Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or the Proposal.

Read Me: I've been gone for two weeks on a bit of a summer vacation, which explains the delay in fanfiction updates! Hopefully things will get all squared away by the time school starts.

"If you touch my ass one more time I will cut your balls off in your sleep, okay?"

"If you ever grab my ass again, I will kill you!"

"Hand. Off. Ass."

Margaret Tate, The Proposal

III

"You're one hell of a lucky man, Kurt," Elise shouts over the ruckus of the bar. KC and the Sunshine Band is playing on the huge silver speakers placed on opposite sides of the room as Kurt tentatively sips at a vodka tonic ("I don't want the smell of alcohol on my breath," he had explained) and Elise swills hard lemonade around in her mouth with a dangerously loopy expression decorating her face. Brittany's there, too, idly sipping at a fluffy white pina colada and leaning against the bar languidly.

Kurt looks up from his drink, baffled. "Why would you say that?" he asks, simultaneously shoving away unbidden thoughts about Blaine and how nice his arms had felt earlier in bed, strong and secure. "He's ridiculous. Also, he smells bad sometimes."

"Everyone smells bad sometimes," Brittany points out, motioning with her almost empty glass. There is thin layer of foam atop her upper lip like a mustache, and neither Kurt nor Elise has the heart to tell her.

Elise had changed into a bright yellow shirt dress with a flared collar and rolled up sleeves, and she looks positively bubbly as she replies, "Blaine's always had this amazing work ethic. Plus, he's not too bad on the eyes. I mean, he takes after all of the good qualities of mom and dad." She pounds her empty glass on the bar table. "Bartender! Hit me with some tequila, why don't you?" She screws up her face in concentration. "Actually, make that a Guinness, I kind of feel like taking a really long nap this afternoon, anyway."

The bartender gives her a lascivious wink and busily procures a pint of beer from the tap.

"Anyway, Kurt," Elise continues, leaning back against her chair and sniffing her new Guinness suspiciously, "You're not too bad on the eyes, either. Plus you seem grounded, good for Blaine. You know? Keep his head out of the clouds."

Kurt nods blankly, lips set in a grim line, and notices that Brittany's slunk off to a dark corner of the bar, where a catlike Latina girl with dark eyebrows is perched on her lap and pressing kisses into her neck. With gusto.

Elise lets out a low whistle. "That's Santana, Brit's on-again, off-again sex buddy-slash-girlfriend," she says. "Brit's also got a boyfriend, but she doesn't like to talk about him all that much. I guess it's just complicated."

"They're both beautiful girls," Kurt says honestly. "If they ever need a job, they could definitely look into the modeling business. I could set them up for a few photoshoots if they wanted—nothing too major, maybe just for the catalogues of more obscure brands. Start them off small, I don't know." He closes his mouth, immediately feeling ridiculous. "I mean...God, that was stupid. Pretend I didn't say anything there."

"See, that's ironic," Elise slurs around her beer. "But I'm gonna be frank here. Both girls are positively sex fiends."

Kurt remains silent and cards his finger through his bangs.

"You'd know all about that, though, wouldn't you, Kurt?" asks Elise teasingly, bumping her fist against Kurt's shoulder with a smirk. "Blaine and you've been getting it on, I can tell. He's been glowing lately. You make him really happy."

Kurt laughs, but the motion feels more hollow than warm. "Lots of things make that boy happy," he finally says. "He gets happy when he does his job properly, or when he's punched out all of the holes in his frequent customer card for Pinkberry."

"Boy loves his Pinkberry," Elise agrees with a buzzed sort of giggle.

Kurt shrugs. "How could you not? Frozen yogurt is delicious. Also healthy."

In the background, KC and the Sunshine Band stops playing immediately and the lights of the bar dim so low that Kurt can't see more than four feet in front of him. Annoyed, he sets his drink down and scanned the bar, pupils dilating owlishly—

Oh.

That.

The left side of the bar has a disturbing black stage in an enclave, complete with cheap, flickering strobe lights and a particularly dangerous looking set of holographic silver curtains swaying slightly in the breeze of the air conditioning. The enclave-stage, Kurt notes with distaste, is currently housed by a confident looking Indian man propped up against a black wooden chair, dressed only in his underwear and a vest and tie.

"You took me to one of those bars?" Kurt demands, staring at the man's back-fat in dismay. "Really? Really. It's barely noon, Elise!" He lets out a choked sputter. "You are just like your brother," he murmurs to himself.

Elise shakes her head rapidly, curls flying in and out of Kurt's range of vision. "Aw, naw, Kurt, that's just Figgins. He's the show, but he doesn't show that much skin—whoop! there goes the tie." She smiles vacantly, her pint of Guinness more than halfway gone. "He doesn't take off his underwear, or anything. No penis." Elise holds up two fingers in a cross. "No penis."

"Let's get physical, physical," Olivia Newton John warbles from the stereo as Figgins jumps into a demented plie and begins to perform a pseudo-raunchy striptease, unmentionable body parts jiggling about. Kurt can only stare the the man in disbelief—slightly heavyset and perhaps a bit too old to be performing at bars in the middle of Westerville, whatever sort of a hick town Westerville might be (which is to say, not a hick town at all, but Kurt's judgement's been clouded by a couple glasses of dry alcohol and a feeling of inexplicable panic). "Let me hear your body talk," Olivia continues, unrelenting, and Figgins rips off the vest with a triumphant cry and stands before the audience of amused middle-aged women in only his underwear.

"Shit, that burns," Kurt sputters, shielding his eyes with his glass of vodka. "Please tell me I'm not going to see penis today. Please!"

Elise lets out an inebriated laugh that sounds just as frightening as the way Figgins looks. "He's fan-fucking-tastic is what's up, Kurt," she sings loudly in time with Olivia Newton John. "Woo! Go, Figgins!" She stabs a finger in Kurt's general direction. "Take him! Take him, he's gay and newly engaged!"

Figgins seems genuinely excited as he salsas his way offstage and pulls very disgruntled Kurt through the bar and sets a completely heinous wedding veil upon his head, engaging in enthusiastic pelvic thrusts the entire way down.

"Excuse me," Kurt says, attempting to lift the veil from his head and collapsing into the chair set at center stage, "But I'm not planning on being the girl in my relationship at all. I refuse to wear a—oh my God, please stop that."

Figgins has a frenzied look on his face as he mounts the chair and begins to thrust his hips in all sorts of directions, some of which seem to be illegal in most countries.

"Let's get physical, physical," Olivia insists like the half-baked 80s vixen she is.

Kurt stands up abruptly and scurries back to the bar with no help at all from Elise or Brittany as the music ends, followed by raucous laughter and applause from everyone in the bar except him. As the lights come back on and all of Figgins' articles of clothing are salvaged, business cards rain through the air like ninja stars. Kurt reluctantly catches one, flips it over, and nearly gags at what he finds.

"A Figgins for all occasions—birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, bachelorette parties, and more!

Sponsored by Mumbai Airlines. Visit .com to watch a video on how to prevent clots in flight with anti-embolism stockings!"

.:.

"Don't do this, Richard," Evangeline says just as Blaine enters the sitting room. "Don't cast your son aside because he works hard or he loves too much—oh! Blaine."

Richard Anderson is seated on the leather sofa wearing nothing but a suit and a poker face. "I know," he tells his wife solemnly. "I think it'd be best if you left now." Evangeline looks at him with sad eyes, but shakes her head and complies. Her skirts billows as she walks out of the door. Once she's gone, Richard shifts in his seat and gazes straight at Blaine. "Son. I heard about your...proposal."

"Excuse me?" Blaine asks, plopping down on the seat next to his father unceremoniously.

Richard sighs. "Your engagement to your boss. I suppose it would have been nice if you had talked to me about it beforehand."

"I'm twenty-eight, Father, I have a job, and a house, and I'm fully grown. I..." Blaine's eyes find Richard's. "I don't need to ask you about anything. You've never played too big of a role in my life. I was under the impression that you wanted to keep it that way."

There's a dangerous glint in Richard's bright hazel eyes. "Don't assume things, Blaine!" he scolds, the volume of his voice rising sharply.

Blaine frowns. "What do you want from me? An apology?"

"Of course I want an apology! How do you think I feel, being alienated from my own family and coming back to find that my firstborn son is getting married to a man?"

Blaine sets his lips in a hard grimace. "Oh, really? You never seemed to care before. About my sexuality."

Richard settles back down into his chair. "I don't. Not...not really. But a discussion beforehand would have been nice—"

"You know what?" Blaine says, sharply rising from his chair. "I've been working for Kurt Hummel for more than a year and a half now. We met, we fell in love, four months—" Blaine's grasping at straws and coming up with lies on the spot. "Four months ago he proposed. I said yes. You've been aware of my sexuality since freshman year, high school, and if I recall correctly, it was you who paid for Dalton tuition so I could be safe. So I could be myself!"

"I am your father!" Richard bellows. "I refuse to have no part in the life of my son!"

"I never said you didn't!"

"Oh, yes?" Richard asks, his tone growing dangerously soft. "It feels like I don't."

Blaine sighs and takes three paces to the right of his father. "I don't know what you want. You seem to think that you deserve something from me—"

"That would be because I do."

"And what would that be?"

"A place in your life that's not riddled with Kurt and work and useless victimization—"

"You think that I'm lying about everything?"

Richard stops in his tracks. "It sure seems like you are," he says.

"I'm going to stop you right there," Blaine says quietly, refusing to look his father straight in the eye. "You don't deserve anything from me. You're not a part of my life because you never chose to be." He crosses his arms over one another. "For every moment that you made me feel good about myself as a kid, there were five other situations in which you made me feel like shit."

Beat.

"I'm going to go now," Richard says gruffly. "I'll be at the golf course. And Blaine?"

Blaine sighs. "Yes, father?"

"This isn't over."

.:.

Kurt needs to get the stench of the stripper Figgins off of his body, and he needs to get it off presently, so stepping into a piping hot shower feels intuitive and almost welcoming, even as the hot water droplets fizz against his skin, leaving bright red marks in their wake. He very seldom takes burning hot showers because of how they mark up his skin, but he's just been practically assaulted by a stripper. Kurt's allowing for some leeway here.

Blaine's taken the liberty of unpacking all of Kurt's toiletries for him, so it's disarmingly easy to just reach into the shower rack and grab his usual Fekkai shampoo, lathering it up and making a little mohawk out of his hair with the suds before washing it off completely. All the while, he sings a cut of a fourteen-minute Celine Dion melody in order to time himself, scrubbing himself with apricot shower gel and a loofah until the second verse and rinsing himself clean by the bridge. "Je suis tout ce que je suis, parce que tu m'as aimée," he sings, rubbing his chin with Aveeno shave cream and running his Gillette four-blade razor across the foam, blubbering up only a little bit when soap ends up in his mouth. Once he's finished shaving, he finally turns off the water jets and stepping out of the shower.

.:.

Blaine's frustrated, so obviously he's burning off his anger by jumping some intensely ferocious rope in the backyard of Anderson Manor. Sweat is dripping down and stinging at his eyes, but he keeps up with the the rotations, jumping rope like a complete master.

"Blaine. You are going to get through this, you're going to like it. Kurt Hummel is a piece of sweet ass, even though he's the most annoying little shit ever," he's muttering to himself as he whips the jump rope above his head more times than he can count, completely aware of the stupidity of every single word that falls from his lips. "You're going to be fine, your parents are going to be fine. Who knows, maybe the relationship will work out. Maybe the sex will be awesome."

Blaine recalls the way Kurt had shied away from his embarrassingly obvious morning wood.

"Okay, so the guy probably wouldn't want to be even a foot near your dick. That's fine, we were never planning on consummating the marriage anyway..."

He whips the jump rope over his head and somehow manages to get in two whole jumps in one rotation. "Just...be happy for me, be okay with my sexuality, why did I have to talk to him today about this stupid engagement and why...? Why?"

Stopping in his movements, Blaine sets aside his jump rope and tries to quiet his pounding heartbeat. He's overdone it, and he can already feel the burning sensation in his calves and thighs.

"You know what, Blaine?" he asks himself, wrapping his jump rope around his forearm and wiping his sweaty brow off with a towel, "You're going to take a shower. You're going to get clean, and you're going to get ready for your upcoming wedding with a charming, dapper smile on your face."

And with that, Blaine sticks his headphones into his ears, blasts some Maroon 5, and climbs up the steps into the balcony of his and Kurt's bedroom.

.:.

There aren't any towels in the bathroom, Kurt soon realizes as he steps out of the shower cubicle feeling ridiculously bare and, well, wet, his hair flopping ridiculously over his forehead like a dead fish.

"Stupid Andersons," Kurt mumbles, opening the cupboard under the sink. The entire space is empty, save for an extra roll of toilet paper and a bottle of Summer's Eve feminine wash. Whatever that's there for. "So unprepared, so stupid, so—"

Oh. Blaine had said the towels were in the bedroom cabinet just a few hours ago, right before he ducked out of the room with a devious kiss to Kurt's forehead and a smirk on his face.

Kurt laughs at his own stupidity and carefully opens the bathroom door. He sticks his head out—there isn't anyone in his bedroom, save for Pavarotti in his golden cage, looking at him placidly and chirping every so often, the light catching in his tiny, beady black eyes.

"Shut up, you stupid bird," Kurt says dismissively, catching sight of the towels; bleached white terry cloth with indigo stitching, all piled into the shelf next to Pavarotti's cage. "I just need a towel."

Kurt hunches over and attempts to shield his crotch from the watchful eye of Blaine's canary with one of the decorative fabric squares that had been piled on the bathroom sink.

Chiiiiiirp.

"Stop that!"

Chiiiirp-tweet. Tweeeeeeet.

The bird titters to itself steadfastly, as if amused by the desperation of Kurt's situation. Pavarotti's sharp trills practically box Kurt in the ears worse than nails on a chalkboard. Kurt's frustration, then, can only grow as Pavarotti begins to strategically slip pieces of birdseed through the bars of its cage.

Kurt scowls as various nuts and seeds scatter themselves into his damp hair. "Wise ass," he mutters, brushing at his hair angrily.

.:.

Blaine stands on the balcony of his bedroom, music blaring in his ears through the headphones of his iPod and hands resting on the wooden enclosure.

"I am in misery," he sings along, voice breaking slightly on the last syllable. "There ain't nobody who can comfort me—oh yeah!"

He shimmies out of his gym shorts and pulls off his sweaty Hanes v-neck, the fabric clinging up against his well-built chest. The sun beats hot against his skin, keeping the sweat so warm it gives Blaine small burning sensations. A shower wouldn't be so adverse presently, so Blaine happily stepped out of his briefs and stretched his arms upward, sighing as the muscles in his back loosened and several of his bones cracked.

There he stands, stark naked. Blaine Anderson, flashing the world atop his balcony, only not really, since the balcony faces the Ohio woods and not any place even vaguely inhabited by humans. Blaine Anderson, letting it all quite literally hang out, be it shame or genitalia. The resemblance he shares with Yentl's Avigdor in that one skinny-dipping scene is frightening.

"Why won't you answer me? The silence is slowly killing me!" Blaine howls as he opens the door to his room. "Oh yeah!" And fist pump. And fist pump.

Wait.

Was that a—?

Blaine's eyes fly open from their mid-song squint.

.:.

"Alright, Pavarotti," Kurt hedges deceptively, and then he breaks off into a hurried sprint in the direction of the towel shelf, refusing to look back at the noisily squawking bird. "Okay...okay..." His fingers brush against the fabric of a folded towel set. Yes! Yes! Just a little bit further—

"OH MY GOD!"

Never mind.

Blaine Anderson, completely unclothed, comes barreling into the bedroom as if projected from a cannon, effectively colliding against Kurt, equally naked save for his expression (which happens to be completely composed of insanity).

"Jesus Christ!" Blaine yells, trying to push himself off of Kurt. His palms can't find any purchase an Kurt's fresh-from-the-shower slick skin that smells faintly of apricot. "Why are you wet?"

"Why am I wet—why are you NAKED?" Kurt shouts, performing an extremely complicated leap off of Blaine and behind the couch. He reaches behind him and grabs a blanket, quickly making it his first priority to swath himself in the material so as to hide his nakedness.

"Why are you naked?" Blaine demands, eyes searching up and down Kurt's (now clothed) body wildly. "Didn't you hear me coming in?"

"I was in the shower, you dumbass, didn't you hear the water?"

Blaine motions to his iPod earphones. "Music? Duh?" His thumb surreptitiously finds the pause button, silencing Maroon 5's concerns about answers, or the lack thereof.

Kurt freezes up and emits a strangled choking noise. Blaine's nakedness is obvious as he struggles to stand upright, and frankly, Kurt isn't ready to see all of that, especially all of Blaine's that. "Oh, hell. Penis!" Kurt whimpers hysterically, holding his hands up to his face. "Put some clothes on before I cut your balls off! And then feed them! To...to Pavarotti!"

"That's quite the threat," Blaine mutters, grabbing a towel from the shelf and wrapping it around his trim waistline. "I mean, that's like the seventh time you've used that one on me. I'm running out of testicles for you to chop off."

Kurt's expression is positively murderous, so Blaine wisely holds both of his heads up in the air in a sign of resignation and slinks into the bathroom, leaving Kurt alone to ponder the frenzied rushing in his ears.

.:.

Kurt lies prone on his bed, drumming his hands against his stomach and listening to the ruffling noises of Blaine making his tiny bed out of the comforter. "I don't want you ever talking about that, ever," Kurt says sharply, staring up at the ceiling and counting the divots in the plaster.

Blaine chuckles dryly. "I wasn't going to."

Kurt hums in satisfaction. He can live with the situation if it isn't ever mentioned. Don't ask, don't tell.

"It's just...wow," Blaine murmurs pensively. "Just...naked."

"Stop it, Blaine." Kurt says. "Don't even go there."

Blaine swallows. He manages to choke down the funny feeling of warmth that had been developing in the back of his throat. "I don't want you taking this the wrong way," he says slowly. Decisively. "But you're..."

"Hm?"

"Never mind. You're going to say something verbally abusive, I can just tell."

"No, I won't."

"You're going to panic and threaten to cut my penis off again."

Kurt reaches behind himself, grabs a throw pillow, and gamely chucks it in Blaine's direction. "Orders are orders, Blaine."

Blaine presses his lips together in a thin line and hesitates. "Beautiful. You're beautiful," he admits. "You...you shouldn't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Kurt pales instantly, but he can't deny the wonderful feelings the compliment sends through his body, sparking nerves he didn't know he had. "Thank you," he whispers. "I've got a biting and caustic comment ready right now, but I will refrain." The lie instantly puts a damper on said nerves. "Where were you today?"

"I talked with my dad about our engagement," says Blaine abruptly. "Let's change the subject."

"I want to know."

"I don't want to tell you."

Kurt harrumphs and pulls the blankets around himself even tighter.

"Tell me about yourself," Blaine prods. "Things that I truly don't know about you."

Kurt pulls the covers tighter around himself and racks his brain for some answers. "My mother died when I was eight years old. She got tuberculosis and just...she always had a weak immune system, you know?" He pauses. "I was bullied a lot in high school. Just the standard locker pushing. Dumpster tossing. The name calling. I still can't look at a slushee cup without flinching."

"Oh," Blaine says.

"Haven't had a boyfriend since college," Kurt continues. "My first musical I ever saw on a real stage—Broadway, I mean, not some community theatre—was Jersey Boys. One of my many bullies turned out to be a...very angry, very closeted homosexual."

Kurt cannot begin to describe the reluctance he feels to tell Blaine his next factoid. "Haven't slept with anyone since I had aforementioned boyfriend in college."

"That's a long time," Blaine remarks, the condom he had hidden in his wallet practically burning a hole through the leather.

Kurt huffs indignantly. "That's all you got from that?"

"Maybe?"

"I don't have the time for sex," Kurt retorts.

Blaine smiles. "Everyone has time for a quickie," he says sagely. "I'm not even that sex-obsessed and I know that."

"You're gross," Kurt says.

Blaine's smile falters. "...you were talking about Jersey Boys?" he asks, deigning to switch topics.

"You know, the story about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons?"

"I don't," Blaine responds, laughing at how lispy Kurt's voice gets when tired.

"Come on. 'Oh, What A Night'? Oh what a night...late December back in '63...!"

Blaine chuckles darkly at Kurt's singing.

"What a very special time for me...'cause I remember what a night!" Kurt insists. "Come on, you have to—"

Blaine gives up. "Sweet surrender, what a night!" he belts, voice skyrocketing dangerously into falsetto zone.

"What the hell?" Kurt asks.

"I knew the song," Blaine says quietly. "I just wanted to hear you sing it."

Kurt blinks. "Good night, Blaine," he finally forces out of his teeth, reaching over to flick off the light switch.

.:.

When Blaine wakes up the next morning, he props himself up on his elbows and cranes his neck so that he can see Kurt curled up in a tight ball, holding a fluffy down pillow to his chest protectively. He smiles at the picture and stands up, dragging the comforter with him and placing it at the foot of the massive bed, smoothing out the wrinkles and then unceremoniously plopping himself onto the space next to Kurt. Kurt wrinkles his nose and rolls over to allow more room for Blaine. Kurt's mussed hair and sleepy eyes come straight into Blaine's view and he grins. "You look pretty," he singsongs teasingly.

Kurt frowns and lifts up the edge of the quilt. "Get in bed before your mother comes in," he says, voice muffled by the pillow pressed into his face. "That's an order, Anderson."

Blaine busies himself with tucking himself around Kurt's body, tugging the pillow out of Kurt's grasp and allowing Kurt to spoon him instead, thus preventing any possible morning erection-and-Kurt interaction. Blaine struggles to hold back a few triumphant fist-pumps. Kurt snuggles in closer, his breath hot on the nape of Blaine's neck, and tells him, "You're warm. S'nice."

"You're sleepy and obviously very, very out of it," Blaine manages, squirming uncomfortably and staring at his crotch, hoping that his close proximity to Kurt wouldn't have any sort of effect on...there. "You haven't insulted me yet."

Kurt chuckles. "You're obviously out of it, too. I mean, you came into bed without me demanding it from you."

"I'm not into the whole non-consent thing, really."

"Shut up," Kurt says as the door handle begins to jiggle. "Your mom's here."

Evangeline pokes her head through the door with a silver platter of muffins and coffee. "Good morning, handsomes!" she cries, gracefully setting the plate down and gliding over to the foot of the bed. "How about another round of breakfast in bed? Elise and Brittany were out late last night catching up with a few people—" The memory of Elise getting wasted in the middle of the afternoon to the tune of Olivia Newton John's "Physical" flashes in Kurt's mind and he lets out an unchecked shudder. "—so they're still asleep. I figure we'll just have a lazy morning before the engagement party."

Blaine wriggles out of Kurt's hold and sits up in bed. "Where's dad?"

Evangeline quirks up a shapely eyebrow. "Working," she says evasively. "I'm going to leave now, enjoy your breakfast."

"Thanks, Mrs. Anderson," Kurt says.

"Call me Evangeline," she says, stepping away from the bed and heading towards the door. "Oh, and boys? Be ready by three o'clock, okay?"

"Yes, mama," Blaine answers in a small voice. He ducks his head down parallel to Kurt's. "Oh, my God, Kurt, I can't do this."

Kurt sits up and begins to work his fingers through his hair, preening, looking into a small compact mirror. "Can't do what?"

"I can't marry you and then divorce you and then..." Blaine cradles his head in his hands. "My dad's going to kill me, my mother's going to die, Brittany's going to be so confused—"

Kurt drops the compact mirror and looks at Blaine, really looks at him, a look of pure wonderment adorning his sleepy face. "Please don't tell me you're pulling out now. Please."

Blaine shakes his head. "I'm...I'm not. I was just being stupid. I mean, divorce happens all the time."

Kurt grins in relief. "Oh, thank God. I thought for sure you were going to leave me to be deported to Europe."

"We couldn't have that, could we?" Blaine replies lightly. He suddenly feels disappointed, and Kurt's words are a slap to the face. Oh, right, this doesn't mean anything, this is just a plan, oh, hey, it's also illegal.

"Now," Kurt says, grabbing the tray without preamble. "Let's get some food in us, shall we?" He expertly pours out a mug of black coffee, the aroma hitting him full force with its robust earthiness. "How would you like your coffee?"

"What, you don't remember?" Blaine asks. Just a day or so ago they traded coffee habits, and now Kurt doesn't remember any part of it?

The cup of coffee trembles slightly in Kurt's hands.

Blaine shrugs. "Nah, it's alright," he says, taking the cup from Kurt. "Drip coffee. Black, with sugar on special occasions." Kurt smiles widely and uses the tiny pair of tongs to drop a sugar cube into the mug.

"You like yours with skim milk in it," Blaine murmurs, accidentally brushing Kurt's cheek as he leans over to reach for the carton of milk. "And a spot of brown sugar to make it sweet. Right?"

"R-right," Kurt says, gratefully taking the mug from Blaine. "Do you want something to eat?" He lifts the top off of the plate and reveals a host of various breakfast pastries; cinnamon rolls, apple tarts, muffins, breakfast waffles with finely milled powdered sugar sprinkled on them. "Muffin? Looks like there's lemon poppy seed and raspberry." Blaine motions for a cinnamon roll and Kurt hands one to him, reveling in Blaine's childlike expression as he takes a bite.

"I love these things," Blaine says through a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

"I can see that," Kurt says with an airy laugh. "See? Everything's going to work out fine." His hands find Blaine's shoulders and squeeze, tracing the muscles with fleeting touches of his thumbs and rubbing up and down Blaine's biceps. "We're in this together. No one's going to die, no one's going to find out, no one's going to—"

"What are you doing?" Blaine inquires, cocking his head to the side as Kurt continues to massage his shoulders.

Kurt immediately stops in his ministrations and blushes a violent shade of red. "N-nothing."

Blaine smiles, eyes squinting at the ends. "Was it a nothing-nothing or a something-nothing?"

"Eat your food," Kurt says dismissively, biting into a waffle and letting the sugar dissolve on his tongue. "I have an hour-long moisturizing routine to finish and a wardrobe to select." He stretches his arm out to stroke against Blaine's cheek with the back of his hand. "You need to shave, too."

"Shaving. Gross," Blaine replies, wrinkling his nose.

Kurt smirks and leans up against the headboard with a content sigh.

A content sigh that is immediately overridden by a look of complete terror.

"Blaine! Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shi—"

With a spasmodic jerk, Blaine finds himself launching himself in Kurt's direction. "What is it? Are you okay? Oh, God, do I need to—"

"We have our engagement party in a few hours," Kurt says hollowly. "And we don't have an engagement story."

The tension rolls off of Blaine's shoulders. "...that's all you're worried about?"

Kurt frowns at him. "Blaine, you should know by now that I actually like romance. I refuse to get cozy with the idea of a subpar engagement."

Blaine extends his arms behind his head and watches Kurt, amused. "Why not just tell them the truth? You proposed on the street while we were walking to work."

"Blaine. Who do you think I am?"

"Crazy."

"Blaine."

"Look, Kurt," Blaine articulates, hands splayed out before him. "I'm awful at romance. You expect me to come up with a good cover story? I don't even know what you want from me. We've never discussed our relationship in full before."

Kurt expertly extracts a notebook from the bedside table and pulls out a mechanical pencil, clicking the lead out methodically. He tells Blaine, "Help me brainstorm."

"This is not very organic," Blaine complains with a childish pout. "Besides, I don't even have a ring."

"That won't be a problem," Kurt snaps. "Goodness, it's like you don't know me at all." He tosses a red jewelry box at Blaine. "Pick a ring, any ring."

Blaine scrutinizes the box's contents—all different kinds of rings, all simple and classic. The most outlandish one is designed to fit over three fingers, and it feels weighty in his palm. Noticing the ring Blaine had been examining, Kurt allows a horrified expression to settle on his face. "Don't pick that one."

"Wasn't going to," Blaine answers, selecting a white gold band inlaid with grains of diamonds and holding it up to Kurt's face. "This one good?"

"Does it fit?"

Blaine manages to poke his ring finger through it and smiles winsomely at Kurt, holding up his hand. "Yes?"

"Very nice," Kurt approves, returning his attention to the notebook. "We'll tell your family that you didn't want to spoil the engagement, and that's why you haven't been wearing my ring." He looks up at Blaine. "That is, by the way, my ring. Not yours. You'll have to return it once we head back to New York."

"Huh? Oh, of course," Blaine says distractedly, watching the diamonds glitter in the morning light.

"Now," Kurt proclaims, poising the pencil on paper. "Our proposal. Any ideas?"

.:.

Up next: Kurt and Blaine get ready for the engagement party together, the engagement party occurs, and an awkward first kiss.

Thank you all so much for taking the time to read and review each chapter! It really has been a blast getting to know you guys on here. As always, reviews are deeply appreciated and loved.

Don't forget to add to story alert/etc. if you want to be informed of updates asap! And again, please tell me of your thoughts via review.

Visit me on Tumblr!

paundromat . tumblr . com