Chapter Ten - Somewhere a Bell is Ringing
Saturday 27 August, 2044

“That was an incredible summer,” Blaine mused, almost lost in memories of the sun and the ocean and the magic. He took in the picture of himself giving the speech that, to this day, still got referenced in the occasional interview. He set his empty plate aside, lingering on the sad yet sated look in Kurt's eyes in the very last picture of him in their very first apartment. Kurt smoothed down a crease in the ticket for the cruise that had taken them to Mexico, the warm afternoon sun lighting up their faces as they stood together in the shimmering heat of Cozumel, before brushing reverently across the faded text of the yellowing letters that had changed their lives forever.

“The best,” Kurt agreed. “Of course, I could have lived without the mosquito mafia dogging my every step...”

“You're never gonna let that one go, are you?”

“...Nope.”

“Something I've always wondered,” Blaine began after they turned to the next page. The picture was from Christmas 2016 at the Hummel-Hudson household. Kurt almost visibly shuddered at the hideous holiday sweaters that Carole had forced them into. He quirked his eyebrows a little at Blaine, prompting him to continue. “Why wouldn't you kiss me that night?”

Kurt didn't say anything for a moment. “I, um... I just couldn't. Let's just... Let's just say that it was because of the cigars. I could still smell them on you even after you showered.”

“I didn't even smoke!” Blaine exclaimed, though he was laughing. Kurt tried not to show his relief at the fact that sometimes, his husband could still be incredibly oblivious. But there were some things, some moments that he just didn't have the heart to ruin. “And hey, you didn't seem to care about the way I smelled after our bachelor par—“

“I was high, Blaine. You know better than to try and hold me accountable for any of the things that happened that night,” Kurt said haughtily.

“Blame it on the goose, got you feeling loose,” Blaine crooned into his ear.

“The goose wasn't the half of it, as you're well aware,” Kurt huffed, squirming as Blaine's hands found the ticklish spot between his ribs. “And anyway, the whole thing was your fault for being such an enabler in the first place.”

“Wait, wait. Just to make sure I'm understanding, here. You're saying that while I was passed out on the bathroom floor and you were sneaking out to... Well, do what you did... that it was my fault,” Blaine incredulously stated, rather than asked.

“Yes,” Kurt said, placing a finger across Blaine's mouth as his lips parted to protest. “But let's not go getting ahead of ourselves.”

---

Sunday 25 December, 2016

As Kurt stood at the sink with Carole, drying the dishes she passed to him and examining his reflection in the dark mirror of the kitchen window, it occurred to him that he had not seen or heard Blaine in quite some time. He listened intently for a second, inclining his head towards the living room, but all he could hear were the low murmurings of Finn and Burt's voices over the TV. There was nothing of the deep and soothing cadence of the voice he'd come to semantically associate with the smell of coffee in the morning; of old Katy Perry songs; of waking up enveloped in a warm embrace.

“Did Blaine go somewhere?” he asked Carole, trying to keep the creeping edge of tension away from his words.

“Yeah, honey, he went for a walk. He didn't tell you?”

Kurt shook his head, excusing himself into the hall and pulling his phone from his pocket as he perched on the stairs.

Where'd you go? K x

Feel like keeping me company? B xx

Sure. K x

Two rights, then a left, then two more rights, and carry on. You'll know where to find me when you get here. Wrap up warm. I love you. B xx

Kurt didn't even need to map out the journey in his mind's eye—he'd traveled that route often enough to know where those directions led. Blaine knew that, and Kurt knew that he knew—he probably just hadn't wanted to come right out and say that he was at the cemetery.

“Blaine went to see Mom,” he told Carole, almost apologetically, after re-entering the kitchen. She simply looked around at him with a sad smile, her hands still immersed.

“I wondered if he might,” she said, quietly, and Kurt bit his tongue to keep from asking why. “I'm almost done here, if you wanted to go join him.”

“Would you mind if I did?”

“No, honey, not at all. Just take your Dad's truck, he put the snow tires on it a couple weeks ago. You know how he worries,” she said, fondly. Kurt leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before making his way through the living room to retrieve the keys and tell his father where he was headed.

As he drove, Kurt listened to the radio, smiling a little when the DJ advised that anyone crazy enough to leave the house should pay special attention to the next song: Baby, It's Cold Outside.

The night before had been the last of a three-night stay at Blaine's house. Christmas, Blaine had told him, had never exactly been a grand affair at the Anderson household in the past, and this year had had the potential to be positively solemn in his father's absence. But somehow, between a reprise of their original flirty duet, and Blaine and Cooper's seemingly endless drama whilst duking it out on the Monopoly board, it wasn't unbearable. When they had finally retired to bed, they'd made love almost silently, eyes locked in a way that made Kurt's heart beat erratically. Deep moans muffled with kisses and hands over mouths, and it was like they were seventeen again, discovering everything for the first time.

Kurt flicked his eyes to his wrist for just a second, still a little unable to get over his gift from Fiona (not Mrs. Anderson, as she repeatedly insisted) and how much he loved it. She had bought them both watches, almost a 'His and His' kind of thing, the idea of which Kurt had always outwardly detested but secretly kind of loved. She'd chosen well; his was black, simple and understated, yet stylish and somehow went with everything when he took a moment to mentally inventory his closet.

He pulled into the parking lot as the hands on his watch ticked past four-thirty p.m., and he knew there wouldn't be much time. He'd memorized the visiting hours many years ago, when he would visit his mother every Sunday, and they hadn't changed. As Kurt got out of the truck, he made his way inside to the chapel like he always did, taking with him the candle he'd brought from his room. It was scented; the closest thing he'd ever been able to find. Sometimes—on those particularly difficult days when all he wanted was to be held in loving, maternal arms—he would still lie down on the floor with an arm thrown across his eyes, in front of the dresser that now lived in his and Blaine's apartment, all the drawers pulled out and just breathe.

He took a taper, setting his candle down on the shrine, and lit the wick. Kurt had never been religious at all, but something about the candles always seemed symbolic; it was comforting that somewhere, a light was burning for Elizabeth Hummel.

He paused for a moment afterward, before following the footsteps of many years long past along the path to his mother's headstone. The grounds were covered in snow, and Kurt had always loved the way that snow seemed to light up the world from the ground itself. Blaine was sitting cross-legged with four battery-operated perpetual candles in front of him, and he'd scattered lilacs around the headstone. The scene made Kurt's heart ache, and he bent forward to loop his arms around Blaine's neck from behind.

“Thank you,” he whispered, lowering himself onto the soft blanket that Blaine had spread out across the snow.

“I used to come here a lot, when you were in your first year at NYU,” he said, threading his fingers through Kurt's.

“You did?”

Blaine nodded. “I had a standing invitation to Friday Night Dinner,” he continued, and Kurt could almost hear him capitalizing the words. “Afterward, on my way home, I would always stop here and talk to your mom, telling her all about you and how you were doing. It kind of... It made me feel closer to you, in a way, like I could do this thing for you while you were so far away. I didn't... I don't know, I guess I didn't want her to be lonely with you gone.”

Kurt couldn't help the tears blazing trails down his face, the skin underneath them tight as they froze in the cold afternoon air. He leaned forward, brushing his fingers against the letters of his mother's name.

“Too much?” Blaine asked quietly, his eyes downcast as he self-consciously rubbed at the back of his neck. Kurt brought a hand up underneath Blaine's chin, gently tilted his face level and placed a soft kiss to his lips.

“Always,” Kurt confessed. “But I wouldn't change it.”

---

At eight p.m., after they'd all eaten their fill of Carole's delicious pecan pie (and then some, in Finn's case) and the table was cleared, Kurt and Blaine were left alone in the dining room. Kurt stretched his arms up over his head and leaned back in his seat, feeling Blaine's eyes on him.

“What?” he asked softly.

“I was just thinking about how proud of you I am. Kurt Hummel's had another pretty good year,” he said, and Kurt smiled.

Blaine felt lucky on Kurt's behalf that, while his job was demanding and the hours sometimes got slightly on the long side for his own liking, his boss was actually a sweetheart. He'd seen The Devil Wears Prada more times than he really liked to admit, and had been terrified until Kurt came home at the end of his first day, his smile preceding him. He opened his mouth to say more, but was cut off by Burt re-entering the kitchen, holding two pre-cut cigars in his hand.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Really, Dad? Still?”

“It's tradition,” Burt said, simply, and held one out to Blaine. He looked sidelong at Kurt, who shook his head and threw up his hands in exasperation. Blaine was caught, for a second; he knew that this might be one of the very few convenient opportunities that he would get to talk to Burt alone, but Kurt's potential disappointment in him was already almost too much to bear. Hesitantly steeling himself, he reached to take the cigar and stood up, trying his best to ignore the way Kurt bristled.

“I'll be in the living room,” Kurt muttered shortly, stalking out of the kitchen with tension plain in his shoulders.

“He won't be pissed for long,” Burt said, clapping a hand on Blaine's shoulder, “Carole's fixing to get A Christmas Story started.”

Blaine smiled tightly, standing up. “You smoke a cigar every Christmas?”

“Old tradition of my dad's,” Burt offered by way of explanation. “Gotta pass it on to someone. I'll be outside.”

Once Blaine had pulled on his coat, he took a deep breath. He was more than comfortable enough around Kurt's father after the number of years they'd been together; they felt like family already. But that didn't serve to make him any less nervous about what he was about to do. What he was about to ask.

Outside, Burt already had his cigar lit. Blaine shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself before sitting down in the wooden deck chair next to Burt's, a small table between them with a small glass ashtray in the center. He held the cigar between his fingers uncertainly for a moment.

“You don't have to if you don't want to, kid,” Burt said, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle of the lawn. “I only offered so I could get you out here; you've been acting squirrelly all day.”

Blaine chuckled, his breath a plume in the light of the kitchen that spilled out onto the patio. “I'm not really a cigar kinda guy.”

“Didn't think so. Now tell me what's up,” Burt said, casting Blaine a knowing glance.

“Mr. Hummel—“

“Burt.”

“Burt,” Blaine corrected. “The reason I wanted to talk to you alone is...”

“You're not gonna get me to have another talk with Kurt, are you? Because son, I think that ship has long since sailed into the sunset.”

Blaine bit his lip at Burt's almost casual use of the word 'son' and tried not to let it sting too fiercely.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” He paused, struggling to grab the threads of the words he wanted to say.

“Then what is it?” Burt prompted after a long moment, puffing on the cigar. The smoke hung thickly in the still air around them, and Blaine had to admit that the smell wasn't entirely terrible. It was a strong scent that had an edge of something slightly unpleasant, but it was rich, deep and intriguing.

Blaine sat straighter in his seat, turning to face Kurt's father fully. “I'd like to formally ask your permission to marry your son.”

Burt set the cigar down in the ashtray, the light breeze making the curls of smoke dance lazily towards Blaine. He inhaled slowly, eyes boring into Blaine's as if he was sizing him up.

“You love him.”

“Yes, sir,” Blaine answered, knowing Burt was simply acknowledging the fact rather than questioning it.

“And you're gonna treat him right.”

“Yes, sir. For as long as he'll have me.”

Another long, long pause. “Well, I'll do you one better. You've got my permission and my blessing,” Burt said. “When are you asking him?”

Blaine exhaled heavily, running a hand through his unruly curls. “That, I honestly have no idea. I've run through so many different dates in my head. The thing with Kurt is that he loves romance but it has to be original. No cheesy, clich� Christmas or New Year's proposal. Not on an anniversary or a birthday and definitely not on Valentine's.”

Burt chuckled. “You know him pretty well, I'll give you that.”

“Like the back of my hand,” Blaine replied absently.

“You getting him a ring?”

Blaine nodded. He carried the ring with him everywhere; there wasn't an inch of their apartment that was safe, especially when Kurt was on a cleaning kick. “I have it right here,” he said, slowly, pulling the small box from the pocket of his coat and holding it in his lap. “I can't keep it in the apartment.”

“Can I?” Burt asked, and Blaine handed over the box. Burt let out a low whistle when he saw the thick titanium band studded with three small diamonds, and he cleared his throat gruffly before passing it back to Blaine. “You did good, kid.”

---

Kurt watched the exchange, wide-eyed, from his bedroom window. The window was closed so Kurt hadn't known what they were talking about until Blaine had reached into his pocket and produced a small, dark box and passed it to Kurt's father. He had averted his gaze at that point, only looking back after an agonizing minute had passed. Burt stood, firmly shaking Blaine's hand before pulling him into a brief hug and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

I only came up to change into my pajamas, Kurt thought, dazed. He was asking Dad's permission.

He hardly dared to believe his own eyes. They'd talked about getting married before, of course they had. Especially since moving to New York, where gay marriage was legal. But apart from that one conversation at the top of the Empire State Building the day after they moved into their first apartment (and Blaine had seemed to have a renewed fascination with Kurt's butt, so he was never sure that Blaine had really been listening or even knowing what he was agreeing to), Blaine had never given any real indication that he was one day intending to propose, saying only that when the time was right, they'd do it.

The laws in Ohio had finally changed, and apparently, the time was right.

“Hey, you,” came Blaine's voice from the doorway, the scent of cigar smoke accompanying him. Kurt felt like he was going to burst out of his skin.

“Hey,” he replied, shakily. His hands were trembling, and he curled his fingers into his jeans to try and hide it as best he could. “I just came up to change into my pajamas. It's another Christmas tradition. But you don't have to, um... if you're cold, or... anything.”

Blaine shot him a quizzical look. “I figured I'll take a shower and then I'll join you guys. But don't feel like you have to wait for me.”

“No, no, of course we will,” Kurt said quickly. A flash of concern passed across Blaine's face.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, taking a half-step forward. Kurt did his best to appear unfazed as he stood, nodding and smiling as genuinely as he could. An awkward and unnatural silence settled between them, and before Blaine could say anything else, Kurt turned on his heel and crossed the room, yanking open the door to his walk-in closet and stepping out of Blaine's sight. He held his breath while Blaine retrieved his wash bag from the suitcase and retreated into the bathroom. As soon as Kurt heard the shower running, he slumped against the door frame.

Too much?

Always. But I wouldn't change it.

Kurt hadn't really had any idea of the truth of his own words until that moment. Seeing Blaine pull that box from his pocket, turning it over in his hands... That box contained the ring he was going to give to Kurt when he proposed.

Blaine was going to propose. He was going to ask Kurt to be his, forever. Until they were old and gray (but still impeccably fashionable), sitting on a porch somewhere, still holding hands and smiling whenever they'd hear Teenage Dream on the radio during a 'golden oldies' show or something equally as silly. There was something burning in his stomach. Glowing embers of a burnt-out ache; bittersweet longing and need that he'd thought long since replaced by love and passion and security. It was almost too much, and Kurt knew that if he let Blaine anywhere near him that night, he wouldn't be able to contain himself. He would blurt out what he'd seen and ruin the whole thing.

So he decided to keep his distance that night, as much as he could without making Blaine suspicious. Sleep would help calm and re-center him; it always had in the past. And if Blaine asked what was going on, he would tell him... He would tell him that he couldn't stand the smell of the cigar smoke that still clung to his skin.

When he made his way downstairs, Kurt chose to sit in the ugly armchair of his father's that always reminded him of Chandler and Joey's Barcaloungers in Friends. It was uncomfortable, molded more to Burt's shape than his own, but better that than sitting with Blaine's arm around his shoulders, Blaine's chest rising and falling against Kurt's cheek, Blaine's steady heartbeat synchronizing with his own. Better that than losing his grip on the energy and excitement that clamored beneath his skin and exploding into a million pieces, all of them screaming 'yes' in a thousand different dialects. Kurt wondered, for a moment, if Blaine would propose here. If he was honest, now that he was faced with the reality that it was going to happen, he didn't really mind the prospect of a holiday proposal. But he wanted it to be just the two of them. They were each other's firsts, and when Blaine asked Kurt to be his last, it was a moment that Kurt wanted to share with no one.

“You okay, Kurt?”

Burt's voice broke Kurt's reverie, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he looked at his dad sitting next to Finn at the farthest end of the couch.

“The best,” Kurt replied softly, noticing the way Burt tried to surreptitiously steal a glimpse of his son's ring finger. For a fleeting moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else, and Kurt braced himself. Thankfully, right at that moment, Carole came bustling in with bowls of popcorn and bags of the low-fat chips that were on Kurt's pre-approved list. He had to hide a grin at the disgruntled look on Burt's face when he realized that Christmas was just another day when it came to snacks.

They chatted amiably for a few minutes as they waited for Blaine. Kurt managed to steer the conversation around to focus on Finn who, much to Kurt's surprise, was talking about the current state of the economy in an informed and knowledgeable manner. He really had blossomed in college, finally finding himself on the right track, and had come out with a solid degree in Business and Economics. Having a strong father figure with a legacy to leave to his children had finally given Finn the right way in which to prove himself, and Kurt had never been prouder to call him his brother.

Blaine finally padded into the room, devastating in a black wife-beater and gray pajama pants with his hair still damp.

“Hey, sweetie,” Carole greeted him brightly as he took a seat at the end of the couch closest to Kurt.

“So, I've never seen A Christmas Story,” Blaine admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“Well, you're in for a treat. It's a classic,” Kurt managed, shooting his fianc�—boyfriend, Kurt, it hasn't happened yet—a warm smile.

For the most part, the rest of the evening passed without incident. Every time Blaine's fingers brushed against his, a frisson of sparks darted up and down Kurt's spine, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something really stupid like clambering gracelessly onto the garage roof and singing made-up songs about Blaine's hair or something. He was almost making himself want to throw up. By the end of the movie, Kurt had a terrible headache from watching in darkness, and the urge to stage a one-man rooftop show had been overcome by the pressure behind his eyes. Mostly.

After bidding his family a good night and thanking them for a wonderful Christmas, Kurt let Blaine lead him up to the stairs to bed and gratefully accepted the glass of cold water and Tylenol with which he was presented.

“Are you sure you're okay, baby?” Blaine asked, his hands light on Kurt's knees as he knelt in front of him. Kurt pitched forward slowly, leaning his forehead against Blaine's.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he replied, carefully evading the question.

“Always,” Blaine said, and to Kurt, it sounded like a promise.

Soon afterward, Blaine was turning off the lights, climbing into bed behind him and whispering I love you into his ear. Finally relaxing into Blaine's arms, Kurt could already feel himself drifting off, and his last thought before sleep claimed him was that maybe he should have pursued a career in acting after all.