A/N: Shameless fluff/makeouts/teeny bits of smut/the works. I kind of don't really know where this came from, but Glee fanfic is my most reliable form of distraction therapy and if it results in massive sagas of Klaine feels THEN SO BE IT. I really really really wanted to expand on this headverse. Like so much. Because I don't know, something about Quinntana/Klaine in New York just gives me feels all up and down the everything.
June 19th, 7:24 p.m. Santana Lopez posted a photo to her timeline.
"looks like someone finally manned up and did the damn thing. hugs & kisses to my favorite pair of sparkly queers—klainegagement 2016!"
137 people like this.
Tina Cohen-Chang: WHAT
Tina Cohen-Chang: WHAT
Tina Cohen-Chang: WHAT
Tina Cohen-Chang: WHAT IS THIS THAT HAS HAPPENED HERE
Mercedes Jones: ! congratulations my sweet boys! ur both too fab to live J
Michael Chang: Holy crap! Way to go, Kurt! Mucho congrats to you guys!
Tina Cohen-Chang: I am trying to call you Blaine Anderson but your phone is off you jerk pick up the phone
Tina Cohen-Chang: wait also congratulations I love you both blah blah blah, I'm not a bitch guys I'm just crying and stuff right now okay
Joe: God bless you both!
Sam Evans: DUDES.
Sam Evans: DUDES.
Sam Evans: As a little green man once said, "do or do not, there is no try." Kurt you fucking did and you fucking rock and Blaine, my brother, Im not gonna say I told you so but DUDES.
Brittany S. Pierce: Lord Tubbington already told me this would happen because he has the gift of prophecy but you guys are still so cute. Like the faces of the friends I make with Rice Krispies and Lucky Charms
Brittany S. Pierce: I like the shooting stars best for eyes
S. Beiste: You boys have so much to be proud of and you have made us all very proud yourselves. Congratulations, never give up and keep your heads in the game! Hummel and Anderson = MVPs
Wes Montgomery: On behalf of past, present, and future Warblers, CONGRATULATIONS to you both!
Trent Nixon: YOU. ARE. BOTH. LEGENDS. CON. GRAT. U. LA. TIONS.
David Thompson: Two things: congratulations from me as well, and Wes I will take my payment in cash, please, clean bills, ASAP.
Trent Nixon: $?
Wes Montgomery: David what is wrong with you
David Thompson: Bets were made, Montgomery. Bets were won. And losers must pay.
Michael Chang: Is there any chance we can combine the Dalton-McKinley pools and winners get paid-out double?
Ken WritinStahr Tanaka: THIS IS A BEAUAUTIFUL LOVE STORY AND IT IS GOOD THAT ITHAPPENED FOR YOU, IT IS HJUST LIKE MY NBEW NOVEL FOR ADULT READERS "TORRID IN THE GYM: A MSYTERY ROMANCE FROM A ONCE GREAT COACH OF STAR ATHLETES" LINK ON MY PROF PLS READ
Finn Hudson: Burt is crying and he told me not to put that online but he is. So's Mom. So am I. I can't believe you're my brother Kurt and I can't believe—I don't know. Blaine, Kurt, you guys deserve to be happy and you deserve each other and I guess I'm proud of you or something.
Finn Hudson: sorry I just don't know what to say.
Sugar Motta: ILU ILU ILU ILU ILU OMG CONGRATZZZZ!*!*!*!*!*!
Tina Cohen-Chang: Blaine Anderson picked up his stupid phone and he's crying too, Finn, fyi. I think he got you
Marley Rose: wow oh my gosh! Congratulations you guys that's amazing! I'm so happy for you Blaine Jmuch love from the mckinley senior class!
Ryder Lynn: hot damn bros
Emma Pillsbury-Schuester: I am so deeply happy for the both of you! Maxine and I are sending you big big big hugs, Daddy is still in Washington and unfortunately has no FaceBook presence right now but I called him and he cried! He sends a hug also and he says to tell you both "it couldn't have happened to two better people, you earned the rest of your lives," I think you know what he means.
Artie Abrams: I see you holla at each other! my brothers in love! Congratulations Blaine and Kurt, masters of the arts of loverdom!
Rachel Berry: via mobile: WHERE ARE YOU WHAT IS HAPPENING WHY AM I NOT THERE
Rachel Berry: via mobile: KURT HUMMEL WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING
Rachel Berry: via mobile: WAIT WHERE ARE YOU SERIOUSLY
Rachel Berry: via mobile: I AM SCREAMING IN REHEARSAL THIS IS NOT A DRILL
Mercedes Jones: translation: Rachel is happy 4 u
Tina Cohen-Chang: and she wishes you well
SS: I see that yet again, the cosmic forces of the universe have conspired to unite two perfectly healthy individuals who groinal appendages are evolutionarily meant for procreation, and who in a civilized world would be put out to stud, in an unnatural and vaguely irritating relationship that exists only to chafe society's tender under-arm fat wings. That being said, I suppose that if there are going to be gay heathens running around throwing glitter and locks of Neil Patrick Harris' hair on bonfires anyway, you two ladies might as well remove yourselves from the sperm-pantheon and be together. Godspeed, My Little Ponies.
Jake Puckerman: Nice! Wish you both the best, congratulations
Santana Lopez: via mobile: Kurt and Blaine are busy being sloppy cuddle-whores all over our bread basket but they said to tell you all thank you and lots of love. they also said to warn everyone living on the east coast and above the mason-dixon line to put in ear plugs cuz there's gonna be some screamin and creamin tonight at chez AnderHum
Quinn Fabray: via mobile: THEY DID NOT SAY THAT EVERYONE. I THINK YOU ALL KNOW THIS BUT JUST IN CASE. THIS IS PURE LOPEZIAN FABRICATION.
Santana Lopez: via mobile: she says right after promising them we'll stay at Fred Constantine's tonight and leave the loft for lovin bom chicka bom bom
Artie Abrams: can lopezian fabraycation be yours guys couple name
Sam Evans: SOLID man
Fred Constantine: Santana you tagged me and now I have to look at this whole string of comments you people are unhinged.
Tina Cohen-Chang: not unhinged so much as
Artie Abrams: from Ohio
Noah Pucker Man: E
Noah Pucker Man: N
Noah Pucker Man: D
Noah Pucker Man: G
Noah Pucker Man: A
Noah Pucker Man: M
Noah Pucker Man: E
Noah Pucker Man: I FUCKIN KNEW MANS
Noah Pucker Man: I FUCKIN HELD OUT HOPE
Sam Evans: Puck chill dude
Jake Puckerman: what the actual hell
Noah Pucker Man: IM A BELIEVER
Noah Pucker Man: IM A TRUE BLUE MOTHERFUCKER AND MY BOYS DID NOT LET ME DOWN OH NO
Noah Pucker Man: WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Finn Hudson: It means a lot to him guys just let it happen.
Tina Cohen-Chang: Puck don't you dare do what I think you're gonna do
Mercedes Jones: Jesus take the wheel, we knew this day would come
Noah Pucker Man: MY BOYS NEED ME
Michael Chang: It's like watching a car try to hug a moving train
Tina Cohen-Chang: PUCK NO
Artie Abrams: he's earned it though
Quinn Fabray: via mobile: They put him on speakerphone, guys. The three of them are singing Dolly Parton in the middle of the restaurant and people are getting up and changing tables and Santana just started dancing so I think the appropriate reaction is to confiscate all phones. On behalf of myself and the state of New York, good night.
Santana Lopez: via mobile: OH YES I BELIEVE OH I BELIEVE
Rachel Berry: via mobile: WHY IS NO ONE CALLING MEEEEEEEEEE
An hour earlier…
"Hello, Hummel-Hudson residence, Burt speaking."
"Dad?" There's a tight, hysterical note in Kurt's voice that makes him sound like air leaking out of a balloon; he can practically hear his father frowning on the other end of the line.
"Huh? Kurt, is that you?"
"I don't know, how many other sons do you have?" A little more coherent, but he's still forcing his words out through a rictus of giddy euphoria that makes every muscle above the neck seize up. There's a grin on his face like Mexican Day of the Dead candy skulls, that's how much control he has over his body right now. "It's me, Dad."
"You okay, kid? You sound awful, did—aw hell, Kurt, are you freakin' out about the thing?" Kurt hears something splash and clink in the background, and a familiar voice asking something in fuzzy tones. "Nah, Finn, it's nothing, Kurt's got a—a dog."
"I got a dog?" Kurt splutters, and Santana, Quinn, and Blaine all give him looks like Who's lost it here, you or your father? They're standing in a huddle at the foot of the bridge, Manhattan-side, baking in the summer heat. Kurt had begged for a few minutes to call his dad, because he couldn't wait a full subway ride to tell him, and Blaine agreed, because there is nothing under the sun he wouldn't do for Kurt right now.
"Sorry, sorry, hold on a sec…" He can hear his father leaving the kitchen and clomping away into the house—the Hummel-Hudsons are usually early eaters, Finn (now released from OSU for the summer) was probably washing dishes after dinner. "Okay, now listen, son. You just gotta not be nervous. Because then you're finished before you start. Go in there with the attitude and the confidence that this guy is gonna meet you halfway, and we both know he is, I mean come on, it's Blaine—"
"Um, Dad," Kurt tries again, his one hand sticky with sweat on the phone clamped to his ear. "Dad, it's—thanks for the advice, but it doesn't matter a whole lot now. Or ever again."
"What? What do you mean, it doesn't—"
Burt's sudden silence comes like a slap of cold water. Kurt can hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and in his mind's eye he sees his father's mouth half-open and his face glazing over. "Dad? You there?"
"You did it already?" Burt whispers, his voice half an octave higher than usual. Kurt bounces on his toes and reaches for Blaine's hand, squeezes it tight.
"I did, Dad, and—"
"What did he say?"
"What do you think?" Kurt answers before he can stop himself. An insane giggle rises to the surface before he can stop himself, and Santana rolls her eyes and mimes vomiting onto the street. Kurt sticks his tongue out at her, and then he notices that all he's getting on the phone is silence. "Um, Dad? You there?"
"I don't know what the hell to think Kurt this isn't just some joke crap I mean this is come on what the hell did he say?" Burt says all in a rush, and suddenly Kurt understands that this is no different. This marriage proposal is exactly like the Defying Gravity sing-off, and his first prom, and his NYADA application, and Vogue: his Slim-Jim-loving, trucker-hat-wearing, carburetor-expert, acid-wash-appreciating father is on his side so completely that it's insulting to make light of it, his loyalty strong as iron and deep as the bone. Burt doesn't care that his son is doing everything in a way that is strange to him, he doesn't care that Kurt's milestones have to do with fashion magazines and performance schools and men in the tradition of women, he doesn't care because he loves Kurt more than he could ever love the Story of a Perfect Straight Son, and he wants Kurt to be happy with all the strength he has. Burt Hummel, of Lima, Ohio, is right there, breathless and waiting, for Kurt to tell him that he's getting married to a man with hazel eyes and strong arms—and Kurt has the sudden urge to burst into tears and reach out across several states to embrace his father.
Instead, he swallows around the lump in his throat and says, "He said yes, Dad. Blaine said he would marry me, we're—we're going to get married."
"Oh—oh holy hell, Kurt, oh my God—he did? You're sure?" Burt gasps. Kurt raises an eyebrow automatically.
"Um, yes, I'm sure…I mean, he said—"
"Did he say it, like, clearly? There's no, you know, no confusion, he definitely said yes and it's all set and you, you're understanding this right, right?"
"Dad—"
"Because the last thing you want in this kind of situation is a mix-up, Kurt, swear to God, it's going to be hell for you if—"
"No, I promise you, he agreed in no uncertain—"
"Did you double-check? How'd you ask the question? You didn't rush, made sure he heard all the words—"
"I said it as clearly as I could, Dad, it's not like I proposed using Morse Code—"
"Hey, Burt," Blaine says smoothly, flipping the phone out of Kurt's hand before he has time to react. "This is Blaine, I hope you're doing well, love to you and Carole—just wanted to let you know that Kurt did an excellent job of getting his point across, and when I said yes, I knew what I was getting myself into." He smiles at Kurt, skin glowing a little in the light from the corner bodega, and Kurt stops being annoyed with his phone-snatching and just falls in love a little more. "I know exactly what I'm getting into."
Blaine pauses and listens for a moment, while Kurt pointedly ignores Santana and Quinn cracking up; then his smile turns into a massive Cheshire cat-grin and he hands the phone back to Kurt, mouthing, "Good to go."
"Thank you," Kurt mouths back, and then returns the phone to his ear just in time to hear a patented Burt Hummel War Whoop, usually only encountered during Ohio sports teams' victories and particularly competitive rounds of Go Fish. "So you're satisfied?"
"You did it! My boy did it, all right! Kurt, I am so proud of you, I can't even—if your mom was here she'd—my son is a man, he brought it on home, congratulations, son, my God—Carole! Finn! Kurt, can I tell 'em, you just gotta let me tell 'em right this second—"
Kurt thinks he agrees, or at least he tries to say, "Of course," but it's kind of hard to tell if it comes through or not, because the fact is that tears are suddenly flooding his eyes and his throat is tight with joy again but a different kind of joy, something less wild and much older, an echo from the history that he has all but thrown out, stowed away somewhere in a back room of his heart.
And now as his father continues to babble over the phone and Carole and Finn's voices fade in from the background, and the girls have stopped laughing because they can see what's on his face, and they move closer to put light hands on his shoulder, and then Blaine is there in all his solid, comforting warmth—now, Kurt lets that history in for a moment, and it thread its way through the familiar fabric of the life he has come to love.
"Kurt? Kurt, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Kurt says hoarsely, forcing himself to smile as he does so, because if his face is smiling while he talks on the phone then maybe the full force of his misery will get scrambled and diluted over the line. "Every—everything's fine…"
"Do you need help?" Blaine asks in a quiet voice. Kurt swallows and closes his eyes. The boys' bathroom smells like cleaning solvent, sneaker gum, and the sickly-sweet chemical tang of the grape slushie dripping down his face and onto his two-hundred-dollar trousers. Help? He is so far past help. He needs surrender. Or armageddon.
"No, I'm okay. I just—I—wanted to call and say hey." Kurt hears a door slam and a male voice shout something from a ways away. Dalton has so many beautiful empty rooms, so many spaces for people to hide away in—except at Dalton, no one needs to hide. No one needs to pull a muscle looking over their shoulders for marauding football players with slushies in hand. At Dalton, there are only uniforms and uniformity, an anonymous safety that Kurt daydreams of in the peaceful hours between being shoved into lockers and tossed into dumpsters.
Of course, what he mostly daydreams about is the boy with the voice, and the shiny black hair and the crazy-sweet smile that makes Kurt's stomach flip even in memory—and he's been doing a lot of remembering ever since he met Blaine. It's not like his crush on Finn, which was all mooning and admiration and a kind of blind, fluttering awe of the masculinity he didn't want and yet craved, the stereotypical manhood that he knew would make his life easier and yet bored him silly when he considered actually living it. Blaine is smaller than Finn, lighter, quicker, a pop melody with weird and desperately attractive undertones of something else, and Blaine makes him feel—well, it's not quite clear yet, but whatever it is, it's really hard to feel it without losing his breath.
"Sorry, it's a little noisy in here, rehearsal is about to start," Blaine apologizes. Kurt pictures him standing by the common room window with his leather schoolbag, triangular eyebrows knit with concern. "You don't sound too good, man. Did something happen?"
"Just…no," Kurt sighs, backing off from the urge to spill his guts. The slushie is beginning to dry on him, and he needs to start hacking off the paste of artificial coloring and fructose before it cements itself to the fabric. Also, he's pretty sure that if he starts talking about everything, about the bullying and Karofsky and the daily hell he's living, then the waterworks will start and Blaine will be horrified and never text him again, much less take his random calls in the middle of the school day. "How's Warbling?"
"Well, we're starting a new number today. It's a Ke$ha song, which no one's really happy about, but Wes had a thing and then David had a thing back and Thad's girlfriend just broke up with him and—it's a long story, basically yours truly is going to be telling a school full of randy teenage guys that they should have kept it in their pants and not to kiss and tell," Blaine huffs, and Kurt can't help but hiccup and giggle a little. "Just one of the many pleasures of serving with the Warblers. How about you?"
"It's going okay here…I don't know what songs we're doing, but my friend Mercedes is eating a lot of tater tots." Okay, wow, literally nothing stupider or more random could have come out of his mouth. Kurt leans his head against the mirror and wishes for swift and painless death while Blaine chuckles uncertainly in his ear.
"That…sounds fun," he says, and then Kurt hears another incoherent call from the other end. "One minute!" Blaine hollers, and then he's back, speaking low and warm in Kurt's ear. "Listen, I gotta go, but whatever's going on over there, don't let it get you down. You're better than every single one of them, Kurt, and if nothing else gets you through, then hang onto that. They're angry and they're violent, but that doesn't make you any less strong. I wish…" He pauses for a moment. Kurt imagines him biting his lower lip, that heartbreaking Bambi-eyes look on his face. "I wish being strong were enough to make it hurt less."
"Thank you," Kurt whispers. He doesn't quite believe Blaine—if strength is wearing a slushie as an involuntary accessory with every outfit, then the world has written some new logic while his back was turned—but it helps to hear. And it helps to know that any one of Blaine's wishes, however passing and small, concerns him.
"Any time, dude. Call me after your rehearsal ends, if you want. Maybe we can get coffee again this weekend?"
"Yeah. Thanks. That—that would be nice."
"Okay. You can do it, Kurt. Oh, and if that guy—the one who, like, threw me into a fence—"
"Karofsky?"
"Yeah, if he tries anything like, you know, like he did, you can tell me. You're not alone, Kurt. I'm not going to let you be."
"…okay." A long moment of silence, and then Blaine coughs, makes a little "uhm, m'kay" noise, and the line goes dead. Kurt stands there, staring at himself in the mirror, face burning—but not, surprisingly, from anger or embarrassment. Something else, warm and frightening and too good to be true, is lighting him up from the inside, and for the first time in a long time, Kurt recognizes his reflection through the purple gunk splashed across his face.
Dinner is…well, it definitely happens, but Kurt can't for the life of him remember anything about it beyond the glorious moment when a sobbing Noah Puckerman led their table—with the exception of Quinn, who couldn't seem to decide whether to be mortified or deeply amused—in a heartfelt speakerphone rendition of "I Believe," during which several patrons got up and left the restaurant and most of the others clapped at the end.
(It's always been equal parts unsettling and touching, Puck's intense investment in his and Blaine's relationship; after years of drunken texts about how beautiful their children's souls will be and the occasional Facebook video tribute, Kurt has finally decided to just accept that which he cannot change and give thanks that Puck is more concerned with safeguarding his relationship than throwing him onto piles of trash.)
But everything else is kind of a blur of Blaine's body leaning against his, Blaine's chin nestled on his shoulder, a glint of silver on Blaine's left hand. Blaine humming a nonsense tune in his ear. Blaine giggling when Santana and Quinn started fighting about which flavor of wedding cake they should pick. Blaine stroking his knee under the table. Blaine, everywhere he turns, everything he feels, the here and the now of his universe.
It starts like halfway through dinner: up until that point, he's been wearing the fuzzy-warm-fuzzy goggles and everything around him has just been really awesome and cool and interesting and every once in a while he gets the urge to do a little pirouette en pointe. He and Blaine are being ridiculous, pawing at each other and grinning like mental patients, awash in the novelty of their new reality. Santana and Quinn tolerate them—in fact, Kurt is pretty sure they're enjoying themselves too, judging by how many SnapChats Santana is taking of him and Blaine kissing each other's knuckles—and the waiter immediately sees that there's cause for celebration and brings them a bottle of wine without even being asked (Blaine never gets carded, he's too good-looking).
And then at some point, in the middle of the drinking of wine and the singing and Quinn ordering a fondue plate for all of them, Kurt starts to lose interest. Because it just kind of occurs to him: he's getting married.He's getting married. And Blaine is too. And they're doing it with each other.
Even though he still can't seem to think about it in terms beyond a second-grade reading level, the newest development in Kurt's life is getting him pretty hot and bothered.
The upshot is that Kurt couldn't become less interested in non-Blaine-related things if he tried, and when the girls finally do part with them for the night and head off to Santana's classmate's apartment in Chelsea, he has to actively check his urge to grab Blaine and pin him against the nearest wall. Blaine flags a taxi with ease—that's kind of a superpower of his—and steps back politely before opening the door for Kurt, every inch the gentleman. Which of course means that the red-hot second they're both wedged into the backseat, Kurt has to lunge at Blaine and kiss him hard enough that his head hits the half-open window pane with a resounding thunk.
"Mmmph—Kurt—wait a sec—" Blaine gasps, barely managing to surface for air before Kurt recaptures his mouth and cups the side of his face with a strong, urgent grip. He's a little less steady than he would be without the glasses of red wine, but what he lacks in coordination, he makes up for with vigor and pure, unadulterated passion. They pull at each other and slide back across the vinyl seat cushion, the armrest digging into Kurt's back as Blaine drives him into the opposite door. Blaine's mouth is hot and eager and Jesus Christ, he still tastes a little like chocolate fondue; Kurt moans softly and inhales when Blaine's teeth drag across his lower lip, sugar-sweetness and dusky heat and a hint of detergent from Blaine's sweat-damp shirt swirling around his brain.
"Where to, fellas?" says a husky, Queens-accented voice, and Kurt remembers that cabs usually come with drivers. Blaine breaks away from his mouth, although Kurt is still snugly sandwiched between his body and the door. The driver, a salt-and-pepper-haired man with huge, bushy eyebrows, is looking back at them over his shoulder, apparently completely unperturbed by two young men violently kissing in his back seat. A couple years ago, Kurt would have been horrified with himself, or at least deeply embarrassed; but since arriving in New York, he's learned from experience and from numerous instances of hearsay that there are much worse things to be found in a New York cab than a couple of horny people with all their clothes on and no narcotics of any kind on their person.
Blaine is stammering out their address and the cab is moving towards the swooping lights of the Brooklyn Bridge far off in the distance, and Kurt pulls his boyfriend-fiancé-whatever-they-are back towards his mouth and tries to pretend that he'll never have to let go.
"I love you," he murmurs as Blaine runs a hand down the length of his spine. Warm, callused fingers slide across the top of his jeans and gently press one of the dimples at the small of his back. "I love you so much. Blaine, I really, really—"
"Kurt, do not take this the wrong way, but I am begging you to shut up now," Blaine hisses, his grip tightening around Kurt's waist as he pushes back and yanks Kurt forward at the same time, taking his space, all of it, surrounding him in this cramped backseat. Kurt tries to respond, because he can't stand to let Blaine have the last word here, but it's really really tough to formulate a sentence when Blaine's body is so close and so hot and his hand is roughly stroking the skin just below Kurt's waistband.
"Just—oh—because you agreed to m-marry me doesn't mean—God, Blaine—doesn't mean you can talk to me like—"
Blaine kisses him quiet and Kurt lets him, he barely even knew what he was saying, and there must be a stopping point here—for the sake of decency and respect for others, at the very least—but he physically cannot keep his hips from jerking upwards against Blaine's thigh, pressure pressure pressure that glows deep-summer-hot in the pit of his stomach. Blaine's hands are sliding down, over his ass and under, up, around to his inner thighs, over the front of his groin and his twitching abdominal muscles and back to his waist, and Kurt buries his face in Blaine's neck so that his moan is a little bit stifled, a little bit quieter. Blaine turns his head and mouths at Kurt's hair and the back of his neck, panting; they rock together, tangled in the back of the cab, and then they pull apart the slightest bit and kiss like they're trying to draw blood.
God, may it always be like this, and when it isn't, may this never be too long forgotten.
"Can't sleep?"
"What does it look like?" Santana says without looking up from her computer; Kurt rolls his eyes and pads past her in his sock-feet, ducking around the other side of the kitchen-island to get at the refrigerator. The clock on the oven reads 1:35 am, and even though his alarm is set to go off in five hours, Kurt can't seem to get his brain to shut up, so he's made his way to the kitchen in the hopes that a little late-night snack will quiet the buzz. He opens the door and searches for something tasty hidden among Rachel's wheat-grass nuggets and Quinn's unfortunate attempt at meatloaf, finally locating a Tupperware half-full of steamed garlic-cauliflower (also made by Quinn; her track record for delicious/tragic is usually about 80%-20%, not bad for a girl who graduated from Yale before she learned what a colander was). He pops the top off and starts to munch on cold florets, turning around in time to see Santana put the finishing touches on her paper and close the laptop perhaps a little too hard.
"Careful, I know for a fact you can't buy a new computer if you beat up the old one," he says, instinctually dodging a flick to the ear as he slides onto the chair beside her. Santana huffs out a frustrated breath and sweeps her hair back with both hands, eyes fluttering shut. She's wrapped in an old bathrobe of Blaine's, blue terrycloth, just the right amount of insulation for the lingering chill of March. Kurt, on the other hand, is shivering a bit in his thin cotton pajama pants and t-shirt; it's not his fault, though, because he sleeps with Blaine Anderson, the real-life Human Torch, and after five minutes of spooning with that guy you practically need to strip naked to avoid the sauna-effect.
(Not always a negative, but still.)
"I swear to God, this orgo class is going to kill me. I should just drop out and let people take pictures of my cooch for a living."
"Ew. Santana, that man was not making a serious offer."
"Dunno, he seemed legit."
"He seemed homeless and crazy and he was yelling at you from a storm drain."
"You're just jealous no one wants to give you a thousand bucks for a shot of your dick," she mumbles, drumming her fingers idly on the countertop. They've been living together for three and a half years now, and affectionate bickering has become something between an autonomic bodily function and an art form. "Hey, Kurt?"
"What's up?"
"Do you ever think maybe—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes unfocused as her tapping fingers still against the scuffed Formica. "I mean, could this really be it?"
"Could what be what?" he asks with a hint of concern. Kurt has seen her stressed, he's seen her angry, he's seen her homicidal, but it's not often that Santana Lopez appears philosophical. Perhaps winter is coming.
(Metaphorically and referentially, because he knows it's March, and wow his brain really is having trouble shutting up tonight.)
"I just…like, I've been sitting here writing this fucking paper, and it's so aggravating that I'm this close to cutting one of you guys in your sleep just so I'll have an excuse not to finish, except that I actually love this stuff and it's really interesting and I like doing it and also I love my girlfriend and things. Are. Real."
A long pause stretches out between them, and Kurt racks his brains for the appropriate emergency response here; unfortunately for him, they do not keep dopamine around the house.
"O…kay," he begins cautiously, being sure not to make any sudden moves. Santana, oblivious to his discomfort, begins to chew on her hair.
"I mean, none of this stuff seems like it's going to change any time soon. And that would be cool with me because I'm happy as fuck, but Hummel—Kurt—I just want to be sure that, like, I'm seeing everything the right way. Like we're not headed for some massive crash and I don't notice because—whatever, I be stupid. But we're not. I'm not…right?"
Kurt finally, finally catches her eye. They look at each other, a middle-of-the-night awareness creeping over them, and he reaches out and pulls her hands out of her long black hair, laces their fingers together.
"No, Chiquita, I don't think so."
"You sure? 'Cause maybe you be stupid too," she suggests with all seriousness. He squeezes her hand slightly and shrugs.
"My dad has had a heart attack, cancer…my mom died in a car accident when I was eight…Blaine cheated on me, and remember when I nearly fucked up that photoshoot at work last year? Like, that little mistake that could have gotten me fired? Shit happens, Santana. Lives change really quickly. We both know that."
"Brittany and me…" she says softly, and Kurt moves closer, pressing up against her side. She rests her head on his shoulder automatically. "I just keep remembering how happy she made me…like, high school has been over for years and I wonder if—I wonder what happened to all the things I was sure of then. I knew I was going to be famous, I knew Brit and I were going to die together in a Playboy mansion for cougars or something, I knew I'd finally beat the crap out of Kim Kardashian and take her wig…and now what the fuck is all this? I'm almost halfway done with college and y'all are graduating this year and Quinn…Quinn is my…I mean, Jesus Fuck, how'd we get here?"
"I don't know," he says truthfully, and kisses her forehead. She sighs and relaxes onto him a little more. "But were you sure of anything that you don't have now?"
"Well, I sure as fuck don't have an MTV show or a dermatology clinic named after me, if that's what you mean."
"No. No, it's not," he says with a snort. Santana shrugs.
"I guess I thought we'd always love each other. Like you and Blaine, or Rachel and the giant monkey-king."
"You and the tiny monkey-queen seem to be doing okay," Kurt replies, and Santana giggles before she can stop herself.
"Shut up…but yeah. Yeah, we're…she's a perfect goddamn bitch, you know what I mean? Mind you, she's still working on the whole dyke thing. I'm getting her a box set of The L Word for her birthday."
"Oh, whatever, Santana, with your 'dyke thing,' you stuck-up lipstick lesbo."
"What! Lady Hummel, you better not be saying what I think you are."
"I'm just saying, I might wear shirts with lace occasionally, but only one person in this loft owns and can actually walk in seven-inch heels."
"…when have you been trying to walk in my pussy-stompers?" she growls, eyes narrowed. Kurt goes for an immediate redirect of topic.
"So, if I'm getting this right, you're flipping out because shit happens? Because life goes on past your high school diary? Pardon me, but that's a little weaksauce for Auntie Snixx." Santana still looks miffed about the heels comment, but the urge to continue talking about herself proves too strong, and she returns to the train of thought with a wave of her hand.
"I know. And yeah, I have people I love and who love me, and I'm doing what makes me happy and shit, and Rachel Berry is still annoying but I can deal by now."
"So…what's wrong?"
She pulls away from him, swivels so they're face to face. Kurt looks back at her and for a second, the four years since they were really just kids—four full, long, incredibly complex years—seem to fade away, and they might well be Lima losers again, unsure of anything but the need to become something else.
"So is this really it?" she asks, and he finally realizes what she means.
"For the moment," he replies. Santana frowns, ducks her head, then looks back up at him with dark eyes. A long moment passes, and at the end of it they're back where they were before—still freaked out sometimes, still unsure, still struggling, but with years of strength and understanding that had never been there to buoy them through troubles in an insular Ohio high school. They're grown up, if not adults; people, if not themselves quite yet.
"Give me some of those," she whispers, and he offers the Tupperware of cauliflower without a word. They chew without words for a couple minutes, and then Santana abruptly slides off her seat and pulls the tie on her bathrobe tight. "Okay, brain-fart time over, sleepy-time now. Thanks for talkies."
"Always," he says with a smile, and she half-returns it before retreating behind the hung-sheet partition that forms her and Quinn's little enclave. Kurt sighs and starts to rinse out the Tupperware in the sink, deliberately shying away from the thoughts tugging at him. He's got too much to think about already. Existential crises à la Lopez are a back-breaking straw.
When he slides into bed a few minutes later, any cognitive analysis grinds to a halt as Blaine yawns in a distinctly kitten-like manner and wraps a warm, hard arm around his stomach. He pulls Kurt close, big-spooning like a boss, and Kurt lets himself nestle in automatically.
"Midnight snack?" Blaine whispers, half-awake; Kurt snuggles back into him and grabs his hand tight, pulling their woven fingers against his lower stomach.
"Something like that," he replies, and then they're both asleep again.
That was the first night Kurt thought about what it meant to come from somewhere, the first time he started trying to tie his past to his present. And now that the future seems to be becoming a whole new thing, the chain of events seems to kink and complicate itself, twisting into a refracted spiral, the logic of which Kurt is struggling to understand—and yet, despite his inability to grasp the whole, he's finding it massively difficult not to be purely and utterly thrilled by the parts.
"Ymmtmffmmrbrrm."
"Excuse you?" Kurt mumbles, his fingers working idly at a handful of Blaine's sweaty curls. With a gentle tug, he lifts Blaine's face up just enough so that he's not speaking directly into the bare skin of Kurt's stomach.
"I said you taste like coconut," Blaine says, and as if to illustrate his point he lowers his head again and presses first a kiss, then the soft pad of his tongue, then another kiss to Kurt's bellybutton. Meanwhile, Kurt is taking a moment to figure out exactly how to move forward from that statement, so while he would usually squirm from the slight ticklishness of it, he just kind of lies back and lets Blaine nuzzle over him while he runs "coconut" and "my fiancé (wow) is a weirdo" through his mental filing system.
It's three a.m., and the night has gotten even hotter—both inside and out of the loft. Between the cab ride home (at the end of which Kurt tipped the driver twenty-four-dollars-worth of guilty conscience) and now, they've worked each other up and down and over and under, beginning with that frantic, be-all-end-all pace, up against furniture, fingernails raking over skin and gripping and grasping that will leave dark bruises the next day, volume a non-issue because caring has become a non-issue; and riding the high down to slow, endless, heartbreaking sex, the kind of physical connection that brings pleasure from every level of body and soul.
They don't get to do that very often, because the loft is usually already occupied or about to be, or one or both of them is busy, or they're tired, or they're distracted, or it's just not the right moment. It takes time and effort, and once they find themselves there it's impossible to stop until they're truly and completely spent—which is how it's supposed to be, which is the whole point. Time slips by in puffs of reality, blowing like the humid summer wind through their awareness of each other, and by the time Blaine's shaking body tenses under his and one hot, slippery hand swipes helplessly back and forth across his ribs, by the time Kurt is not sure where he ends and Blaine begins and all he knows is that nothing else could be this good, ever, it's beyond him, it's beyond anything…by that time, when they finally, finally collapse down onto the ruined bedsheets and commence to snuggle in exhaustion, Kurt is not even sure if he remembers what day it is or where he lives or how his name is spelled.
He just wants to always remember this.
Blaine, his interest evidently piqued by the discovery that Kurt is a man of many flavors, is nosing lower down his body now, drawing back from where he was lying between Kurt's legs and pressing his face against the diagonal line between Kurt's abdomen and upper thigh. Kurt watches him idly, admiring the curve of Blaine's neck and how the muscles on his shoulders stand out beneath the skin.
"Don't know what to tell you, babe. Guess coconut is just my default," he says as Blaine sucks a mild hickey beside the faint trail of hair on his stomach. A little snort of laughter makes him pinch at the skin, and he raises his head to meet Kurt's eyes.
"You're not using, like, coconut-flavored moisturizer?"
"First of all, Blaine, I don't moisturize my stomach, thanks very much, and second, why would I ever buy flavored moisturizer?"
"You bought that flavored body-paint once." Kurt blushes automatically at the memory—that was a fun Pride Day, in so very many ways.
"Yeah, but like—for normal life? Flavored moisturizer? After all this time, Blaine Anderson, you still fail to grasp the most basic elements of skin care," he says haughtily. Blaine's eyes flash, and a sudden chill runs up Kurt's spine as he recognizes that look, and what comes with it—what it does to Blaine when he wins, even a little.
Blaine ducks his head and runs his lips over the muscles near Kurt's groin, down to the warm places of soft hair and sweat, and Kurt didn't think he could get hard again after the marathon they fucked earlier, but apparently his body has other ideas, and even as he starts to lose his breath and twist under Blaine's touch, he hears Blaine chuckling deep in his throat.
"Grasp these elements," Blaine says huskily, and Kurt struggles to summon indignation through a haze of arousal. It's not easy, especially because Blaine has decided to go in for the kill and is currently using his tongue in a way that he knows, he knows breaks Kurt apart stupidly fast.
"Your—your fault, okay, with your dumb face down there and you know what you're doing you dumb person," he manages, coherency falling prey to the brain-melting tease of Blaine's lips, and Blaine is laughing again, the vibrations sinking into Kurt's skin and making him arch up with a hiss. He's so tired, so worn out from before, heart and soul and self, but this just won't stop, this ability to want Blaine and take pleasure from his touch. Sex is another way that they communicate now, and moments like this, a slow and gentle mouth on him and Blaine's warm hands stroking his thighs, are how they share the feelings that don't come through well enough in words.
Blaine hums and sinks down, his throat flexing and the very, very softest press of his teeth a dull throb against Kurt's twitching cock. Kurt closes his eyes and lets himself breathe hard, lets his body respond and his blood rush, trying not to thrust forward but it's hard because losing himself in Blaine is natural, so natural…and God, his mouth, tight-wet-heat and the loft is already baking with the frenzy from earlier and the night outside and Blaine is bobbing up and down now, moving, trying to overload Kurt in that way that getshim off, to know that he has Kurt by the strings and so in turn is completely Kurt's to have for himself. It's blindingly good and Kurt is trembling and wanting so badly to come but not yet, let it last a little longer, let them move together like this for another second, and another, and another.
And then it ends, and that last wave of pleasure is the one that sends him over the edge, gasping and coming like this is the first time tonight, like he hasn't lost count since they got home, and Blaine is swallowing and kneading Kurt's hip in one hand, and when Kurt finally comes down from the bright-white rush of it all, Blaine wriggles up and rubs his own erection against Kurt's thigh until Kurt takes him in hand and lazily strokes him, still half-conscious with post-orgasmic lethargy. Blaine comes in less than a minute, streaking hot and sticky up Kurt's arm and side, and whatever, these sheets are seriously and completely dead by now, they'll burn everything tomorrow and go buy themselves another set as a wedding present.
Oh, yeah. That's why all of this. Because they are getting married and it's to each other.
Blaine is panting beside him, their bodies glued together by come and sweat and sheer reluctance to move away. Kurt reaches out without thinking and wraps his arm and leg around Blaine, drawing him right up close, a boneless, sweat-soaked man with floppy black curls and burning-hot skin. Blaine molds himself against Kurt, arms looping under his neck and around his ribcage, legs gently scissoring one of Kurt's. They're a big, weary, unbelievably happy pile of body parts, and Kurt would rather fall asleep here and never wake up than ever leave.
"That part of you doesn't taste like coconut, by the way," Blaine whispers, and then breaks into full-on high-pitched giggles.
"Oh my God, why," Kurt groans as he rolls his eyes and waits it out, praying that Blaine will calm down and become as sleepy as he is and they can cap off this perfect night by passing out together. But even as his laughter fades, a strange look comes into Blaine's eyes, and Kurt gets the feeling that the night isn't quite over.
"Sorry, sorry…um, Kurt…I, uh…"
"Say it, Blaine, you have like six seconds before I fall asleep on you." Blaine bites his lip and gazes at Kurt, his eyelashes dark and fanned across his tan skin.
"I didn't want to say earlier because—well, it wasn't the right time, there were other things to—but now—"
"Blaine."
"You beat me to it." He tenses up, like he expects some kind of reaction—except Kurt doesn't know how to react because he has no idea what Blaine is talking about.
"Excuse me? I beat you to what?"
"To…you know," Blaine whispers, and suddenly his hand is between them, silver ring flashing on the fourth finger, and Kurt's chest thumps with a sudden and ferocious beat.
"What?"
Instead of answering, Blaine is suddenly pulling away from him, climbing out of bed and heading to where his schoolbag has been gathering dust in the corner for the past couple weeks. Kurt props himself up on one elbow and watches as Blaine kneels, roots around in the bag, and then rises and heads back towards the bed, holding a—
Oh my God.
The box is black, not blue, and square instead of rectangular, but it doesn't matter, it couldn't matter in the least, because when Blaine pops it open the only shape and color Kurt can register is the round gold ring wedged snugly into its little slot.
He can't breathe, he can't move, he can only stare endlessly at—at his engagement ring? At Blaine's plan, at the idea that he had thought was his alone to risk and to trust in, to have and to hold. At the future he had thought only he knew he wanted. Blaine babbling on the Bridge, taken by surprise—not, as Kurt thought, by the idea of a real life for the two of them, but by the same thundering shock that Kurt was experiencing now, the concept of being wanted by someone just as badly and for just as long as you yourself wanted them.
"It's gold, I know," Blaine says hoarsely. "I just thought with your skin tone and the way you usually accessorize…but it's okay, I can get another one, like an exchange or something to match—"
The rest is lost because Kurt is kissing him, naked bodies back together, his arms too small and weak to hold Blaine as tightly and as completely as he would like, but this'll have to do. A thank-you kiss, an I-do kiss, a my-God-how-did-I-ever-find-you kiss; and then Blaine is pulling away and grabbing his hand, and they're both crying as he slips the gold ring onto Kurt's finger and crosshatches the fingers of their left hands so that silver and gold come together, two little loops of bright light, and Kurt realizes that these two proposals—one on the Brooklyn Bridge in front of the world, one in an empty loft apartment without even their clothes to get between them—the events of the night do make sense now.
They are Real, and Right, and they are It.
He could kiss other men, he could sleep with other men, he knows the world is full of the good and the sexy and the lovable but no matter what or who he would do, Kurt would always want to come back to Blaine at the end of the day. He wants to share everything with this person. He wants to fail for him and be foolish for him and let him see the bruises. He wants Blaine to be the one he's angry at, and the one he trusts with his awfulness. He wants Blaine's problems for his own, so that he can turn them around and give them back with less pain and a greater will to survive. He wants Blaine for himself, and let come what way.
Kurt Hummel is never sure of what will come next. But for the first time in his life, he is sure that he won't have to meet it alone.