Kurt slammed into Blaine with the force of a wrecking ball, throwing his arms around his neck.
"Blaine-Blaine-Blaine-Blaine-Blaine…" he murmured into his gelled curls.
"Hey, Kurt!" Blaine chuckled softly at the enthusiasm with which he had hugged him. He placed his hands on Kurt's waist and pushed away so that they could see eye to eye. "How did Nationals go?"
"We came twelfth," he continued in the same breath, "but I've got so much to tell you! Come on, we've gotta find a place to sit down and talk!"
They wandered over to the park, the trees providing little shade from the heat of the sun. There weren't many people there, given that it was early on in Thursday afternoon, but in Blaine's honest opinion that just made it all the more better. There wouldn't be many – if any – interruptions.
Blaine found a stretch of lush, green grass and laid down, sprawling out and absorbing the sunlight. Kurt wrinkled his nose.
"What's the problem?" Blaine raised his eyebrows.
"Can't you see that these are brand new Ralph Laurent jeans? I am not getting grass stains on them."
"Kurt, what are you talking about? They're black jeans. Even if you did get stains they wouldn't show up." Blaine's eyes drifted over the designer label on the pocket and down each skinny leg in turn. How did the boy ever manage to get into those things?
"There is a bench over there, why not use it?"
"Shut up," mumbled Blaine, grinning mischievously as he grabbed his boyfriend's hand and pulled him down onto his lap, laughing as he scrambled around, trying to get back up.
Kurt gave up, still perched on Blaine's thigh. He gave him a threatening look. "You'll pay for that, Anderson."
"You're welcome. Now, tell me about New York."
Kurt told him everything. Breakfast at Tiffany's, singing on a Broadway stage, Times Square… and of course everything that happened at the show choir competition.
"…and Santana went absolutely crazy at Rachel when we got back to the hotel room. She started yelling in Spanish."
"Yikes," Blaine flinched, imagining the feisty girl being mad at him. He wasn't too sure he'd like that.
Kurt smirked, unzipping his jacket and revealing a short-sleeved white t-shirt.
Blaine's arms snaked around his waist. "White looks great on you."
"Do you want my honest opinion about something?"
"That would be nice."
"Save some money by not buying any of that darn hair gel." Kurt giggled, his hands sliding through Blaine's curls, leaning forward to touch their mouths together.
Blaine's arms tightened around his waist, surprised at how comfortable Kurt was with kissing in public. His lips parted, and one of his hands moved up to stroke his hair.
Abruptly, Kurt pulled away; the death stare initiated again.
"What is it?" Blaine was puzzled.
"Didn't you read the shirt?"
"I was a bit preoccupied with the person wearing the shirt, if I'm truthful."
"Blaine-"
He looked down at Kurt's chest. 'You can kiss me, you can hold me, but if you touch my hair I will kill you'.
He smirked. "Was that a New York purchase?"
"All you need to know is that it's a rule that you need to abide by in the future."
"So you can touch my hair, but I can't touch yours."
"It's a fair deal," Kurt shrugged, but he smiled brightly all the same.
"Well, if you were serious about the hair gel…"
"Which I was."
"…I suppose I can agree to that." He grinned, hands firmly on Kurt's hips as he tilted his head forward for another kiss.