Who would of thought Blaine Anderson the preppy school boy with the highest grades imaginable would fall in love with Kurt Hummel, the boy who thought smoking resulted in somewhat additional health.

But still, Kurt Hummel was perfect, with his piercing blue eyes rimmed with guyliner - Blaine's initial thought of any boy wearing guyliner and making it look half attractive was shallow, until he met Kurt - and his hair, dark brown, debauched with the deepest pink shade just at the front, alongside with small taints of blue.

But this, no, this was just the start of it.

He had legs that would go on for milleniums, which were always clad with tight, tight, fitted leather jeans, not leaving any room for the imagination.

Kurt never blundered to wear shirts that exposed his collar bone, which was accompained with a beautiful tattoo, the swirly black imprints read 'take these broken wings and learn to fly', not that Blaine had memorised them, no, not at all.

His hands were always tightly wrapped around a cigarette, Blaine cursed himself mentally for acquiring the same reoccurring dreams, involving his slender fingers.

Not to mention his nose ring. Or his ear-rings.

Or his perfect, gorgeous, sexy, body.

Blaine Anderson was in love, so he thought.