“Baby, you have to put me out of my misery,” Kurt pleaded, doing his best impression of Blaine's patented puppy-eyes. “Tell me why. And I know you weren't waiting for the laws to change back home because you don't even remember that conversation.”

Blaine took a deep, bracing breath, fiddling with a button on his cardigan that was coming loose. “Okay. Okay, I'll tell you. It's a long story.”

“So it should be,” Kurt replied, shifting in his seat and settling in.

“It all began... I guess it all began one random day in the middle of the week, back at Dalton,” Blaine started, shooting Kurt an affectionate look and reaching over to lightly squeeze his hand. “I was on my way to a Warblers performance, and this beautiful boy stopped me on the stairs—”

“Blaine.”

“What?”

“You're supposed to be telling me why it took you two and a half years to propose to me after you first realized that you actually wanted to propose to me,” Kurt huffed impatiently.

“But I am,” Blaine replied, and Kurt regarded him quizzically. “And it all starts with the day we first met. As I was saying, this gorgeous boy stopped me on the stairs...”

“Dude, is that your boyfriend?” a blond guy dancing next to him shouted over the noise, gesturing to the stage. Blaine followed his gaze, but couldn't see anyone familiar in the group of performers. He turned back to the guy to ask him who he meant, but found himself alone at the end of the pier. It was dark, save for the light of the moon rippling across the surface of the Hudson River.

Bzzz! Bzzz! You make me feel like I'm livin' a tee—

Threads of his lonely dream fluttering away from him, Blaine rolled onto his side and hit Dismiss rather than Snooze, having forgotten to turn it off the night before. Kurt had the week off work—Stephanie was at French Vogue until the following Wednesday and, with the exception of Paris Fashion Week, always used one of the two assistants to the French editor-in-chief, Arianne Collette. Kurt had decided to capitalize by taking some vacation time to rest and relax with his boyfriend. It was a rare week of respite, and Blaine couldn't help but take a moment to lie back and bask. The previous day, Blaine had called his boss at the cafe where he was working three days a week to call in a favor for those extra shifts he'd worked in the lead-up to Christmas, and since it was quiet, she was more than happy to give him the time off.

Blaine had taken the job to get out of the empty, Kurt-less apartment for at least some of the time. With his inheritance, neither of them really needed to work, but Kurt was doing something he really loved—not to mention the fact that he was adamant that he was going to pay off his own student debts, even if it was really more to do with retaining his sense of independence. Furthermore, working at the cafe got Blaine out of the apartment for long enough each day that he began to experience a newfound excitement for coming home at the end of the day. He and Kurt had also become firm friends with Blaine's fellow baristas Toby and Andrew, who had moved back to their native Brooklyn from Minneapolis after Toby's grandfather had passed away, leaving them his house.

This week, however, was all about them. He'd spent an entire day planning it around Kurt's New York Bucket List—somehow, it was still mostly the same as it was when he'd first written it. Between settling into life with one another, being busy with college and now work, they'd just never had the time.

As Blaine's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that something felt different. It was as if the world had somehow changed; the very air he breathed seemed charged with potential and anticipation. Stretching luxuriously, he turned over to face Kurt, slipping an arm around his waist and smiling against his bare skin as he stirred in his sleep.

This week was the week that, when the right moment presented itself, Blaine Anderson was going to ask a question.

Kurt stirred again, and awoke as Blaine pressed closer into him. He blinked slowly, before returning Blaine's warm embrace and regarding him with bleary eyes and a sleepy smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Blaine said with a light kiss to Kurt's jaw.

“What time is it?”

“Hmm... About seven. I forgot to switch off the alarm,” Blaine murmured. Kurt chuckled as he stretched, stifling a yawn.

“I want to spend all week in this bed with you,” Kurt said, shifting to pull Blaine closer.

“As wonderful as that sounds, it's not really the healthiest way to exist. And anyway, I have plans.”

“Plans?”

“Plans,” Blaine affirmed. “Involving you, me, and Staten Island.”

“Staten Island?”

“We're going to the zoo,” Blaine told him.

*

Grinning to himself, Blaine knew he couldn't have planned this outing on a better day if he had tried. The weekend over, all the kids were back at school and the weather was cold enough to prevent any early field trips. There was hardly anyone else at the zoo, and Kurt hadn't let go of his hand since they'd left the Starbucks on Broadway, shivering slightly in the early morning chill as they waited for a cab to take them to Whitehall Terminal. Around an hour or so later, thoroughly refreshed and wide awake from the ferry, they took the bus further into the hub of Staten Island, both feeling entirely at ease surrounded by the crowd of artists, musicians and students.

The zoo was quiet save for the sounds of the animals, and Blaine couldn't keep his eyes off the way Kurt's entire being seemed to light up as meerkats took tidbits of food from his hand.

“I always thought about working with animals. You know, if I wasn't taking Broadway or the fashion world by storm,” Kurt whispered softly, trying not to disturb his newfound friends. After a moment, he suppressed a shudder. “But the uniforms.”

Blaine chuckled at the mental picture of Kurt in a zookeeper's uniform; the images simply refused to mesh together in his mind. But the idea of Kurt working with animals, devoting his time and energy to taking care of and fixing what couldn't otherwise be mended... It made him think back to how Kurt had done that for him. Not even Cooper, to whom he'd always been closer than anyone else, had been able to penetrate the shield he'd constructed for himself after the incident at the dance. And suddenly, there was Kurt, deconstructing the heavy chain mail, link for link, like it was nothing. Blaine had finally let himself heal.

Out of habit, his hand crept into his pocket and tightly held onto the small, velvet box.

“What is it?” Kurt's voice intoned as he straightened up, brushing his hands off. Blaine nervously glanced around and removed his hand from his pocket. This definitely wasn't it. Too impersonal.

“Nothing,” he replied—unconvincingly, judging by the way Kurt sardonically arched an eyebrow in his direction—pulling the map from underneath his arm and smoothing it out against the information stand in front of the meerkat enclosure. “So, where to next?”

“Blaine, honey, there's a package for you,” his mother called from the kitchen. After a few moments, she wandered into the hallway with it in her hands, tutting and fussing over him when she noticed the slump in his shoulders and dejected look on his face. Even Blaine himself couldn't figure out why he was so sad. He accepted the parcel gratefully, and went upstairs to his room to open it in private.

With inexplicably trembling hands, he peeled away the brown paper and unwrapped the contents. Inside was a large, black, leather-bound book. It seemed like a photo album, or a scrapbook of some kind. Every page was blank, and there was no inscription. As he flipped through it, an envelope addressed to him fell from between the pages. The handwriting seemed as familiar as his own, but he couldn't place it. He tore open the envelope, but the folded sheets of paper that smelled of lilacs and musk had nothing written upon them.

Bzzz! Bzzz! Can you pay my bills? Can you pay my telepho—

Blaine woke up confused and disoriented. A pale, wintry sunlight was filtering through the curtains and the room was silent, but as he turned his head towards the door he thought that maybe he could hear the sound of oil sizzling in a pan.

Trying to shrug off the lingering remnants of his dream, he got out of the bed and picked up his loose pajama pants from their usual spot on the floor. He slipped them on quickly, rolling his neck from side to side in an attempt to ease the creeping tension. His eyes went to the top shelf of the bookcase, to the very left, to where the unassuming black spine of The Book stood sandwiched between the begrudgingly well-thumbed copy of Baking for Dummies that Kurt had semi-ironically presented him with one Tuesday afternoon, and the unread copy of Emotional Intelligence for Dummies with which Blaine had retaliated two days later (the pink page marker was still unmoved from its place at the section about empathy). He smiled briefly at the memory and let his fingertips drift down the black leather, reassuring himself that it was still there and most definitely not blank.

“It's Tuesday,” came a high, child-like voice out of nowhere. Something soft and fluffy was placed on his shoulder, and in his peripheral vision, Blaine could see it was the plush meerkat toy he'd bought for Kurt at the zoo gift shop. Blaine hummed in the affirmative, turning around with drooping eyelids, and Kurt continued with the voice, “chocolate chip or strawberry?”

“I feel like it's definitely a chocolate chip day.”

Kurt lowered Aleksandr—the name he'd affectionately given the meerkat after watching a bunch of old English commercials for some comparison website on YouTube—and nuzzled against his nose. “Bad dream?”

“Weird dream,” Blaine said after pausing to consider it. “How did you know?”

“You were tossing a lot,” Kurt dismissed with a wave of his hand. It had woken him over an hour earlier but he didn't mind, just set about making pancakes like he always did when Blaine was having a bad dream. “Weird dream usually means maple syrup.”

“It's definitely a chocolate chip day,” Blaine repeated, allowing himself one last self-indulgent sigh, and turned his face upwards. “But despite that, it's also another Bucket List day.”

Kurt brightened, the creases of his furrowed brow smoothing. “What are we doing today?”

Blaine grinned knowingly. “Shopping.”

*

Blaine had seen Kurt in various states of terrifying over the years they had been together. Kurt stressing out over costumes for the New Directions; Kurt panicking over last-minute changes to choreography or arrangement; Kurt yelling at him in a darkened parking lot; Kurt tearing out his hair for two weeks as his inspiration ran dry. And it wasn't like they'd never been to Barneys before. But Kurt, at Barneys, during post-holiday sale season... He was a ruthless mercenary, and Blaine was sure he'd finish out the day with one arm six inches longer than the other at how quickly Kurt was dragging him from department to department. And there really wasn't any method to Kurt's madness, Blaine mused as he was pulled up another escalator. Kurt wouldn't stick to one floor before moving up to the next. He was careening from one level of the store to the next and back down again, baskets overflowing with clothes and accessories and throw pillows and blankets and, unfathomably considering they no longer owned a dinner table, napkin rings. It wasn't until Blaine found himself hovering somewhat awkwardly outside the changing rooms in the menswear department that he took a moment to catch his breath, feeling a little like a pack mule. He wasn't waiting for long before Kurt was stepping out from between the swinging, saloon-style doors and oh.

Kurt had always looked good in Hugo Boss, but this was something else. Maybe it had a little something to do with the fact that Blaine was searching for the perfect moment to propose, but he couldn't help the vision that rose in his mind at that very moment; Kurt on his father's arm, walking towards him down an aisle that was scattered with cherry blossoms, wearing a boutonniere of lilacs that matched the color of his waistcoat.

“What do you think?” Kurt asked, adjusting the cuffs and smoothing the lapels of the jacket.

“It's...” Blaine cleared his throat. “Almost perfect.”

“You're right,” Kurt replied, hands on his hips as he turned to the side. “I'd have to have it taken in a little, around the waist.”

“Not what I meant,” Blaine said quietly, moving to stand behind him and placing his hand over the top pocket. “It's missing something, right here.”

“A pocket square, maybe?” Kurt asked, puzzled as he met Blaine's eyes in the mirror.

“I was thinking more... A flower,” he whispered, his voice shaking. Kurt's eyes were locked on his, and Blaine knew that this was it; The Moment. Slowly, ever so slowly, Kurt turned around to face him.

“Are you—“

“I'm sorry it took so long to find this, sir! I had to run out back, but better late than never, right?”

Blaine bit back the harsh, frustrated cry that had built in his throat as soon as he'd caught the sales assistant out of the corner of his eye. Just like that, the moment was gone.

“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Am I interrupting something?” the sales assistant—Thomas, Blaine read from his name tag—asked, nervously rushing over his words. After a long moment, Kurt turned to him with a tight smile.

“Not at all. Thank you, Thomas,” he said smoothly, accepting the tie of rich purple silk overlaid with a gold fleur-de-lis motif. Thomas leaned forward a few inches, almost looking like he was about to bow as a servant would to his master, before scurrying back out of the changing rooms. Kurt chuckled nervously, eyes lingering on the tie before flickering upwards to meet Blaine's and biting his lip. “What were you saying?”

Blaine shook his head, doing his best to smile. He had been so sure that this was it, dammit. “Just how good you look in this suit,” he managed, turning Kurt back to face the mirror and taking the tie from his hands to drape it over Kurt's shoulder. “Although you said something about having it taken in?”

“It just runs a little wide at the waist. There's a reason I go to the gym four times a week and don't allow myself carbs,” Kurt replied, his hand fingering the chest pocket. “You know, I think you're right. Maybe we could use a pocket square here. Or something.”

Blaine closed his eyes, and prayed for strength.

The play had been a huge success; that was true. But there was that one move that Blaine had messed up, and he wanted to be the best he could possibly be. He had someone in his life that he wanted to make proud. But... who was it? Who was this nameless, faceless entity that somehow gave him the drive to do better, to be better?

He practiced until he had the move perfected, and left the auditorium with one last glance back. For a fleeting moment, he thought that perhaps he'd caught a movement out of the corner of his eye; a glimpse of chestnut hair and white sleeves exiting stage left. He shook his head, blinking hard and telling himself that crazy people don't know they're crazy.

At home, he stretched out on his bed in his comfortable gray wife-beater and favorite pinstriped pajama pants and felt a light pressure on his chest. A hand. A thumb. Fingers catching in the fabric. A second heartbeat next to his own. But there was no one there, and the only sounds were his unsteady breathing and the soft strains of the radio.

Bzzz! Bzzz! I really can't stay, but baby it's cold outsi—

“I'm sensing a pattern,” Kurt said, pulling his scarf tighter around him and taking a sip of one of the last grande peppermint mochas of the season.

“You sense correctly, young grasshopper,” Blaine deadpanned in his best Mr Miyagi voice. Kurt elbowed him in the ribs. “Should we huddle for warmth, like penguins?”

Kurt seemed to consider the idea for a second, before stepping closer to Blaine, who grinned and unbuttoned his long woolen coat to wrap it around the both of them. Kurt's head dropped onto his shoulder and he was muttering the word “dork” under his breath but shooting him an affectionate smile all the same. “You should be Bridget; you're shorter.”

Blaine tightened the coat around them both, rubbing his hands up and down Kurt's back. “True as that may be, I don't think there's enough room for us both inside yours,” he reasoned, plucking at the collar of Kurt's tight leather jacket and dropping his head down to whisper in his ear, “and as much as I'd really, really love to put my hands underneath, I think we'd be warming up for an entirely non-public-friendly reason.”

Kurt blushed hotly, and was thankful that at that moment, the tour bus arrived. Blaine disentangled from him reluctantly, and Kurt shivered at the sudden chill, pulling their tickets from his pocket and stepping forward to hand them to the tour guide. They boarded the bus quickly, and of course—of course—Blaine went bounding up the stairs to the open top of the bus. On a freezing cold day. In the middle of January.

“Blaine, it's in the fucking forties,” Kurt muttered, his teeth chattering.

“Your list should have been more specific, then,” Blaine quipped, enjoying the view as the rest of the passengers climbed aboard. The engine was a steady rumble beneath his hand on the metal railing, and it reminded him of New York as a whole, with its thrum of electricity and mechanisms and technology. It was comforting, in a way; when your whole world was standing still, you had a constant.

It didn't take long for Kurt to settle back against Blaine, a contented breath misting into the air in front of them.

“Look at it this way,” Blaine whispered as the bus pulled out and their tour guide took up his post at the front, beginning his welcoming spiel, “I really wouldn't want to be him right now.”

Kurt stifled a laugh behind his gloved hand. “Just looking at him is making me colder,” he whispered back, taking in their guide, who was wearing a polo, sweater, and shorts. “I hope he's not being forced to wear those.”

“Don't worry, babe. I'm sure he's just insane and not the victim of some cruel, sadistic tour company.”

*

It turned out that Blaine's assessment of their guide's mental state seemed, to a certain extent, to be accurate. When they had finally left the Museum of Natural History (having spent the majority of their time there lying on the floor in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life), somehow their timing coincided with that of their original bus. As they took a seat back up top, the guide animatedly re-introduced himself to everyone as Johnny, and at that point Blaine may have gripped Kurt's hand a little too tightly—the guide's uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Nicholson already had him on edge. His worst fears went unconfirmed, however, until they were en route to the Harlem Market and Johnny—seemingly immune to the bitter cold which had yet to rise above the lower forties—attempted to take off his sweater and promptly got stuck. The longer it took him to wiggle free, the more the tourists on the upper deck laughed, and the more Blaine relaxed. Until Johnny finally righted himself, that is, and raised the mic to his mouth to say the worst two words he could possibly have chosen.

“Heeeeeere's Johnny!”

Blaine knew it was awful, and cheesy, and intended to make the guide's newly captive audience laugh with him rather than at him. He knew all of this. It didn't make a lick of difference; all at once he was eight years old again and hiding behind the couch, roiling with jealousy at how his big brother could be so cool and not at all frightened of the scary man chopping through the door with the ax.

Kurt was cursing under his breath, squeezing Blaine's hand reassuringly and leaning closer. “I really can't stay,” he sang quietly, “I've got to go away, this evening has been so very nice...”

Blaine let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes, focusing only on Kurt. He'd been wrong about New York being his constant. It was, and always would be, Kurt.

Half an hour after they had disembarked and Kurt had set an alarm to go off in exactly ninety minutes so that they wouldn't be catching the same bus again, they found themselves in the thick of African culture, the atmosphere so potent that it was hard to believe they were still on the same continent. The sights and scents and sounds wove around them and drew them from stall to stall, vendor to vendor, eyes glassy with wonder.

“I wish the magazine would cover somewhere like this,” Kurt said, as they passed between two stalls selling different types of tribal jewelry from Gambia and Kenya. “Stephanie would adore some of this stuff, and the whole place is like... It's like fashion meets art.”

“You should pitch it to her. You know she listens to you,” Blaine replied, hooking his arm through the crook of Kurt's elbow and failing to avoid the stare of the woman at the henna stall across the way. Something about the intensity of her gaze unsettled Blaine; he felt uncomfortably like she could look at him and see directly into his soul. Then her eyes shifted towards Kurt, and she was on her feet, moving quickly towards him.

“What is your name?” she demanded in heavily-accented English. Kurt looked dumbfounded, and she grabbed his hand, repeating herself.

“K-Kurt,” he stammered, clearly caught off-guard.

“I am Nanyanika. They call me Nan,” she says, gesturing around herself with her free hand before turning back towards them. “You belong, yes?”

“Belong?” Kurt repeated, confused.

“You are his,” Nan said, pointing from Kurt to Blaine and back again. “He is yours.”

“Oh! Yes. Yes, we belong,” Kurt said, ducking his head. Nan nodded.

“Come, I show you your life,” she said, dropping Kurt's wrist and going back to her stall, sitting down and fixing them with an expectant look as she pulled brushes and ink from her workstation.

“Could be fun,” Blaine murmured, “but a henna tattoo?”

“Let's do it,” Kurt said decisively.

“The ink stains, you know.”

“I'll get her to cover it. All bets are off this week. You're making my bucket list happen, Blaine. I want some souvenirs. And anyway,” Kurt paused, his fingers light on Blaine's chest, “isn't it kinda... hot?”

Wordless in agreement, Blaine took Kurt's hand and closed the distance between themselves and Nan's stall. When she gestured for them to do so, they seated themselves on the small wooden stools, eyes roving across the walls of the hut behind her, papered with symbols and designs the meanings of which escaped them both. Nan reached forward, and Kurt rolled up the sleeve of his jacket to the elbow.

“I paint three things. Past, present, and future,” she murmured, painting the symbols onto the inside of Kurt's forearm. Her eyes never left Kurt's face, and she answered his unasked question, “we see what comes out after.”

Blaine watched her with a sense of quiet amazement; she couldn't see what she was doing, yet three symbols were taking shape, a shock of ink against Kurt's pale skin.

“These are very important,” said Nan, finishing the third symbol with a deft flick of her wrist and looking down at her work. She pointed to the first symbol; what appeared to be two crossed scythes. “This is past. Akofena. Courage.”

Kurt gasped softly, smiling as he caught Blaine's eye and tightening his grip on Blaine's hand.

“This is present. Pempamsie. Means you are ready,” Nan continued, pointing to the second symbol, which could almost have been a butterfly. She quickly moved onto the third, a sun over a crescent moon. “This is future. Osram ne nsoromma. Love and harmony.”

“They are important,” Kurt said softly, agreeing with her earlier sentiment. He sounded close to overcome. “I wish they were permanent.”

Nan shook her head and pointed to the middle symbol. “Next week, this become your past,” she said, with a sharp look at Blaine. “Your future become your present, and you get new future. You move forward, don't get stuck.”

Kurt nodded and, seemingly satisfied, Nan released his arm and held out her hand for Blaine's. Awkwardly, he rolled up his sleeve and hesitantly settled his wrist onto Nan's palm. She didn't start painting straight away, as she had with Kurt; she seemed to be searching out something in his eyes. It took all of his willpower not to break the eye contact.

“You must stop hiding,” Nan said, simply, as he finally felt the wet press of ink against his skin. Inclining her head towards Kurt, she continued, “he sees you. I see you. But no one else. This is a shame.”

It felt like no time at all until she was finished, setting her brush back on top of her workstation and glancing down at the symbols.

“What do they mean?” Blaine prompted after a few moments passed.

“They could mean a lot of things. You only know one path, but it cannot be your only path. Do you understand?”

Blaine nodded, swallowing hard.

“You must make your way. Do not be afraid. This is sesa wo suban, transformation,” she said of the first symbol; a star inside a circle with curved lines spreading outward. She quickly moved onto the next two symbols: his present was four circles in a square formation, and his future was three circles inside one another. “Your present is me ware wo, commitment. Your future is uncertain, but if you are unafraid in your present, it can be adinkrahene. Greatness.”

Both Kurt and Blaine were silent for a time, contemplating their tattoos and what they meant.

“You come back and see me when your future is present,” Nan said, pulling them both from their contemplation. Kurt nodded emphatically, which surprised Blaine—Kurt had a habit of rejecting most things spiritual, preferring to ground himself in what he could see and touch. He was always quick to roll his eyes and change the channel whenever they came across TV evangelists preaching between cereal commercials and political broadcasts. Yet here he was.

Back at the bus stop, Blaine linked his left hand with Kurt's right, aware of the fact that the tattoos pressed together beneath their sleeves. Briefly, he wondered if Nan had done it deliberately, and his hand went to that little black box once more.

“Thank you,” Kurt said, dropping his head onto Blaine's shoulder and stifling a yawn. “Take me home, please.”

“What about the Guggenheim?” Blaine asked. “I thought you wanted to see the new John Chamberlain installation.”

“Another time,” Kurt said, his voice low and meaningful as he tilted his gaze upwards.

“Subway?”

“Subway.”

Blaine's head was pounding; his eyes were sore; his throat felt raw and hoarse. He came around slowly, only half-aware that he was wearing the same clothes as the previous night. He was tangled up in sheets that felt entirely different to his own, and his stomach dropped when it occurred to him what might have happened. Someone was humming quietly in the background, but when he turned towards the source, he saw only an empty chair. He slumped back into the bed, unable to summon the energy to care about his unfamiliar surroundings when the sheets were so pleasantly cool; soft and soothing against the harsh and jagged edges of which he was made.

Bzzz! Bzzz! Blow the candles out, looks like a solo tonight, I'm begi—

If Blaine was jittering with excitement, Kurt was practically vibrating with it. Until Blaine had seen number twelve on Kurt's bucket list, he'd never have entertained the notion that Kurt was the type to even go near a rollercoaster, let alone enjoy them. Sure, Kurt had come to see him perform at Six Flags the summer before senior year, but he and his family had only been passing through on their way to visit relatives, so were unable to stay and really enjoy the park itself—though Kurt had certainly seemed to enjoy the short yet charged make-out session when Blaine dragged him backstage between sets.

So when Blaine saw the words, 'Ride all of the Coney Island rollercoasters' on the list, it definitely surprised him. He'd always had an image of Kurt in his mind, and that image had never included a facet of adrenalin junkie. But yet again, here was Kurt constantly challenging his perception.

They stepped off the F train at Stillwell Avenue, the fresh and salty sea air cocooning them in a not entirely unpleasant chill, and walked around to the pier at a leisurely pace.

“Where first?” Blaine asked, glancing around as they got in line for the ticket booth. Being a Thursday, the park was fairly quiet and seemed to be populated mainly by tourists that gave the impression of being used to cold weather simply by the way they walked with heads held high against the breeze. Blaine had lucked in that the park was even open, given the time of year, but a multi-million dollar regeneration project had been completed the previous year; the Coney Island attractions were now open year-round.

“Luna Park,” Kurt answered, taking a step forward as the line moved. Turning to Blaine, he continued, “not that I'm complaining, but what's the occasion?”

“It's another Bucket List day,” Blaine replied, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

“That's what I mean,” Kurt pressed, “why are we doing all this now?”

“Because we've lived in New York for years and between school and work and going home whenever we could, the only thing we've really done is see the Statue of Liberty. And that was for a field trip. That we took a year apart. We live in the greatest city in the world and we've never spent any time being disgustingly 'tourist' about the place,” Blaine proclaimed, choosing to leave out the fact that this entire week was geared towards finding that magical combination of timing, setting and ambiance.

“What about our first New York date?”

“Doesn't count.”

“And why not?” Kurt asked hotly, hand on hip.

“Because you were wearing your 'fuck me' jeans and baby, we may have been at the top of the Empire State Building, but all I can remember is spending an hour staring at your ass,” Blaine stated matter-of-factly, and gestured to the people ahead of them. “Line's moving.”

“So wait, you don't remember a thing we talked about that night?”

“Kurt, we hadn't been together properly in over a year, it was the day after we moved into our first apartment and you were wearing ridiculously tight, vintage McQueens. I couldn't even remember my own name that night.”

Kurt sighed and shook his head. “I guess I noticed you were a little unfocused, but it was an important conversation.”

“Hey,” Blaine said softly, his tone placating. “I'm sorry, I was just kidding. Of course I remember what we talked about.”

“You do?”

“You bet,” Blaine replied, adding with a wink, “I wasn't kidding about the jeans, though.”

Kurt finally smiled, linking arms with his boyfriend and moving forward to the window of the booth. Once they had their wristbands for the park and were making their way down to the boardwalk, Kurt circled in front of Blaine and stopped.

“I don't think I've said a real thank you for everything you've done this week.”

“Last night was more than enough of a thank you,” Blaine laughed, catching Kurt by the waist and kissing the spot just behind his ear. “I'm still sore.”

“Good,” Kurt said firmly, and Blaine could feel the warmth in his cheeks until he pulled away, eyes sparkling. “Come on.”

*

Blaine was the first to throw up. Being fairly seasoned when it came to rollercoasters, he was vehemently vocal in his blame of the breakfast cafe at which they'd stopped before getting on the train that morning. He survived the Cyclone and even the Steeplechase, but the Soarin' Eagle twisted at his insides and as soon as they disembarked, he staggered away from a flushed and ecstatic Kurt to empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest trash can.

“Are you okay?” Kurt's voice came from over his shoulder, and Blaine could feel him rubbing circles into his back. He nodded, weakly, and gratefully accepted the bottle of water Kurt held out to him, rinsing and spitting before swallowing another mouthful with a grimace.

“Let's go, we still have to do the Sling Shot,” he said, when the ground finally stopped pulsing.

Kurt's look was one of alarm. “You just got sick, Blaine. I am not letting you get on that ride.”

Blaine shook his head. “I'm feeling much better, I promise. It was definitely the omelet. I knew it tasted weird,” he said, taking another drink.

Kurt paused for a long moment, seeming to be carefully considering something, and a wicked grin curved his lips. “Okay. Let's go.”

Momentarily taken aback, Blaine watched Kurt turn and take a few steps in the direction of the historic rollercoaster. That was too easy, he thought, but quickly dismissed his doubts when Kurt stopped, glanced over his shoulder and nodded in the direction of the Sling Shot.

A few minutes later, they were barefoot and being strapped into the car of the Sling Shot by the friendly park attendants. Somewhere a bell rang that reminded Blaine of high school, and they were tipped backwards. Blaine focused on the cloudy gray sky above as they rocked back and forth. Another bell sounded, and he grabbed Kurt's hand. Constant.

“It's been nice knowing you,” he ground out, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and before he knew it—whoosh! They were catapulted upwards, and the only thing Blaine could hear over the roar of the wind in his ears was Kurt's delighted and hysterical half-scream, half-laugh. He forced his eyes open, and for an endless second, everything froze. They were suspended in mid-air, moving a fraction of an inch per minute. Kurt was beautiful, and alive, and Blaine's.

He could be, for the rest of your life, a voice somewhere in the back of his head chimed in, and that was all it took.

“Marry me!” he cried.

“What?!”

“MARRY ME!”

“I can't hear you!” Kurt screamed back. Gravity kicked back in: they were tumbling and falling and rising back up and falling again, and all he could hear was the howl of the wind as it whipped through them.

“Fuck,” he whispered; his only acknowledgment.

*

For a fleeting instant, the sun had stopped in the sky, the planets had aligned and everything felt right. But the moment had passed; the sun was still moving, the planets were still orbiting around it and Blaine's proposal had been lost to the wind. The fact that the day ended with candles scattered around the room, wrapping the warm atmosphere around his body and Kurt's where they lay tangled together on the living room floor picking at cotton candy, well. That was enough for Blaine.

The only thing that troubled him was the conversation to which Kurt had referred while they had been in line at the ticket booth. Despite his protestations, he had no recollection of an important conversation—the only thing he could remember from that night was a feeling not dissimilar to being pleasantly tipsy and mellowed out, seeing everything through soft focus and being positively drunk on the fact that he could turn and kiss Kurt whenever he wanted, without having to wait months in between.

The conversation festered in the back of Kurt's mind, too. He knew now that Blaine had no memory of it; he'd had his doubts when the laws had finally changed back home the previous November and nothing had come of it. Maybe he was just being impatient. Maybe Blaine had something huge and romantic planned to sweep Kurt off his feet.

But then again, maybe he didn't.