few costume sketches still need to finish being colored. He might even sweat to the oldies later, if the mood strikes and the air conditioning is working properly again.

Of course, all that is dependent on his keys being in his bag, and after five minutes of fruitless searching that is looking increasingly unlikely. He vaguely remembers throwing them onto his nightstand last night as he poured himself into bed after a long day at work (Isabelle was in fits over the layout for the Fall teasers, and no one in that building seemed to be able to understand the difference in statement of maroon vs. chartreuse). He'd been leaving for pre-yoga coffee with a friend this morning at the same time that Rachel was leaving to go to an audition and he'd threatened to throw them at her if she didn't get out of the bathroom but -

He doesn't have his keys.

He doesn't have his keys, and Rachel isn't answering her phone because of her stupid yodeling class, and their super has taken to pretty much ignoring them after the fifth time Rachel called to complain about the acoustics in the bathroom.

So that's fine. Instead of spending a relaxing afternoon at home he'll just wait in the crummy un-airconditioned hallway. He can't really afford to get coffee again today, not if he wants to make rent and buy that wonderful navy jacket (he's cut down on expenses, it's his one treat to himself and he'll roast before he lets that jacket go). He doesn't have the energy to window shop. Honestly, he's working himself into a foul enough mood that he probably shouldn't text anyone to see if they're-

The door to 207 clicks open, and before Kurt has time to really think about what that means Blaine is in the hall, keys in one hand (see, it's not so difficult, other people manage to remember their keys) and a bag of what Kurt assumes is recycling in the other. Blaine's humming a vaguely familiar tune, providing occasional percussion in the form of a soft 'ba-bom'. Kurt's still slouched a little against the wall when he turns around, frozen a little, and Blaine starts.

"Kurt! Kurt, you're - hi!"

Blaine's barefoot (inadvisable in the hallway, a point that Kurt fully intends to make for the sake of Blaine's health and not at all because he has such lovely ankles), t-shirt a little wrinkled and hair a little messy, like he's just woken up. His voice is even a little scratchy, and hearing his name sends Kurt's mind to a very private place - one he's been partially successful at keeping himself from thinking about, at least during daylight hours.

But only for a moment. He realigns his spine, nonchalantly stilling his phone where he's tapping it against his thigh. "Blaine!"

"How are -"

"I hope you're -"

They both abruptly stop, laugh for a moment.

"I was going to say," Kurt continues, "that I hope you're settling in okay."

"Yeah." Blaine shifts his weight a little. "Yeah, the building's great. I'm afraid I haven't had time to really spend time with anyone yet, but I hope that - "

"I'm sure you'll be able to soon, you've only been here -"

"I hope so." Blaine clears his throat, and Kurt actively avoids staring at the way his throat moves. "So, how are you?"

"Me? I'm great. Good. Fantastic." Kurt hears himself and has to let out a breath that's half laughter. At Blaine's raised eyebrow (great, the cute neighbor thinks Kurt's crazy), he allows a small shrug. "I'm just- waiting. I seem to have left my keys on my nightstand. It's turning into a morning."

Blaine's eyebrows furrow adorably in distress. "Oh no. Is your roommate on her way-"

"Possibly she - she'll probably be out of class soon, I'm sure -"

"Rachel, right?"

"Yes, I -"

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

A description of Rachel's busy schedule dies on Kurt's tongue as Blaine's words register (he's not proud, but the word coffee tends to get his attention, even if he isn't already intrigued).

"What?"

"I was -" Blaine shifts his weight, and his eyes drop briefly to the floor. Kurt can't help but sigh; Blaine's eyelashes are criminal. "I just wondered if maybe, while you're waiting, you'd like a cup of coffee - or something else, I don't know if you drink coffee, I think we have, uh, tea, and orange juice, and maybe milk if Sam didn't drink it all -"

"I like coffee," Kurt blurts out. Okay, everything about Blaine is adorable.

Blaine's face breaks into another smile. "Great. That's great, I -" He swings the door open behind him. "Please, come in, I -" He starts to put the trash bag down next to the door, seems to think the better of it. "I'll be right back, I just need to -" He half hops and sort of skips in running down the hall, neatly shoving the bag into the recycling chute and returning to find Kurt in the same place, still watching him. "Please, make yourself comfortable, I'll just -"

Kurt believes that decoration says a lot about a person, and he prides himself on being able to read people in that way. Apartment 207 is clearly still a work in progress, with a few boxes scattered around in various states of unpacking. There's a couch - he'd heard through Rachel (who had run into Blaine at the mailbox) that they'd lucked into finding one cheap online - a beanbag, a tv (games consoles plugged in), and several boxes that seem to serve as a makeshift coffee table. It's very simple, adorned with a mixture of packing materials, notebooks, and some assorted games and DVDs, and there are blankets set up in two areas for what he assumes are their bedrooms. Kurt can think of several ways to utilize the space better - the low bookshelf would be better by the closer window, and the colors of the couch (and comfortable-looking throw) don't do anything for the shade of the walls. Nor does the dingy red of the beanbag, although he can certainly appreciate the impoverished student chic. It's rife with possibility, and it'll be so telling to see Blaine (and his roommate) make the place his (their) own.

Blaine is busying himself with a box, picking pieces of packing paper off the couch and floor with an apologetic and slightly panicked air.

"Sorry for the -" He waves the box in the air, shuffles a pile of sheet music onto the quasi-coffee table. Kurt can't help but notice that he has very nice hands. He must moisturize. "By now it should look... well, anyway, make yourself comfortable. Please."

"It looks good," Kurt offers mildly, letting himself sink into the worn leather, and he's torn between a wince and a snort at Blaine's incredulity. "Okay, it's a work in progress, but you clearly have an eye." He tilts a head toward the framed (and signed) Wicked poster leaning against a box with Blaine's name on it and smiles. "And excellent taste. I'd love to hear that story."

Blaine's eyes follow him and his face lights up. "I - oh. Thanks. Of course. It's... I think it'll take some time. To make it look like home, you know? Your place is so great." He scratches the back of his neck and oh, arm.

Kurt can't help but smile. And not just because of the nicely shaped arm, or even because it took him a year to find the furniture to make the loft habitable. He can relate. But - "You've seen our loft?"

"Yeah. Only for a minute, last week, when Rachel wanted help moving her new music stand."

That's new information. "You mean the yellow monstrosity currently ruining the aesthetic of the living area? The one that makes it look like the living room was, at some point in the past, attacked by an army of angry bananas?"

Blaine leans against the opposite arm. "Aw, come on. It's... bright. Sunny." The brown of his eyes has glints of gold in it, and maybe the stupid music stand isn't so bad after all. "Anyway, your place looks great. I especially love the jaunty lamp. Very... Russian palace. You have fantastic taste."

"Thank you." He preens a little. He found that lamp for ten dollars at a thrift store in the village, and it was worth every one of the weird looks he got on the subway home that day. Most people - well, Rachel and the couple of other people who have been in their apartment since he got it - don't appreciate the ironic ornamental chic. But his apartment - his and Rachel's apartment - is home. And although he knows he's walking the fine line between cluttered and fascinating, he feels like, as he brings home more, he fills it up with himself. He's filling it up with New York and the life that he'd promised himself when he was sitting in his beautifully decorated room in Lima, hoping these days would come. It's not perfect - the lack of walls is annoying, especially when Santana comes to visit and inevitably brings girls home, but everything in their apartment has a story, and even if they don't know what it is, it's still nice to think that all of these things have mattered to people before they found their way there. They've been loved and lost and scuffed and polished, and each piece is still standing.

They're smiling at each other, Blaine's arm braced on the back of the couch and Kurt a little closer to the center than he was a few moments ago. Kurt is suddenly aware of the space between them, or, more accurately, how great it would be if that space just... didn't exist.

"So!" Blaine doesn't move much further away, but blinks a couple of times as though clearing his head. "Can I get you a drink? I think we have coffee, orange juice, milk if it isn't - and water, obviously. Or I have tea."

"A cup of coffee would be great."

Blaine returns with two mugs a few minutes later - pretty, with flecks of neon color that look like they're buried in the ceramic - and settles himself on the next cushion. "I'm sorry your day hasn't gone as planned."

"Don't be," Kurt manages around his cup, the slightly bitter and creamy taste warm and welcoming on his tongue. He knows his cheeks are probably blushing a very unflattering shade, but he commits, because Blaine is kind, and he makes jokes about obscure Sondheim songs by the mailboxes, and he's unreasonably gorgeous, and he's smart - or at least so far he's recognized Kurt's more lofty references in the two conversations (well, mostly in the other three or so almost-conversations) they've had. He's worth taking a chance. "My day is definitely looking up."

And there's no other word for it, Blaine's face scrunches - his nose wrinkles adorably as his eyes close for a moment, and if Kurt's blushing he's confident that at least Blaine's matching him. "I'm glad if I could help."

"You really, really do." He exhales, leans in a little, smiling when Blaine follows, mirrors him again and -

Don't tell me not to live just sit and puttah! Life's candy and the sun's a ball of buttah-

Rachel Berry, he thinks as they both start and their attention shifts to the culprit: Kurt's phone sitting in the side-pocket of his bag, you have the worst timing of any human being on the planet.

Despite Rachel's timing, it seems all is not lost, however. Rachel is waiting for the train, and in the hour and fifty minutes it takes for her to get to Bushwick he learns a lot. And while kissing Blaine would have been nice -amazing probably, he looks like he takes care of those lips and they probably taste like coffee and - and it would have been even nicer if Blaine had kissed him back, he might not have learned so much today. He learned about Blaine's high school (in Ohio, of all places, and sometimes Kurt thinks the world might be small after all) and college (NYU, in his second year), his love of music (Bryan Ferry to Katy Perry, Beethoven to Beyonce, this boy...), his knowledge of broadway musicals (which almost rivals Kurt's own), his love of sports (which, okay, Kurt can't claim to share, but Blaine'll have something in common with his dad, and a couple shouldn't be identical, they should have interests outside the shared, right?)...

He's learned and shared, and although he's not picking the wedding colors yet (he'd always thought he and his groom would go pale blue and silver, but Blaine's far more autumnal, the color palate needs to be rethought completely), he thinks maybe...

Well, he thinks maybe, one day, he could love this man, this boy with his sheet music, an affinity for toy robots and the artsy mugs he bought on his first day in New York. The boy with a beautiful smile, and his soft, witty replies, and his unabashed fanboying over Kurt's secondhand account of meeting Neil Patrick Harris. He thinks... he thinks this could matter. That maybe one day they could be surrounded by boxes, and he'd draw smiley faces on Blaine's, just because he could. Perhaps even a heart, to make Blaine smile just like that, and then...

And, although he's been known to misread these things...with the couple of moments they've had, and the way Blaine keeps looking at him (as well as the way Blaine looked at him when he bent over to get his phone), maybe Blaine might think so too?

Which is why he pauses as he moves to the door, after Rachel has announced her presence with a loud knock and flounced across the hall with an extremely obvious wink. Blaine's hand is on the doorknob, his other on his waist as he tells Kurt he really enjoyed today, would love to spend some more time together, and inow that we have each others' phone numbers, if you're free and you wanted to maybe we could/i -

It turns out Blaine's lips do taste like coffee. Kurt can tell, even with the just-barely-more-than-a-peck he lets linger for a few seconds before he pulls away. Blaine's hand has already moved to his waist, tangling in the fabric of his shirt.

"Oh," is what Blaine says, pressing his own lips back together. Which doesn't tell Kurt a lot, really, about the relative level of appropriateness of the kiss that he hadn't really planned on initiating in the first place.

What tells him more is the way Blaine strokes his thumb softly at his waist, then leans in to plant another kiss on the corner of his mouth.

They both aim more accurately with the next kiss, and it's accompanied by a soft "I'll see you tonight" a few minutes later. Kurt's going to pick him up at seven o'clock, they've decided, although Blaine points out they may need to allow an extra thirty seconds for the commute.

18 months later:

"I hate moving," Finn complains for the tenth time, dropping an armful of accent pillows onto the couch in a careless way that makes Kurt want to hit him. Again.

"You're getting paid in pizza, Finn," he reminds him instead, channeling his inner lotus blossom (or whatever his new yoga teacher keeps saying - Blaine, who has started going with him, happens to set his mat right in front of Kurt, and so sometimes he gets a little distracted). "And I told you, we're very grateful."

"You guys have a lot of heavy stuff."

"You're moving pillows across the hall, Finn," Kurt checks his list again. "And those go in the bedroom."

Finn clomps off just as Blaine appears with another box of books, and Kurt gives himself a moment to appreciate the sight of him setting it down.

Blaine taps the box. "There's only one more of these. Then we can start unpacking."

"Rachel's coming back to grab her last boxes of memorabilia in a few hours."

He sidles up, fingers slipping under the hem of Kurt's slouchy moving-sweater. "Hey, roomie."

"Hi." Kurt leans his weight into him and considers. "I'm rethinking the couch placement."

"You'd better not want ours, because Sam already told his new roommates they could have it."

Kurt manages to avoid wrinkling his nose, because he knows Blaine has an emotional attachment to the couch. He has some very fond memories of it himself - that couch has seen things - but they agreed that Kurt's fits better, especially if they use Blaine's bookshelves and sell Kurt's to the girl downstairs.

He slips the pencil behind his ear and tangles his fingers in the curls at the nape of Blaine's neck. "Mm, no, I just think the light would be better with it against that wall."

"We can look at it." Blaine hums and closes his eyes, leaning into the caress. "Oh, did you see where my robots went? They're not on my desk, and I really hope -"

"I wrapped them in tissue paper - they're in the shoebox on our bed." Blaine's head turns, eyes on him, unblinking, and Kurt's hand drops to his shoulder. "I didn't want them to break with stuff moving around, and with Sam and Finn - I hope that's okay."

"Kurt... thank you. I..." Blaine presses a quick kiss to the side of his mouth, and Kurt chases him to grab another. "...It's our bed."

"Yes, it is." He's enjoying the fingers gently skimming just above the waistband of his jeans, fully prepared to set down the clipboard and thoroughly explore the look in Blaine's eyes, but Finn comes back into the kitchen, dodging the table to grab a slice of cold pizza.

"Okay, I think that's almost it," he mumbles through a mouthful of cheese. "I moved the nightstand where you said, so can I -"

"Go see Rachel." Kurt waves a hand in dismissal.

"Cool, see you later, bro." He claps Blaine on the back. "Bye."

"Thanks, man." Blaine initiates a fist-bump, and after reciprocating, Finn turns to Kurt, grinning.

Kurt can't help but soften and smile back. "Thank you for your help, Finn." He lets himself be pulled into a bone crushing hug. Sometimes he has a hard time believing that the same guy who had objected so strongly - and with such venomous language - to the connotations of his teenage decorating choices is the same person who spent the morning lugging Kurt's boyfriend's possessions across the hall - and spent last night across the hall at aforementioned boyfriend's apartment playing video games with him and his roommate until later than Kurt wants to think about. "We really do appreciate it."

"No problem." Finn claps his back, then unfolds himself and heads for the door. "Catch you guys later."

Kurt's left standing there, in his old apartment that is now their apartment, with his boyfriend, whom he lives with (officially), in a space that has about a third of the stuff it did year ago, plus Blaine's things. Some space for them to grow, fill it up with their lives. Together.

Blaine squeezes his waist, kisses his neck, and then heads into the bedroom, where Kurt knows he'll find the shoebox on the bed, next to the brand new keychain and clearly marked in careful script. Blaine's Robots, it says in black sharpie, embellished with a carefully crafted smile.

And a heart, of course.