Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.
Kurt feels like a trainwreck the minute that he wakes up. He can feel the congestion clogging his sinuses, one hand reaching up to rub futilely at his forehead as the higher bars of Rachel's morning shower warm up ring through the thin walls. "We had an agreement," he snaps loudly in her direction, voice coming out noticeably hoarser than usual as he throws back the covers and struggles to his feet.
If Rachel won't obey the no-shower-singing-before-seven rule, then he doesn't need to clear a stupid shelf in their ridiculously tiny fridge for her vegan smoothies, he decides, vindication rushing through his veins. Somewhat cheered by the thought if still groggy and heavy-headed and so achy it makes him groan with every step, he blinks at himself in the mirror by the bed before scowling decisively.
Coffee. He needs coffee like he needs air or he is just going to die right then and there and that's completely unacceptable. He has at least three new scarves that he hasn't even worn yet and a fourth that he's been eyeing in the window for a week now (Blaine if I don't get it now it'll go out of stock and I will never speak to you again; Kurt, baby, c'mon, when has something that fashionable ever disappeared so quickly? It'll be fine, let's go get more frozen hot chocolate instead, you already have three new ones from last week), and he would rather chew off his own arm than leave them un-worn. It's a travesty. It's completely unacceptable.
And, God, is that stubble on his face? Reaching up to rub the fuzz around his cheeks, he groans again, trying to find the will power to shave.
On the plus side, it'll make his morning moisturizing routine that much more effective and generally enjoyable. Not to mention it makes him look more presentable than fresh-off-the-sheets Kurt Hummel, starring his rolled up gray pajama pants and a white tank top.
He's such a mess. But even stretching his arms over his head seems to take too much effort, and without his first coffee he doesn't even want to consider sorting through all the creams and picking out a nice outfit for the day before he's had any caffeine, and so he sets practicality aside and instead dares to venture into the main part of the loft instead.
And is greeted by the warm, wonderful, sinful smell of freshly-brewed coffee. Accompanied by an equally fresh and wonderfully well-groomed fiancé leaning against the counter humming to himself as he fiddles with the machine. It's touchy – it always lets off too much steam and never seems to get the coffee temperature quite right left unattended, and there is nothing Kurt dislikes more than lukewarm coffee – but Blaine seems to have a handle on it. Admiring his ass in his favorite green shorts for the better part of six shameless seconds (how wonderful it is to be engaged, Kurt thinks), Kurt sidles up to the counter behind him and wraps his arms around Blaine's waist, cutting him off mid-hum.
"Morning," he greets huskily, a laugh bubbling out of Blaine's throat as he turns his head to kiss his cheek once unthinkingly.
"Good morning," he echoes softly, and promptly freezes, mouth pressed comically to the stubble around Kurt's jaw for a full second before he blurts out, "Oh my God you have stubble."
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the wonder twins, fresh out of their cave of unending sodom– " Santana cuts off mid-rant, her mouth all but gaping open as she asks, "Did you seriously grow a beard?"
"It is not that much," Kurt says, voice coming out in a raspy growl as Blaine turns in his arms and blinks twice before promptly keeling over.
Actually, literally keeling over. Kurt's hands flail for a moment before he catches him, Blaine hastily righting himself as he turns red and apologizes over and over, because oh my God Kurt you have stubble.
And normally Kurt wouldn't mind the rather flattering effusion of how amazing his ability to grow facial hair is, except Santana's right there and Rachel is still practicing her high Fs in the shower and Kurt is going to explode if his headache gets any stronger.
So he kisses Blaine and chucks an unopened bag of coffee at Santana when he sees her phone and successfully makes it to the bathroom door before either of them can stop him. "Rachel Barbra Berry, you open this door right now," he orders.
To his surprise, it flies open a second later, and whether it's Santana's dry comment of "This is so going on Instagram" or Blaine's half-intelligible squeak behind him that does it, he marches into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind them.
And Rachel's in a towel but he doesn't even care as he storms up to the sink and stares at his own reflection, still slightly blurry with sleep, and yes, there is a very visible and surprisingly prominent thatch of stubble growing on his cheeks.
Reaching up a hand to rub over it as his stomach turns and his head throbs, he considers what it would take to shave, the added effort of moisturizing after and then getting ready for work.
Then he squares his shoulders, turns to face Rachel – still frozen in place, her towel mercifully covering everything below the shoulders – and says succinctly, "I'm going back to bed. If I hear another sound before eleven, I'm burning all of your playbills. All of them," he adds warningly when she opens her mouth to protest.
She steels her own shoulders, ready to argue, before Blaine knocks on the door, nudging the door open with a hesitant, "Kurt?"
Sighing gustily in defeat, Rachel turns back to the shower with a frustrated noise, dropping her towel while her back is to him – and Kurt's already sputtering with a response to that, because he refuses to be intimidated by boobs – just as Blaine inches the door open. "Can I – ohmygodwhyisrachelnaked." The door snaps shut so quickly that Kurt's amazed he doesn't catch his nose in it, a startled laugh coming from within the shower as Kurt sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before tugging the door open, almost spilling Blaine onto the floor.
Santana's already helping herself to a cup of coffee, Kurt notices out of the corner of his eye, and he cherishes the thought of throwing out all of her hair extensions in retaliation before focusing his attention back on Blaine. "You are going down to the bakery and getting me a raspberry cheesecake," he says, staring at Blaine's eyes as Blaine's wander down to his jawline before he meets Kurt's gaze obediently, his eyes slightly wide with surprise.
"I thought you –"
"Then you're losing this," Kurt says, tucking a hand under Blaine's white bow tie and snapping it back against his neck lightly, "and joining me in bed for a Downton Abbey marathon. No excuses. Understand?"
Blaine nods quickly, visibly dazed and blatantly staring at the stubble on Kurt's cheeks, unable to help himself. "Of- of course, Kurt, yeah. Yes. I'll – um. – I'll just – I'll be right back."
Kurt waits until he's out the door and Rachel's singing a far more acceptable rendition of No Air before turning to Santana, leaning smugly against the counter nursing a cup of his coffee.
"You're a bitch, and that's my coffee," he says, words lacking heat as he pads across the room and retrieves a mug for himself. He's tired and cranky and he wants to cuddle his fiancé for a few hours – he doesn't have classes at all on Thursdays and Isabelle has been letting him work remote ever since he started attending NYADA full-time – but he can't ignore the desire pulling him toward the coffee.
"What, just because I needed lasting proof that Lady Hummel isn't actually a lady?" Santana says, sipping from her coffee as he pours himself a cup.
Kurt ignores the jibe, eyelids sliding closed in relief as he drinks a third of the cup down in one go. "You know what, Santana? This?" he reaches up to rub his cheek, a fierce sort of pride burning in his chest at the realization that Santana holds nothing over him, "is just proof that I was right and you were wrong and you need to stop picking on Rachel."
He takes his coffee and retreats back to the warm nest of shared clothes and tussled sheets that is his and Blaine's bedroom.
And when he sets the coffee aside and collapses face-first on the bed, he feels a certain satisfaction knowing that Blaine finds the stubble hot and Santana doesn't have a witty retort for it.
It doesn't hurt that he's able to find the warm spot where Blaine had been sleeping earlier and curl up in it, wrapping his arms around one of the pillows and breathing out slowly in contentment.
. o .
"Kurt, baby?"
Kurt grunts to express his discontentment at being awoken from what was rapidly becoming the most perfect nap, especially to be reminded of the aches settling into his bones and making even rolling onto his back a painful effort, but as he blinks up at Blaine some of his chagrin melts as he smiles, squinty-eyed and tired, instead.
"I brought yo- oof," Blaine says, falling on top of Kurt when he tugs him down, grateful that he had the foresight to put the cheesecake away first.
"Cuddle now," Kurt says, manhandling him into position as Blaine willingly obliges, happily wrapping his arms around Kurt's waist and resting his cheek against the back of his neck, "talk later."
Blaine kisses the back of his neck once and Kurt hums his approval, relaxing against him.
"Your stubble is amazing," Blaine whispers, almost like he's sharing a secret, and Kurt lets out a little huff of laughter as he turns and brushes his cheek just slightly against Blaine's, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Cuddle first," he insists, tugging Blaine's hands more comfortably around his belly and scooting back against him until he's satisfied, "talk later."
Blaine hums, pressed against him, so much warmth and strength and sincerity all bundled into one, and Kurt drifts off to the happy thought that at least if he has to deal with Rachel staring and Santana mocking his masculinity at times, at least he has Blaine to appreciate it.