"Wes, aren't you supposed to be all 'crazy gavel-obsessed head committee member'? Why am I the one painting this?" Kurt looked up from the banner, at Wes, who was lounging on Blaine's giant bed, surrounded by pillows.

David, who was also at work, glared at his roommate. "You know, I thought when you said we would go work at Blaine's house this weekend that we'd either all work... or play video games. Not that you'd sit there watching Kurt and I slave away."

Wes waved his hand, intent on his game of cell phone snake. "Shh! Besides, you guys are better artists than I am. The banners will look excellent."

Kurt considered throwing paint at him, but didn't want to get it all over Blaine's bedspread. He stated this aloud.

"I appreciate that," Blaine commented from the window seat, where he was fiddling around on his guitar and noting things down. "David, try not to get paint all over my carpet – there's a tarpaulin down for a reason..."

"Yeah," Wes added, "and you might want to hurry up."

David glared at his roommate.

Wes jumped down off of the bed, knocking into Kurt, who spilled the cup of red paint he had been holding all over his shirt. "Wes!"

"Ooops, sorry. Is it, like, Dire or something?"

Kurt fixed him with a look. It was a look that promised pain when Wes least expected it. "No, idiot, is is not Dior. I wore paint clothes. But I didn't bring anything to change into, because I didn't think I would be taking a paint-shower in it."

Blaine looked up. "Borrow something of mine." He pointed to his closet, trying not to notice the adorable smudge of red paint on his roommate's nose. "T-shirts are the second drawer on the left."

Kurt was still glaring at Wes, but took a break for a moment to flash his roommate a grateful smile. "Thanks." He handed the brush to his attacker. "It's all yours."

Wes looked at it warily. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

Kurt rolled his eyes and went to go change.

A few minutes later he announced his return to the room by throwing his wet shirt over Wes' head, prompting a scream of outrage.

Blaine looked up, saw this, and started to laugh, but the chuckle died in his throat.

Kurt was wearing one of his shirts.

I mean, Blaine had told him to, so what else had he expected? But that did not change the fact that Kurt was wearing one of his shirts. A piece of his clothing. Next to his skin. On his body.

It was a very clean shirt, and Blaine's thoughts were entirely unclean.

And he'd picked an old favorite shirt of his, too. Which was logical, because it was long, but slightly smaller, so, while it was a bit loose on Kurt's slight frame, it wasn't ridiculous – an old t-shirt he'd had since middle school, with a band's logo on the front that he knew he'd felt really strongly about at the time, because he'd gone to a concert, but he couldn't remember any of their songs or their name or anything just then because Kurt was wearing his shirt.

He wore that shirt a lot when he was home, to run, or during the summer when he played soccer, or at swim meets, and now it was on Kurt's skin, and... he really liked seeing that. The color suited him.

Maybe once it was washed and he had it back it would still smell like him...

Blaine caught himself thinking this and mentally slapped himself for being very, very creepy. Because only stalkers plotted to steal people's clothing. Except it was his, anyway, so it wasn't that weird, right?

But anyway. He was staring. And his three friends were looking at him, and two of them had slightly evil grins on their faces.

"Blaine," Kurt was gesturing to himself, concerned. "Is it okay that I took this one? I'll get it back to you..."

He fought the urge to tell him to keep it, because it looked so very good on him. "Y-yeah. Of course. That's fine." This only prompted thoughts of what would happen if he said no, and Kurt had to take it off again. Actually, maybe he should tell him to -

"Boys, I was thinking of just ordering in for dinner later – anyone interested?" His mother had appeared in the doorway. "And I have coffee downstairs – can someone help me bring it up?"

Blaine thought he should probably go downstairs for a few minutes. His room seemed stuffy just then. Probably the paint fumes. He stood up, laying his guitar down. "I'll help, Mom."

Kurt, who was right next to the doorway, smiled at her. "Me too."

"Thanks, dears." She saw David start to get up. "No, don't worry, darling, you stay." Her eyes flicked to Wes, who hadn't moved a muscle. Her lips pursed. "No, really, Wesley, don't get up."

He waved his hand. "If you insist."

"You are actually going to annoy someone to death one of these days, Wesley, and when that day comes, I am going to -"

"Fine," he grumbled, rolling off the bed. "I thought you said you only needed one person."

"Blaine and Kurt both volunteered."

"And I'm sure we're all entirely shocked by that coincidence."

Blaine very deliberately stepped on his foot.

"Ow!"

Kurt grinned at him as they went downstairs.