The hand had disappeared, and he found himself inexplicably alone.

“Baby, wake up.”

Blaine opened his puffy eyes, still raw, and there it was. That flash of blue-green, tempered with a stormy gray. This was it. This was the right time.

“You came back,” Blaine rasped, fingers closing over Kurt's just to make sure that he was real.

“How about that walk?” Kurt asked, his voice laced with apology. Blaine thumbed across his bare ring finger and smiled, all traces of their fight forgotten. It no longer mattered; it was past midnight, there was snow falling in thick, heavy flakes outside the window and he felt more exhausted than Kurt looked but this was the moment he'd been waiting for. This was the completely inconvenient, stupidly perfect, life-changing moment that he'd been waiting upon to hit him; a wrecking ball in all its blunt and unmistakable force.

“Wear something thick. You're allowed three layers, at most,” he instructed playfully as he stood up from the bed. Kurt smiled in return, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips before disappearing into the living room, and Blaine could hear the jingle of keys dropping into a coat pocket. He crossed the room to the dresser, and picked up his own coat from the back of the plush, flock-print chair. As he shrugged it on, he noticed Kurt's journal open at the first page of the New York Bucket List, and saw that number one—the Perfect Date—was neatly crossed out. Underneath it was a revised entry for the number one spot.

01. Be proposed to in Central Park.

Blaine paused for a moment that seemed endless. Then the sound of Kurt humming as he waited in the hallway pulled him from his daze, and he knew exactly what to do. He left the bedroom, made his way into the office and re-strung his guitar, quickly tuning it by ear and with years of practiced efficiency.

“Babe? You ready to go?” Kurt asked, poking his head around the door.

Blaine stood up and nodded as he settled the guitar across his body and swung it around so that it rested against his back. “Let's go.”

*

Hand in hand, they walked quickly through Central Park, Blaine almost pulling Kurt along. They paused for a second at the precipice of Bow Bridge, taking in the breathtaking world of unsullied white that surrounded them. Flakes settled across Kurt's shoulders and in his hair, and Blaine thought that he'd probably never looked so beautiful. He kissed him, just to preserve every sensation of the moment that he could, before pulling gently on Kurt's hand to lead him deeper into the park.

When they finally reached Bethesda Fountain, Blaine turned to face Kurt. The snow cast an ethereal light all around them; the angel in the center watched over them; footprints lead back the way they'd come and there was nothing ahead of them but a blanket of pure white. This was it.

In one smooth motion, he swung his guitar around his body and settled it across his middle, his sore fingers easily finding the chords of the song that had come tearing out of him that afternoon. It was rough and so far from perfect, but it was him.

“Kurt, I have tried to do this so many ways,” Blaine began, and Kurt wrapped his arms tighter around himself, looking simultaneously guilty and anticipative. “But nothing has worked. And I thought it was me; that there was something wrong and it had me worried, you know, that this wasn't... Wasn't going to work. But now I know that I could only ever have done this here, in this place, on this night.”

“Blaine.” The whisper was almost inaudible, a white puff of breath its only betrayal.

“There are so many things I love about you. I love how strong and beautiful and unstoppable you are. You move me, Kurt. You still do, and it amazes me. The way you know I've had a bad dream before even I do. The way you kiss me, like it's the first kiss and the last kiss all at once. The way you put your heart and soul into everything. The way you touch me—“ Blaine broke off, taking a deep and bracing breath. “Like I'm some work of art. The way you look past everything and just see me. How you can take me apart and put me back together in a better version of myself. I don't want to go another day without being able to call you anything less than my own.

“I know that I don't remember the conversation we had at the Empire, but there's another conversation I do remember,” Blaine continued, beginning to strum the opening bars of the song. “After my surgery, you told me that I was your white knight, and I said you were my oak tree. You've always been so strong and rooted. You've been my anchor, my reason to keep going. After you left earlier, I wrote something for you.”

Kurt's eyelashes sparkled with unshed tears, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

“I've been trying to find the words to say
Things I've long known to be true
In so many ways over so many days
Walking an incline with stones in my shoes,” Blaine sang, that telltale sting already clamoring at the corners of his eyes.

“The little things that you do every day
Stealing the thoughts from my mind a little
Taking the breath from my lungs far away
A world far away where you are the middle

You once said that I'm your white knight
And I said that you must be my oak tree
So here in the dark, dark night
Tell me that you'll always love me

Plucking the strings of my heart 'til they break
Getting easier and harder to breathe
All the futures and worlds that I create
Seem too small for you and I'm on my knees.”

Slowly, Blaine sank to one knee in the snow, all the while strumming the guitar and not even daring to blink.

“Asking that if I'm your white knight
Then will you please be my oak tree
And here in the dark, dark night
Just tell me you'll always love me.”

Beating out a rhythm on the guitar with one hand, he spoke the next few lines.

“Baby, it's cold out here,” he said, and Kurt laughed through the tears that had begun to fall in earnest, leaving glittering trails along his skin. “This place that only we know. You're my missing puzzle piece. We might make a wrong turn or two. The world is quiet, there's a question to ask. No more solos, not anymore, and you'll always be perfect to me: my blackbird, my oak tree.”

After a beat of absolute silence, Blaine resumed the song.

“So if you'll let me be your white knight
Forever you'll be my oak tree
And here in the middle of the night
Tell me you'll always love me
Tell me you'll always love me
Please tell me that you'll marry me.”

Blaine finished the song with one last strum of the guitar, and after a heady, concentrated moment, pulled that little black box from his pocket. He turned it over in his hands once, twice, three times, before feeling the cold pads of Kurt's fingertips against his cheek.

“Courage,” Kurt whispered. There it was. The reason, his reason. Everything faded; the damp cold sinking into his very bones, the light breeze that blew snowflakes into his eyes, the far-off calling of a past he could finally lay down to rest.

“Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” he began, voice strong and full of purpose as he opened the box and held it up in front of him, “will you marry me?”

Kurt's eyes caught upon the ring, moonlight picking out the diamonds, before returning to Blaine's. Wordlessly, he sank to his knees and pulled Blaine close. Seconds that felt like the definition of infinity passed.

“Yes,” Kurt whispered, warm against his ear. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

The moment was quiet; a universe self-contained and entirely theirs. The sun was somewhere on the other side of the earth; the stars were still burning; the planets were still blazing trails through the darkness. The world was still turning, yet in that huge and tiny moment, it belonged to Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson.

Always: Kurt.