“You're insane, Blaine. In fact, that's what I'm calling you from now on. 'Insane Blaine'.”

“Kristy—“

“Or maybe 'Blaine the Brain'. Irony's hot right now.”

“Kristy—“

“Seriously, I know you're like, Mister Romance and shit but this is the single worst idea you've ever had. Kurt is going to go freaking banana sandwich when he finds out.”

“Kristy!”

“What?”

“Will you help me or not?”

“Oh honey, you're going to need all the help you can get.”

“All right. Look, I have a bunch of stuff to figure out today, but... come over for dinner tonight and we can get started.”

“You're not—“

“Shut up, I'm ordering in. Seven-thirty?”

“Sure. Yeah, I'll see you then.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Blaine ended the call and tossed his BlackBerry onto the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face and sighing deeply. He knew it was insane. He'd known it was insane from the very genesis of the idea, but that had never discouraged him in the past, and everything had worked out in the end. Usually. ...Mostly.

As he sat down heavily on the couch, he picked up the thick scrapbook from the coffee table and pressed play on the stereo remote, feeling the need for some classic Katy Perry. He leafed through the scrapbook once again, making notes on the mostly blank page of his notepad, absent-mindedly humming along to Waking Up In Vegas.

How does Kurt do this?

The previous afternoon, he'd been entirely at a loss for something to do. It had worked out that while Blaine had a six-week break, Kurt was only going to be around for the final two weeks, returning to the States on the 22nd, after spending a month at Westwood HQ in London. During his absence, Blaine had discovered just how lonely and lifeless their apart was without Kurt around. Even when he was locked in the studio working on designs or around the corner in the kitchen making dinner, his presence seemed to expand inside the square footage of every room and make the space into a home. McQueen had spent most of the day alternating between sleeping on top of the refrigerator and rolling around on his scratch mat, fixing Blaine with his imperious gaze every time he'd tried to get near. Eventually, Blaine gave up and decided to clear out the hall closet where they stored most of their miscellaneous and sentimental belongings for which they didn't have a place in the apartment proper. He was unpacking the seventh box when he came across a square-shaped something, wrapped up in one of Kurt's old NYU shirts. He unfurled the fabric and took in the unassuming white scrapbook.

As he turned the first page, it became crystal clear that the book was different to any of the others Kurt had slaved over when planning events for friends and family. It was divided into two main sections; one for New York and one for Ohio. There were pages dedicated to venues; to florists; to jewelers; to caterers; to designers. Every base was covered—of course—and all of it was for them.

The idea itself struck Blaine later on that evening, after he'd briefly spoken to Kurt on the phone to say goodnight. He'd ordered in for the third night running, and was in the middle of trying to work out how long he'd need to spend in the gym to work it all off when he got to thinking about the English TV show Kurt had told him he was hooked on. An engaged couple were given �12,000 and three weeks in which to plan a wedding, the only catch being that the groom had to be the one to plan it, and wasn't allowed to have any contact with the bride (or the other groom, Kurt had excitedly told him) until the day of the wedding. Sometimes the results were disastrous—Blaine could have sworn he felt Kurt's shudder as he recounted one particular Indian/Scottish-themed wedding—but more often than not, the weddings turned out beautifully.

“Why haven't we even started planning the wedding, yet?” Blaine had asked him thoughtfully when Kurt had paused, yawning. England was five hours ahead of New York, and Blaine's watch was reading 6:30p.m. “I know we filed our marriage license, but...”

“I thought we agreed that there was no rush,” Kurt said quietly, stifling another yawn.

“We did. And there isn't. You're the last person I'd have expected to be so... relaxed about it, is all.”

“We've been together nearly eight years, Blaine,” Kurt replied with a light chuckle.

“I know. I just...” Blaine trailed off, burying a hand in his unruly curls. “God, I just want to marry you. I don't want you to be my boyfriend, or my partner, or my fiance. I want you to be my husband.”

“Okay, well... When I get home, let's set a date,” Kurt told him. “We'll grab the calendar, pick a day, and start planning.”

They'd said goodnight soon after, but Blaine couldn't get the idea out of his mind. He'd logged onto YouTube and watched a few clips of the show, fingers drumming across the cover of the white scrapbook all the while. Somewhere around the sixth or seventh happy couple, that familiar ache settled back into his chest and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could do it. He could take the reins for once; plan their wedding and Kurt could arrive on the day looking breathtaking in Westwood, McQueen or Valentino with not a single thing to worry about.

When Kristy arrived at seven-thirty, he told her as much.

“Huh,” she said, sitting back on the couch and picking at her khao soi. “Well. I gotta say, he's marrying the right guy.”

“Not so insane after all, right?” Blaine quipped with a satisfied smirk. Kristy shook her head and waved her fork at him.

“No, you're still batshit. Just... sweet, and batshit,” she told him, setting her container down on the coffee table and picking up McQueen from where he'd been rubbing up against her legs. “I have a feeling we're about to see just how batshit Daddy is. Aren't we, McQueen?”

Blaine grinned at that, and flipped his notepad to the first page.

*

Wednesday 14 August, 2019

Gmail – Inbox (1) – blainethewayfarer@gmail.com

FROM: finn@hummeltire.com
TO: blainethewayfarer@gmail.com
DATE: 08/14/2019, 2:14PM (EST)
SUBJECT: Re: Save The Date (Surprise)!

Whoa, dude. Um, are you sure about this? I know you guys are like, crazy in love and all but are you sure you're not just like... crazy? Kurt's going to kill you. And don't worry, I won't tell him—he'd kill ME and then I wouldn't have your back.

I'll be there. Mom and Burt say hi and that they're worried for your safety.

-Finn

*

Friday 16 August, 2019

“Might I remind you again, little brother, that you're crazy. You sure all that hair gel didn't have an adverse effect?”

Blaine leveled Cooper with his best death glare as he dialed the number for Kurt's office in London and ran through everything in his mind for something close to the ninety-fourth time in a row. All that was left was to arrange the music, the decorations and favors, their attire (along with that of the groomsmen and bridesmaids), and the honeymoon.

“Kurt Hummel's office, this is Olivia,” a voice came crackling over the speaker.

“Olivia, hey, it's Blaine,” he began, speaking quickly before she gave the game away. “Listen, I need you to do something for me right now, okay? I need you to not let Kurt know that I'm calling.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but he's unavailable right now. I'll be happy to take a message,” Olivia said after only the slightest of pauses, and Blaine breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay, here goes. Um... Olivia, I need to speak to Vivienne.”

There was a beat of absolute silence from Olivia's end.

“And what can I say the message is regarding?” she asked, carefully. Cooper glanced across at Blaine with one eyebrow raised, clearly enjoying watching his younger brother squirm, and Blaine had to resist the urge to hit him.

“I emailed you a Save The Date, so you probably know what it's regarding. Does Vivienne know?”

“Classy, Blaine. Could have used FedEx, you know,” Cooper muttered under his breath, and held up his hands in mock defeat when Blaine sent another glare his way.

“Yes, sir, that's correct,” Olivia confirmed.

“So she knows what's going on. Okay, that's good. That's great, actually, it makes things easier. I need to ask her to give Kurt some vacation time when you're all back in the States. Is she around?”

“I assure you, sir, we here at Vivienne Westwood are available to answer your questions any time. If you wouldn't mind holding for one second, you'll hear our personal manifesto from the woman herself,” Olivia said, and Blaine found himself wishing he could read his hands through the phone and kiss her. The girl was an angel sent from heaven to make his life easier, he was sure of it.

“Thank you, Olivia, I appreciate this so much,” he told her.

“It's really romantic. I'll be there,” she whispered rapidly, and there was a short beep before the living room was filled with soft hold music.

“So you're about to talk to Vivienne Westwood,” Cooper observed dryly, and Blaine's grip on the phone tightened. “Nervous?”

“What? No, I'm—“

“Vivienne Westwood speaking.”

Blaine cleared his throat, fingers slipping on the phone slightly as his palms began to sweat. Not only was this Kurt's boss, this was Vivienne Westwood, one of the most revered and respected names in the entire world of fashion.

“Hello, ma'am, this is Blaine Anderson,” he managed.

“I'm not the Queen,” came the clipped reply.

“I'm—I'm sorry?”

“I'm not the Queen; there's no need for that ma'am rubbish,” Vivienne said, her tone light. “I understand you're planning a surprise wedding.”

“Yes, ma—I mean, yes. That's right,” Blaine said, catching himself just in time and ignoring Cooper's soft sniggering from the couch. He was more nervous than the first time he met Burt as The Boyfriend rather than The Best Friend. “I was calling to ask if—if you can spare him, of course, I wouldn't presume to—“

“Blaine, relax. Of course Kurt can take the time off. Now, what are you both wearing?” Vivienne asked, instantly setting him at ease.

“I'm—um, I don't... I haven't gotten that far just yet,” Blaine confessed, and he flushed as if she was standing right before him.

“Well, if you wouldn't mind my input, I'd like to create something for him. The thing is, how do we go about the business of fittings if he doesn't know he's getting married?”

“I'm going to tell him, once everything's in place. He'll know before coming back to the States, Ms. Westwood.”

”Right. Well, that certainly simplifies things. And don't worry, I'll keep your secret,” she told him conspiratorially.

“Thank you so much, Ms Westwood. I don't know how I can repay you for this.”

”Well,” Vivienne said, sniffing dramatically. ”An invitation might have been nice.”

“Of—of course, I—“ Blaine began, but was cut off by her good-natured laugh. Cooper was sniggering at him again.

”I'm joking, darling. You boys have your day. I'll be there in spirit and silk.”

“Thank you again, Ms Westwood,” Blaine said, slightly in awe and entirely at a loss for words.

”You treat him well,” she instructed softly.

“I will, I promise.”

”Take care, Blaine.”

As Blaine heard the line click, his phone switched back to the home screen and he glanced fondly at the picture of Kurt sitting at his desk, surrounded by sheets of paper with his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He looked almost lost in his own thought and creativity, and not ten minutes after Blaine had snapped the picture, he'd had a wave of inspiration that had resulted in a completed outline for his latest collection. They'd celebrated with the last bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from his father's cellar, later falling into bed giggling, touching, breathing each other's air and relaxing into an easy conversation about things that absolutely, categorically would not be a part of their wedding, It had been nearly four a.m. before sleep finally interrupted their talking, and it was a conversation that Blaine had meticulously filed away in the back of his mind for later reference. Taking in the snapshot currently serving as his wallpaper, he was glad he'd done so.

“Anything else left to do today?” Cooper asked as he stretched his arms out ahead of him and checked his watch. “I'm starved.”

“Nothing,” Blaine answered, shaking his head. “I've got a few errands to run tomorrow, though. Suits, favors, invitations. The only other thing after that will be the dresses, but I need to wait and see how many of them can make it first.”

“Well, since we have the whole afternoon... Feel like getting your ass kicked at Mario Kart?”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “As long as you brought beer. I'm not a complete masochist.”

“It's a good word for you, though.”

“Tell me about it.”

*

Monday 19 August, 2019

Blaine had to work hard to suppress a grimace as he stepped inside the FedEx shipping center on Broadway and got in line, knowing as he did that it used to be an Anderson Shipping & Transit depot. He and Cooper had spent countless hours playing hide and seek in the storerooms back at the Westerville center, terrorizing the staff with pea-shooters and generally making a nuisance of themselves whenever their father had had to drag them into the office with him.

As he waited in line, hands of the clock behind the counter just ticking past the hour, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Kristy (9:02am): How goes it, O Batshit Buckeye?

Blaine rolled his eyes and shuffled forward, tucking the envelope underneath his arm and turning his phone sideways to type out a reply.

Blaine (9:03am): It goes well—standing in line at FedEx to mail Kurt's invite. I continue to be appreciative of your concern for my mental health.
Kristy (9:04am): Always happy to help a brother out. Gotta keep those ducks in a row and not turning psychedelic, y'know?
Blaine (9:06am): That's what the Risperdal is for, remember?
Kristy (9:07am): Seriously, though. How's it going?
Blaine (9:08am): Everything's done, apart from the bridesmaid dresses—I know which ones, we just need to do fittings when everybody's here. You're still coming, right?
Kristy (9:09am): Cake, embarrassing dancing and your super-fine brother? Wouldn't miss it.

Blaine quickly pocketed his phone as he reached the front of the line, and smiled at the middle-aged man behind the counter. He wouldn't be here for anybody other than Kurt, reliving the past in surroundings that had been stripped back to the skeleton and built back up, all of the Anderson touches swept into the dusty spaces between plasterboard and brick. Brushing his fingertips across the packet's address label one last time, he handed it to the clerk and paid for the shipping.

That was everything. All of the arrangements were made; he had done everything he could possibly do. As Blaine left the shipping center, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sunshine, he grinned to himself. In just over a week, he would be standing in front of the man of his dreams, promising to be his forever.

Shit, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks. Vows.

*

Wednesday 21 August, 2019

Bzzz! Bzzz! 'Cause it's a beautiful night; we're looking for something dumb to do. Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you—

Blaine jerked awake and immediately grabbed his buzzing phone from the bedside, heart in his mouth as he saw that it was Kurt calling. From England. At 3:04a.m.

“Kurt?” he rasped groggily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Blaine.”

“Kurt, what's going on? Are you okay?”

“I guess that depends on how you look at it.”

Blaine blinked once into the darkness, stomach twisting uncomfortably. What could be so very wrong that Kurt would be calling at this hour? “Baby, just—what's going on?”

”I'm getting married.”

“Yes? I mean, I did ask you...” Blaine trailed off, utterly confused and suffering the full effects of sleep-stupid.

”I'm getting married,” Kurt repeated slowly, ”next Wednesday, apparently. Care to explain?”

Blaine sat straight up in bed at that. “Um. Surprise?”