Did you know that the person who said "Home is where the heart is" was called Pliny the Elder? Now you do.
Well I had to title this story, okay, who cares if I Googled "quotes about home" to find a title.
Where The Heart Is
Fashion week.
Paris.
Jet Lag.
Kurt sighs as he finally, finally walks in through the front door of his home- his home, thank god, not some hotel filled with pretentious people and divas and starved models that make him feel bad for every bite.
He doesn't even turn the lights on. He just locks the door as soon as he's inside, abandons all of his bags next to the door; seriously, like he'll deal with it now. It can wait- sleeping can't. And curling up next to Blaine can't wait, either.
The bedroom is dark as well, a sleeping, snoring figure, half covered in blankets on the bed. It's not late, but it's mid-week and Blaine almost never stays up late on weekdays, especially when Kurt's not home. And Kurt told him not to wait for him.
Kurt undresses quickly, throwing his loose-fitting flight-clothes on the floor (fuck it all, he thinks), and when he's left in his boxer briefs he flings himself, face down, onto the bed. Blaine doesn't wake up, just stops snoring for a second before going on, louder.
He rolls to his side and pulls Blaine to his chest, as if he were a child's puppet. Blaine just makes a little sound and sinks into the embrace, rubbing his nose on Kurt's bicep affectionately.
Only then Kurt smiles; everything is warm and smells like Blaine and like home and maybe he should believe in god, because this is most definitely heaven.