A/N: Well folks? I know it's been forever since I updated, but it turns out that nothing motivates me quite like a breakup and my intense need for fluff. Also, this thing has gone super AU at this point, but thus far I'm just putting my hands over my ears and loudly singing that this story is my canon and all our babies are together in New York and they love each other. *cherie*
I know it can't undo 4x04 or unsink our ships, but I hope it will help to salve your wounds.
Thank you all for your support – favorites, follows, reviews, PMs! They mean everything and keep this story going, no matter its pace, and I love you all. I am genuinely thrilled with each and every review, favorite, and follow. :)
So if you're an old friend, thanks for sticking with me - and if you're new, welcome. I hope you like it!
Kurt has his hand half-wedged in his mouth in a last-ditch effort to keep from laughing. He knows his life is in danger if so much as a giggle should escape him, and if he's going to die, he wants to be found in a solemnly dramatic posture in a timeless fashion ensemble. There might even be a piano and a still-smoking gun involved. He does not want to be remembered as that guy whose boyfriend strangled him to death with a terry-cloth headband.
Blaine is alternating pacing across the bedroom floor with stopping in front of the mirror, pulling vainly at his unflatteringly tight Underarmor shirt, and pouting. "Rachel must have… got the wrong size."
"I'm sure you're right," Kurt chokes.
"She did!"
"I know!"
Blaine turns abruptly, his pout nothing short of pathetic. The black material outlines the very slight rounding of his belly – something almost unnoticeable even in the form-fitting shirt – and Kurt is suddenly stricken by how adorable it is and he can't help smiling.
Blaine goes super defensive in half a second, wrapping his arms around himself. "I didn't think you of all people would care."
"Oh no, no, Blaine!" Kurt hops off of the bed and bounds toward his boyfriend. Blaine is staring at the floor, stubbornly avoiding his gaze. "You know that I love every inch of you," he says with the slightest of eyebrow waggles. And when that fails to make Blaine smile, he presses a hand to the shorter boy's cheek and gently turns his head to face him. "Hey. I was actually thinking how adorable you look."
"No you weren't, you're just trying to make me feel better about my fat self."
"No, I'm not."
Blaine huffs. "Yes you are."
Kurt breathes for a second, hesitating, and then presses a hand over the tiny bit of pudge and kisses him full on the lips, one long, unbroken, unmoving kiss. When he pulls back, Blaine is biting his lip and blinking rapidly, his long eyelashes fluttering like moth's wings.
"I just – really love you," Blaine says at last, half melting into Kurt's arms.
"I love you too. Now could you quit mooning ridiculously over your appearance so we can get going?"
After a brief Blainchel kitchen showdown (he doesn't eat breakfast, she insists he needs a little protein to keep him up right during the run, threats involving projectile vomit are made, the issue is dropped) the two couples take to the streets. Rachel wants to run to Central Park and back but is summarily outvoted and they end up on the subway. One of their fellow passengers looks them up and down and asks if there's a Jazzercise class he didn't know about.
When they get to Central Park, Kurt takes them through a long and complicated stretching routine that threatens to split Finn's shorts, makes Blaine pull something he complains loudly about, and nearly incites a fistfight when Finn notices a man in a shady-ass trenchcoat studying Rachel's downward dog a little too long. After Finn has been sufficiently calmed down and Blaine's thigh has been slathered with emergency Icy Hot, they take off at what Rachel claims is a light jog through the park.
Finn matches pace easily with her – his legs, after all, must be about three times longer than hers – and revels in the way it feels to have air rushing through his lungs again. New York is bright and busy and beautiful, but it's also cramped. It's been months since Finn's been able to stretch his considerable length of leg in any sort of running – he refuses to hit NYU's gym with Rachel, mostly because the last time he got on a treadmill in a public place, he left with a myriad of bruises, considerably less skin on his face, and a YouTube video waiting to happen. He glances over at his petite girlfriend – escaped strands of hair flying, ponytail (and other things) bouncing – and lets out an endorphin-fueled laugh. "I'll race ya," he challenges.
"Oh, you are so on, buddy."
Behind, Blaine is using what little breath he has to systematically curse Rachel, Kurt, the Underarmor manufacturers, the architects of Central Park, the inventors of running, and air. Kurt backs off to little more than a trot and fixes him with a concerned look. "As much of a joy as this is, are you OK?"
"I think… I might… be having… an asthma attack," he volunteers, eyes wild.
Kurt stops altogether. "You don't have asthma."
"Maybe I'm… developing it."
"No."
"Also, I think I tore…. My ACL."
"You didn't tear your ACL, your hamstrings were just a little tight."
"Pretty sure it's my ACL."
"It's not – Blaine, you are OK."
"Listen, I know… I'm not… a very good fuc-"
"Excuse him," Kurt begs a scandalized looking woman with a running stroller.
"- ing runner, Kurt!" Blaine makes a gesture that under normal circumstances probably would have been very dramatic and pointed, but in his oxygen-deprived state is more like flapping an imaginary wing. "You just… go ahead… and run with them! I'll just take… the subway back… all by myself… if I can get there… what with my asthma… and my ACL…and hope I don't get… taken by some… creeper with a Richard Simmons fetish…"
"OK, stop, stop. You are fine. You are not having an asthma attack, you are a fine runner, and you know, I'm not really feeling the burn today anyway. Let's go get cheesecake."
"It's six-thirty in the morning," Blaine points out.
Kurt nods. "Cheesecake crepes, then."
"Are you sure? I don't want to - "
"Of course I'm sure. Cheesecake. Let me just run up and tell Finn and Rachel – "
Unfortunately, Kurt takes off at a sprint at about the same time as Finn and Rachel decide to race one another.
What Finn started as a romantic little game had quickly escalated to a full-on, balls-to-the-wall race because Rachel's competitive streak and Finn's never-ending desire to be great at something easily tangle into a Cold War style knot. They go rapidly from jogging, to running, to flat-out sprinting. Then a woman wearing headphones, walking a terrier, and paying no attention nearly has to scrape canine parts from the pavement when Finn just avoids running over her dog, slowing infinitesimally to spare its life. Rachel sees a possible advantage and shoots right, leaving Finn's path blocked by a veritable army of geese. Finn hesitates for a moment and then long-jumps into the middle of the birds, causing them to diffuse wildly with a significant amount of honking, and redoubles his pace to catch Rachel, who he immediately tries and fails to hipcheck off the path. He cowers slightly as her eyes light with flame and she gives him a vicious shove, throwing him so totally off balance and at such speed that he turns an ankle and faceplants like a felled tree.
Kurt watches the whole thing go down from an increasing distance with an increasing amount of incredulity, smacking a hand over his mouth when Finn falls. Rachel is so hell-bent on defeating him that she keeps running for a few seconds, punching the air when she realizes she's lost him, then turns back to taunt him and finally sees her timbered boyfriend.
By the time Kurt gets to the scene, Rachel's already kneeling by Finn's side, producing first aid wipes from some hidden pocket and brushing them gently over the scrapes on his chin, hands, and knees. "Oh, Finn, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to – "
"Of course you didn't, I'm – ouch – fine, Rachel, really – "
"You two are seriously like fourteen-year-old boys," Kurt interjects.
Rachel gives him a seriously frightening look, but drops it, focusing on tending to her man. "Where's Blaine?"
"Well, before you decided to go all human Nascar on me, I was coming to tell you that we quit for the day. We want crepes."
"I want crepes," Finn says weakly.
"We'll get you crepes, baby, don't worry." Rachel smoothes his hair back and twists the first aid wipe in her fist. "I think we're all done for the day. Can you stand?"
Finn has twisted the ankle – not badly enough to be devastating, just enough to force Rachel and Kurt to be used as human crutches as they hobble back through the park, earning a "serves you right!" from the terrier owner as they pass.
It takes a few minutes to locate Blaine. "I left him right here!" Kurt objects, sliding out from under Finn's arm and causing Rachel to let out a loud "mmmph" as Finn's weight redistributes to her side. "I don't – "
And then he spots him, sitting on a park bench.
He's not alone.
"Kurt, this is Keith," Blaine says, pointing to the ginger-mulleted man beside him. "Keith's really into exercise, too, and was just recommending that I should try this "exercise" DVD he has. He has one back at his "apartment" and was telling me I can come by any time. Isn't that nice?"
Keith grins widely, revealing a serious lack of enamel. "You're welcome any time, too, sweetcheeks. You just come with him. We'll be bending and stretching - "
"That is… unbelievably kind," Kurt chokes. "Blaine, we'd better go. Finn –"
"That one's not invited." Keith points just to make sure there's no confusion.
"Come on," Kurt hisses. Blaine appears to consider for a minute, obviously trying to punish Kurt for leaving him in Central Park wearing an outfit that could have landed him as an extra in the "Physical" music video, and then finally gets up, waving Keith off.
Kurt wheedles Blaine into taking his spot on Finn's side. "You're buying my crepes or I'm feeding you to Keith," Blaine warns.
"I'll buy your crepes and if you ever pull a stunt like that again I'm cutting you off." Blaine gasps and Kurt turns to his best friend and brother and affects a bright smile. "Let's get some breakfast cheesecake."
It takes twenty minutes for them to limp to a breakfast establishment, where it is mutually agreed that mascarpone cheese will always win out over a marathon.
No group exercise sessions are ever attempted again and Sunday morning crepes become the new apartment tradition without argument.
