A/N: Based off Adam Maxwell's random prompt generator prompt (First quote in the story).
I don't own anything here.
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"What a time to start daydreaming." Blaine whispers, smirking, and Kurt is startled out of his thoughts, his usually pale cheeks blushing a bright pink that complements the baby blue sky beautifully.
This rosy hue is Blaine's favorite, he decides on the spot. Second, maybe, to the transparent yet opaque liquid glasz of Kurt's eyes. And third is the creamy, milky color of his skin. And fourth must be his hair, a mixture of brown and golden he would have thought impossible had he not met this miraculous boy.
Now it is Blaine's turn to drift, and he floats along thought lines such as the stark contrast of Mercedes next to Kurt— one, a rich chocolate color, the other so… porcelain.
It is a beautiful contrast, he decides, and one he loves to see only after viewing the difference between the angelic paleness and his own rough, tan epidermis.
It's been seven years since Dalton Academy, a rough period time, but one that they have overcome in the end. They are not yet at the doorstep of their dreams, but they are heading up the path, climbing the steps to the front porch, almost within reach of the tantalizingly bright doorbell.
And, speaking of doorbells, Blaine wants one.
Seven years is a long time. The couple is now in their early twenties— old enough to start life. Homophobic rules may be around for a while, but while they are dampened, here, in this blissful state of acceptance, where they need not worry about Karofsky, or close-minded adults. There is only love, surrounding both of them, emanated by both of them, radiating so that it may shine on anyone who is willing to embrace it.
So, Blaine wants a doorbell. And a door, and a porch, and a living room, and an upstairs, and all of these things that come with a house, including mortgage and plumbing problems and pesky gardens.
Mostly, though, he wants Kurt.
He knows that Kurt would love a house. A beautiful white picket house, on the outside, at least, the inside decorated by the angel himself, flitting around like a pixie in a paint smock, paintbrush in his teeth as he reaches up and stretches to reach the very top of the wall so as to smooth down the wallpaper as Blaine carries in boxes. A warm summer's day, peeking from the window, golden tinged leaves reaching out in the afternoon heat for some water, some care, some love. The smell of warm cookies as Blaine casually flicks over some paint onto Kurt's head, his blissful expression marred by one of horror, and then wicked teasing as he drops the brush from his mouth and chases Blaine as far as he can.
And then, at last, as the sun is setting, the cool sheets of the bed, the newly moisturized skin, the fan blowing gently into their room enough to ruffle their hair as they lie together, soft music playing from Kurt's iPhone as they embrace, Blaine whispering in Kurt's ear as he sleeps lightly.
And the smell of rain, just a light, summery mist, and then the morning, and work, but that cheerful warmth that is the temperature and their hearts as they continue to forge ahead and create a home for themselves, a life for themselves.
A family for themselves.
And Blaine knows, as he clutches Kurt's hand in the here and now, that happy family montages rarely are what they seem. Because this moment, now, was to be on the shore of this beach, not up here, the ocean lapping at their feet as Kurt smiled at him, a flower tucked behind his ear as Blaine slowly hugged him close, swaying softly to the rhythm of the water, humming in his ear before pulling away, the sun hiding behind the curtain of blue, the moon at last peeking out to watch Blaine step away from his beloved, and kneel, pulling out a velveteen box and beg him, plead with him to be his.
Montages do rarely come out perfectly.
But this is their own special kind of perfect, sitting in a cart on top of a hilly railing, unsure of when they will be dropped, clutching each other behind the firm black bar to keep them in their seats. The night is cool, not warm, but they huddle together, and the water is rather far, but as Blaine whispers in Kurt's ear, they can pretend that the wind is the tide. And swaying is not really the easiest or most practical option in this strangely symbolic situation, but it isn't really necessary, and besides— Kurt is the icing and the cake.
And so as Kurt pokes him lightly and asks him what he's thinking about, he begins his speech— not the carefully planned out one, but the one that resides in his heart, the one that he has just been seeing in his head, the epiphany he has just reached. And as he slips the ring onto a tearful Kurt's finger, the buzzer sounds, and they hurriedly stow the box away in his pocket and hold onto each other as their cart whooshes down and up in the hills and valleys of this roller coaster.
Blaine is not afraid. Blaine is ready.
"Hey," Kurt pokes him lightly, unafraid as he looks into Blaine's hazy gaze. "What a time to start daydreaming."
And Blaine couldn't agree more.
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A/N: Awwwww! Fluffy!
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