Kurt was silent for a very, very long time. Which was worrying in and of itself, and something tightened in Blaine's chest as he regarded his husband through nervous eyes.

“Honey?”

“Just so I understand,” he said slowly, fingers stilling against the photograph of them both kneeling in the snow beside Bethesda Fountain (the picture had shown up some months later in a photography periodical, asking for the people pictured to come forward), “you're telling me that the reason it took you so long to propose wasn't because you were waiting for the laws to change—“

“We've established that,” Blaine cut across him.

“—it was that you lost your lucky bow tie,” Kurt finished with a sardonic look.

“No. Not entirely. I just—First, I was waiting for us to finish college. Then I was waiting until I found the perfect ring. Then I was waiting to ask your dad's permission, and then I spent a whole week trying to propose to you. When I found that bow tie... I'm not saying there's any link there, I just... I'm not explaining this very well,” Blaine finished, taking off his glasses and pinching between his eyes.

“Hey, hey,” Kurt said, quietly, pulling Blaine's hands away from his face. “I understand. I know you, Blaine Hummel-Anderson. That week—I wasn't lying when I told Andrew that it was amazing and also kind of terrible. But we got there in the end, and the way you proposed to me... It really couldn't have been any more perfect. And I finally understood what Santana meant when she said you were like a... What was it? A 'freaking Disney prince, he's so shiny and perfect'.”

Blaine laughed at that. “In between comments about the bow ties and helmet hair?” he asked, grinning fondly at Kurt's answering nod.

“You know, we could just stop here,” Kurt said softly. “It would be a pretty perfect ending, don't you think?”

“Just like in the movies?” Blaine asked with a smile, just as he always did.

“Just like in the movies,” Kurt agreed, leaning over to kiss his husband. “But there aren't any happy endings in life, only—“

“Only happy beginnings,” Blaine finished for him.

“And anyway, I like re-reading your letters. Waxing lyrical about how much you miss me, how you see my smile around every corner...”

“Oh god, don't remind me,” Blaine groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“In fact,” Kurt announced, turning the page and pulling out the very first letter, “I think it's the very first one where you start comparing the ocean to my eyes. Yep, here we go...”

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Kurt b29;

Kurt (9:24am) – Happy Valentine's, sailor. Thank you for the roses. I miss you. Je t'aime x
Blaine (6:47pm) – Happy Valentine's, baby! You're welcome. I miss you too. Mahal kita xx

*

Dear Kurt,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

The ocean out here reminds me of your eyes, you know. In the morning it's blues and greens just like your eyes are when you get out of the shower. And in the evenings there's a lot of gray, like when you've been working for too long and you're tired. It feels like I'm always surrounded by you. It's nice. Especially when I didn't have any room in my suitcases for anything of yours...

Can I just take a moment, here? I feel like I'm in the middle of a giant culture shock. I had no idea that I would be one of the only Americans on the entire staff. I'm not kidding, Kurt, there's like ten of us. Everyone speaks English, but sometimes we could really use an interpreter. And hardly anyone just gets how awesome Disney is. They're here for work; I'm here because it's Disney. It's been... hard. Worth it, but hard.

Our room is tiny. And when I say tiny, take what you're picturing and quarter it. That's the size of our room. When you open the door, it literally takes up half the space. The best part is that we're right underneath the luggage loading area, so as soon as it hits 5a.m. and they start offloading the passengers' luggage, the walls shake.

Ugh, I'm sorry. I promised I wouldn't do this. It's just... I'm having a hard time adjusting not only to the fact that this is kind of less great than I thought it would be, but that I'm going through all of it without you to come home to. I'm rooming with a guy called Carlos; he's kind of quiet around the crew but you should see him when he's on stage. He just comes alive; it's kind of exhilarating to watch. Not a patch on you, though, little blackbird.

On a positive note, I think the theme nights are my favorite. I'm told they're different on every ship; here on the Fantasy we have a 50s night with leather jackets, cuffed jeans and jive dancing, and a 70s night with afro wigs, bell-bottoms and disco. I feel like John Travolta circa Grease and Saturday Night Fever; it's kind of awesome. I'm taking as many pictures as I can to show you when I get back.

I'm sorry that this letter is short and kind of all over the place. I feel like my brain is just inside out right now with all of the information I've had to take in over the past couple weeks. And I'm homesick, and I miss you so much. Tell me all about what's going on at home. I hope you're going out with your friends from work and seeing Toby and Andrew. How are their wedding plans coming along? And has Rachel been around lately? More than anything, I guess I just want to know that you're not sitting around the apartment feeling lonely (I know that I would be). If you are, just do something wild. Go out and get hammered, or invite Jeff and Stuart over for dinner (because you know how that'll go) or... I don't know, get a cat. Kurt, you should totally get a cat. And name him Chairman Miaow.

Happy Valentine's Day, fiance.

Ti amo,
Candle

Dear Blaine,

All days are nights to see till I see thee/And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.

I hope you got the lemon squares in time, and thank you for the beautiful flower arrangement—all the office girls are jealous! You think of everything, don't you? Remember how you once told me you were no good at romance?

Baby, I'm so sorry that it hasn't lived up to everything you were expecting and hoping for. But you've only been there two weeks (three, at the time of writing this); I think it can only get better. You said yourself that you felt overloaded with information and that you were homesick, and it will take a while to get past that. And in response to your ever-so-subtle comment, I've sent you a pillowcase of mine along with one of my favorite McQueen scarves. Take care of it. It's vintage. I sent your lucky bow tie, too. Thought you might need it.

Your training sounds more intense than Cheerios practice! I'm hoping by now that it's mostly over, and you're getting a chance to just do your job? And baby, please don't apologize for sounding off about it. That's what I'm here for.

I want pictures of you in white bell-bottoms! Well, Cooper wants them. I suspect for blackmail purposes. Maybe you can just conveniently forget to send me any, and 'accidentally' delete any that have already been taken. Once I've seen them, of course.

Work has been insane, as usual. Stephanie, in a rare moment of channeling Miranda Priestly, decided she wanted to change an entire ten-page Oscar de la Renta feature to Carolina Herrera's new collection. It cost the magazine about... I can't even talk about it. Oscar is not happy, and we'll be lucky if this doesn't come back to bite us all in the ass. In happier news, the effervescent Ms. Westwood herself is throwing a masquerade ball in honor of The Ethical Fashion Programme. The exciting part? She's come to Stephanie in search of some new talent to design the entire women's line of costumes. Apparently she wants a Moulin Rouge theme (plenty of the Bergdorf Blondes will be vying for tickets, I'm sure), which has been done to death, but that's exactly why she's in search of new talent: she wants a fresh take on it. In short, I'm thinking about putting something forward for it. I just... I wish you were here so that you could stop me talking myself out of it.

If I were to get us a cat, he would most certainly not be called Chairman Miaow, you heinous dork. He would be called McQueen, and would look exactly like the picture I've included. ...Yes, we now have a cat. His eyes kind of look like yours.

Missing and loving you from afar.

Te quiero,
Blackbird

Incoming chat from: Blaine A.

Blaine A.: Kurt? Is this working?
Kurt H.: Hey! Are you back at port??
Blaine A.: Almost. Will call you when docked. Just got signal back on phone. Get my letter?
Kurt H.: Sent my reply a week ago, is it still not there yet?
Kurt H.: God, we miss you.
Blaine A.: Not yet. I miss you too!
Blaine A.: Wait, 'we'?
Kurt H.: You'll see! ;) I love you, by the way.
Blaine A.: I love you too! Gotta go, break over, call you from dock!
Kurt H.: Love you, love you, love you, be safe!

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Blaine b29;

Blaine (11:49pm) – I can smell you :)
Kurt (11:52pm) – That's sweet... and a little creepy.

*

Dear Kurt,

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you/Did my heart fly at your service. (Fearest I that these interludes shall henceforth becometh a 'thing'.)

It took forever for your package to arrive. The mail is so unreliable; understandably so, but still. I get to have so little contact with you, and it's so weird. We've barely spent a day apart since moving in together and I wake up in my tiny bunk, roll over and hit my nose on the wall instead of seeing your face. I wash my own hair in the shower (it's never looked worse, and that includes the shellacking days—please, please share your secrets with me. We're going to be husbands, you know). At least now I get to go to sleep with your smell relaxing me. The things you sent are perfect. And yes, I got the lemon squares in time. Carlos wants the recipe for his mother; apparently hers are too dry. I strongly advised him against saying anything.

We got retested on a few protocols today—the watertight doors are definitely my favorite. They're so cool. Just—BOOM. Locked. Though they did briefly make me think of Titanic. Oh god, now you're going to think of Titanic and you'll worry but I can't start this letter over again because I don't have much paper left, and—shut up, Blaine. Sorry, baby.

Happy things! They've moved me on to going on the shore excursions with the guests so that when I'm in the box, I can answer questions they have. I've been back to Grand Cayman twice already, and I'll be going back to Cozumel in a couple days. Then it all changes in June; we're switching with the Wonder after maintenance weekend so that we'll be in the Eastern Caribbean, and we'll be stopping in St Maarten, St Thomas and Castaway Cay.

The picture I've included with this letter might have confused you a little, so I'll explain it (and don't make that face; I know you always look at the pictures first). Just so we're clear, yes, that is my arm. One of the activities we host has this challenge where the guests have to race vegetables. Don't even ask; it'll take too long to explain. Anyway, so we have to go carting all of these potatoes and other vegetables from the produce supply pantry up to where we're holding the activities, and we're not allowed to use the guest elevators. Because the crew elevator is about a half-mile aft from the kitchen, we usually end up taking the stairs. In short, I have guns, Kurt. Guns. I'm going to spend my time carrying you everywhere when I get home. Though you weigh less than most of the sacks of potatoes I've been lugging around.

I've also had training on all of the sound equipment, now. Given what I studied, it was almost like a refresher course and I've been helping out the AV guys most nights when I'm not hosting. You should see all the kids when we get the mini-disco started in the evenings, Kurt. They're so bright and happy and full of energy and life and all the things they want to be. The other night this little boy called Callum came up to me after the disco finished, and you should have seen him, Kurt. He was like a little miniature version of you. Remember when your dad showed me that home video of your tea party? Imagine what you looked like, but blond. Bow-tie and everything. Adorable. So he came up to me, tugged on my sleeve and I crouched down next to him and he told me how much he loved the show and how he didn't want to go home. He'd been really quiet in the circle when all the other kids were talking about how they wanted to be zookeepers or space cowboys or ballerinas, and so I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

Do you know what he said? He said that he wanted to be like me. He just looked at me with these big wide eyes, and told me he wanted to sing and dance and make people happy. I didn't know what to say, so I just hugged him. It just... All the exhaustion, the long hours, the sometimes ridiculous rules and regulations we have to follow—moments like that make it all worth it.

Finally, I cannot believe you got us a cat! He's so gorgeous, Kurt. Has he settled in okay? Sleeping alright? Not making a mess or shedding everywhere? Do you think he's going to like me? I can't wait to meet him. Our little family. I'd draw a smiley face but you might think I'm lame. Oh, screw it. =)

Now put this letter down and get designing. You've got this; don't think about where it could lead, don't think about what it could mean, just remember how much you love designing and do it for the joy and sense of accomplishment. Anything else is a bonus.

I love you so much, mister.

I amare,
Candle

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Blaine b29;

Blaine (07:55) – Guess where I am!
Kurt (07:56) – Mmph. Morning. Where?
Blaine (07:58) – Cozumel! Sweating like a pig and it's only 10am here!
Kurt (07:59) – Attractive, Blaine.
Blaine (08:01) – Sorry, baby. Did I wake you? I thought you'd have been awake by now.
Kurt (08:03) – Been up half the night with McQueen, he keeps throwing up and shaking. Just got back from vet, they don't think it's serious but they're keeping him in today. I wish you were here so badly right now.
Blaine (08:07) – Oh baby, I'm so sorry. I wish I could hug you. He'll be fine, don't worry too much, okay? Go back to sleep.
Kurt (08:09) – Okay. You're right. I love you. Run from bandits and anyone sporting a poncho and/or a handlebar mustache. And Blaine?
Kurt (08:21) – Blaine? You there?

*

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

FROM: blainethewayfarer@gmail.com
TO: getoffmyrunway@gmail.com, CC: kurt_hummel@vogue.com
DATE: 03/20/2017, 11:34AM (CST)
SUBJECT: I'm Sorry!

I'm so sorry, babe! My signal dropped out. Fucking Mexico. I have to make this quick as I found some wi-fi but don't know how reliable it is.

Listen, McQueen is going to be absolutely fine, okay? It's probably a kitty cold or something like that. Remember how bad I was when I caught the flu from Jeff, back at Dalton? And how you stayed up all night with me until my fever broke? This is just like that, except that McQueen can't have chicken noodle soup and will probably take a while to appreciate how very awesome The Wiggles are when you're delirious. He's going to be fine, Kurt—how could he not be, with you for a dad?

Plus, when I told Carlos about it, he made some sort of voodoo prayer sign with his hands so I think we've got it covered.

I'll send you something of mine with the next letter, okay? Gotta go.

I love you,
Blainers (now you know I love you)

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device

“You've reached Kurt and Blaine. We can't get to the phone right now, so sing your song at the beep!”

“Baby? Baby, you there? I. Am. So. Freaking. Hungry. And I'm so horny, Kurt. The last time we went this long without having sex was before we started having sex, do you realize that? We had sex more often during your first year at NYU. I can't even—and there are like, no hamburgers. There are no hamburgers, Kurt! Not a single freaking hamburger. And no pasta. I ate Hungarian stew today. It was good. But I think Carlos is dosing me with something. All the fish keep staring at me. With their eyes. I miss you.”

“Y'arr, ye be reachin' Blaine Anderson, scourge of the seven seas! Cast ye message in ye bottle and pray that it be gettin' to me!”

“Oh my god. What is up with your voicemail? Does everyone who calls you hear that? What am I marrying into? I can't even remember what I was calling to say. I love you, you giant dork.”

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new text message from: Kurt b29;

Kurt (7:24pm) – Wow. And I thought I liked your arms before.
Blaine (9:34pm) – :D are you still awake? In port tonight with room to myself...
Kurt (9:35pm) – Calling in two.

*

Dear Blaine,

I would not wish any companion in the world but you. (I am not afeared of these charming interludes. I would that they never endeth. They have made dork's meat of me.)

First piece of good news: McQueen is all better. Turns out he had a bad kitty cold, just like you said. Thank you for trying to calm me down that morning. I'm sorry if I brought you down. I was just so worried. But he's fine now and back to driving me crazy again! By the way, totally unrelated: we're going to need new drapes in the living room.

Secondly, Dad called last week—he and Carole are coming to New York for a week next month! Dad's got a bunch of meetings with various important people, and Carole's coming along since she loves the city so much. I've taken a few days off to spend some time with them, which was made much easier by the fact that I now have my own assistant! Well. Technically, she's Stephanie's junior assistant. But I'm basically her boss. Oh and speaking of work, I'm going to email you copies of my designs once I've finished tweaking them. I need your opinion on the corset design. I think I've come up with a new way of—well. You'll see from my diagrams.

Third, I've been working on a surprise for you. Well, for both of us really, but it's mainly for you. You can ask me for clues if you want to. I might answer.

Lastly, I'm a little worried about you. I heard from your mom a few days ago and she said you told her you'd lost a lot of weight? And after that voicemail you left—as hilarious as it was—I got a little bit anxious. I may have read some articles online. I've sent you a few things that you can keep in your room to eat when you get back in the evenings or when you're running off to those ridiculous 2am meetings you told me about. And please make sure you're drinking plenty of water—you know you get dizzy when your electrolytes are all out of whack. And don't forget to moisturize, or you'll come back all scaly.

Just... Tell me you're okay, and I'll believe you.

Maite zaitut,
Blackbird (and McQueen)

P.S. Please don't talk about Titanic. I've sent you some more paper.

Beep-beep, beep-beep
Message delivered successfully to: Cooper

Kurt (16:57) – Hey Coop, how have you been?
Cooper (16:59) – Kurt! Long time no speak. Busy, you?
Kurt (17:02) – Same! I need a favor. Can you try and get Blaine to come ashore on May 27th?
Cooper (17:05) – Sure, I'll think of something. Maybe I'll tell him I'll be there on business. Big plans?
Kurt (17:07) – A surprise, possibly. Thanks, Coop. I appreciate it!
Cooper (17:08) – Birthday sex? *winkwinknudgenudge*
Kurt (17:09) – Cooper.
Cooper (17:10) – Kurt.
Kurt (17:12) – Shut up.

*

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

FROM: reservations@unitedairlines.com
TO: blainethewayfarer@gmail.com
DATE: 04/02/2017, 3:56PM (CST)
SUBJECT: Flight Confirmation

Dear Mr Anderson,

Thank you for choosing to fly with United Airlines. Your itinerary is as follows:

Outbound Journey:
Fri 26 May 2017, MCO (Orlando, FL) to EWR (Newark, NJ)
Dep: 7:59pm
Arr: 10:43pm

Return Journey:
Sunday 28 May 2017, EWR (Newark, NJ) to MCO (Orlando, FL)
Dep: 8:33pm
Arr: 11:26pm

Enjoy your journey!

*

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new text message from: Coop

Coop (7:34pm) – B, your boy wants you on dry land for May 27th
Blaine (7:57pm) – Already got it covered! It's a surprise, so keep it on the DL. Miss you.
Coop (8:04pm) – You two make me sick.
Blaine (8:07pm) – I know :P
Coop (8:08pm) – P.S. Miss you too.

Dear Kurt,

This bud of love by summer's ripening breath/May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

Can I just start by saying again how much of a genius you are? I don't even know how you came up with a way to make Moulin Rouge into elegant and sexy haute couture. You know how incredible you are, right? It should be made into a title. Kurt the Incredible. Or Kurt the Amazing. Or Kurt the Beautiful. I can't really decide which I like best. You choose! And by the way, you've got this in the bag. I'm so proud of you, little blackbird.

About the losing weight thing. Ugh. Moms. Yes, I've lost weight but you really don't need to be worrying about me. I'm not going hungry, I promise. I should probably explain the crew mess and cafeteria, right? Okay, so I told you about how I'm one of the only Americans on crew. I think there's about ten, maybe fifteen of us now. The guys in the kitchen are a mixture of Puerto Rican and Hungarian, so you can probably guess that the food is pretty eclectic. There's a lot of broths, and there's always rice and meat dishes. I'll say it now, so you're not already starting to worry: there's always something to eat, and I'm not skipping any meals. It's the amount of running around that we all do. The weight just drops off us. You see, the ship's so big and our schedules so erratic that we're nearly always running somewhere. I permanently have a little Excel document in my pocket otherwise I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm supposed to be. And sometimes I'll work for an hour and have a half-hour break, for example, but it can take me like fifteen minutes to get back to my room or the mess, so usually I skip it or hang out at the crew pool—that's where all the cool kids hang ;) I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't worry. It's different and a shock to the system because there's really nothing American about the crew facilities, but I promise I'm okay and eating plenty. We all look out for one another; we're like a little family. It's nice. I really would kill for a burger, though. Or a Subway sandwich. Or both, at once.

Speaking of family, we had a newbie start when we were last in port. Her name's Zoe and she's rooming next door to us. You should have seen the way her eyes bugged out when I told her about this super-hot guy I know who's assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue. You've totally just got yourself a new fan; she really wants to meet you!

I can't wait to see you again, baby. Can you send me a few pictures? I mean paper copies, that I can carry around with me. I can't carry my phone when I'm on duty, and it'd be nice to feel like I've got you with me when I'm stressed out. I miss your face.

Tell me about you now, please. You didn't say much about your parents' visit on the phone the other night, did they have fun? And hey, remind me when the deadline for the design contest is—I wanna be sending extra-positive vibes to you that day.

Ich liebe dich,
Candle

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Cooper

Cooper (10:14am) – Yo K, get your butt down to port on May 26. B tells me ship docked all w/end for maintenance. You're welcome ;)
Kurt (10:15am) – That's great, thanks so much!
Cooper (10:16am) – He's going to tell you he can't get off ship. Don't fall for it, he's trying to surprise you. You're both making me reach for the puke sack.
Kurt (10:19am) – Charming, Coop. You haven't ruined my surprise too, I hope.
Cooper (10:22am) – I value my life and the Ralph Lauren shirts you use to blackmail me WAY too much to do that.
Kurt (10:23am) – I thought we agreed not to use that word.
Cooper (10:26am) – Fine. Our 'mutually beneficial arrangement' still stands. You'd make a good lawyer.
Kurt (10:27am) – Good. And I know.

*

Vogue WebMail – Inbox (2) – kurt_hummel@vogue.com

FROM: bookings@residenceinn.com
TO: kurt_hummel@vogue.com
DATE: 05/12/2017, 9:12PM (EST)
SUBJECT: Reservation Confirmation

Dear Mr Hummel,

Your reservation is confirmed as follows:

Residence Inn Cape Canaveral Cocoa Beach
8959 Astronaut Blvd.
Cape Canaveral, FL 32920

1 Bedroom Suite, 1 King, Sofabed
Guests: 2

Check-in: 3:00 PM, Friday 26 May 2017
Check-out: 12:00 PM, Sunday 28 May 2017

Thank you for choosing Residence Inn by Marriott!

*

FROM: reservations@airtran.com
TO: kurt_hummel@vogue.com
DATE: 05/12/2017, 9:19PM (EST)
SUBJECT: Your e-Ticket Confirmation

Dear Mr Hummel,

We are pleased to confirm your flight reservation. Your e-ticket is attached, and your itinerary is as follows:

Outbound Journey:
Friday 26 May 2017, LGA (New York, NY) to MCO (Orlando, FL)
Dep: 9:50am
Arr: 3:55pm

Return Journey:
Sunday 28 May 2017, MCO (Orlando, FL) to LGA (New York, NY)
Dep: 7:30pm
Arr: 10:01pm

Enjoy your flight!

*

Dear Blaine,

For where thou art, there is the world itself/And where thou art not, desolation.

Thank you for setting my mind at rest. I just... You know I worry about you. I mean, you can barely tie your shoelaces without falling over some days—can you blame me? And when I started reading those articles I kind of couldn't stop, even though they were from back in 2008 so I figured that things must have gotten better since then but what if they hadn't, and—I'm stopping.

Seeing Dad and Carole was great. They're still so in love. I'll never regret setting them up (original intentions set firmly aside). Dad had a pretty full schedule while they were here, so Carole and I mainly entertained ourselves. I treated her to the Spa at Mandarin Oriental (finally crossed it off the Bucket List!) after we grabbed lunch at Pastis... Think she needed a calming and relaxing experience after nearly running into George Clooney and entourage (literally). We all managed to get out and see the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, though, and we caught the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, too. I don't think I've laughed like that since before you left.

I have potentially big news. So remember how I told you on the phone one night that Stephanie didn't know that I was designing for the ball? I decided to submit my designs anonymously, just to test the water and see what kind of a reaction they got. I played it magnificently if I do say so myself; just calmly walked up to her desk with the designs in a big, brown envelope and put it in her in-tray. Not even a minute later she's in front of my desk, telling me to track down whoever designed them. Blaine! You should have seen the look on her face when I told her they were my designs. Baby, not only did she like them, but she had them messengered straight over to Westwood HQ! Do you know what this means? I could be in with a real shot at this! I haven't been able to sit still since then. It's a good thing that I've still got that surprise for you to work on (speaking of which, you haven't asked me for any clues! I'm proud of you) because if I didn't have that, I don't know what I'd do with myself.

I've got Andrew, Toby, Jeff and Stuart coming over for Game Night this week. I still haven't found us a dinner table so I'm making hors d'oeuvres and we're going to play Inappropriate Pictionary, according to Jeff. Also according to Jeff, we're going to play Twister (“we'll have the exact right amount of people, Kurt!”). Something tells me this is not going to end well.

I've sent some new pictures of McQueen—he's growing so fast! I can't wait for you to meet him. Only a few more months, that's what I keep telling myself. At least this year it's not an 'important' birthday. I'll still miss you every moment, though.

Ja ciebie,
Blackbird

P.S. The copy of Vogue I've sent is for Zoe. Advance proof; don't breathe a word!

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Coop

Coop (7:25pm) – Yo Shortbus, you can't go back to NY next weekend. Mom's coming to see you (surprise!)
Blaine (9:43pm) – What? No! She can't! I have to call her.
Coop (9:47pm) – Do you know what she'll do to me if she knows that I told? Come on B, when was the last time you saw her?
Blaine (9:51pm) – When was the last time YOU saw her, Mr Washington State?
Coop (9:53pm) – She'll be heartbroken... :(
Blaine (9:55pm) – Fine. But next time I won't be the one covering for your broken 'leg'.
Coop (9:57pm) – Bro Code infraction! You wound me.
Blaine (10:01pm) – You wound yourself. Specifically, your ass. While wrestling. With your lame lawyer friends.
Coop (10:03pm) – A broken coccyx is no laughing matter.
Blaine (10:05pm) – A broken ass is, though.

*

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

FROM: bookings@unitedairlines.com
TO: blainethewayfarer@gmail.com
DATE: 05/18/2017, 10:56PM (CST)
SUBJECT: Cancellation Confirmation

Dear Mr Anderson,

We are sorry to hear your plans have changed. Your flight reservation has been canceled.

Hope to see you again soon!

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

Anxiously, Kurt waited on the benches outside Terminal 8. The towering structure rose above him, plate glass windows reflecting the light of the setting sun and creating a kind of atmosphere that settled warmly in the soul. It had been quiet since the last of the disembarking passengers had vacated the area, and there would be no more until Monday morning, when the weekend's maintenance was complete. He settled a little further into the warm metal of the bench, taking the last mouthful of Diet Coke from his bottle before tossing it into a nearby trash can and closing his eyes as he felt the cold slip from his throat and spread outward.

As the first few crew members began to filter into the lobby, Kurt's heart thumped uncomfortably behind his breastbone, and once again he found himself second-guessing his choice of outfit. After much indecision once he'd checked into the hotel and changed out of his flight wear, he'd settled upon a soft pair of charcoal skinny jeans and a semi-sheer white shirt over a coordinating tank, accessorizing with a pair of dark sunglasses and the set of dog tags he was rarely without, given how much his fiance—fiance!—loved them.

The trickle of crew members soon turned into a steady stream, and Kurt's feet tapped out a rapid and uneven rhythm on the concrete until he could bear it no longer and had to stand, fingers clasped together as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Once more, he cast an appraising glance over his reflection, ultimately deciding to shrug off the anxiety and just be excited, when he caught sight of a pair of bright yellow Wayfarers and his stomach somersaulted into his mouth.

Blaine was back in his own clothes, a maroon t-shirt hanging off him and dark wash jeans slung low on his hips. His hair was longer than Kurt remembered it, and stubble lightly dusted his jawline. He was walking through the double doors flanked by a willowy Latino man and a pale blonde girl, and as he swung his holdall up over his shoulder, his sleeve caught in the strap and Kurt's mouth went dry. He took off his sunglasses, blinking in the weakening rays of sunlight, and willed Blaine to look over. Almost uncertainly, he moved a half-step forward, and then Blaine glanced across the space between them. Kurt could have laughed at his comical double-take if he wasn't so pent up from their months apart. Blaine yanked the pair of Wayfarers from his face, lips forming the consonants of Kurt's name before breaking into a brilliant smile and sprinting towards him, dropping his cases where he'd been standing.

It took forever yet no time at all, and then Blaine was wonderfully, gloriously there. There was a single, endless second where they both just stared at one another, and then they were kissing, frantic and desperate to be touched and felt after so long apart. Kurt pressed himself against Blaine with almost bruising force, and Blaine picked him up, wrapping Kurt's legs around his waist, all the while deepening the kiss and yearning for more, more, more.

“I love you,” Kurt whispered in the breath between kisses.

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much,” Blaine answered, punctuating each proclamation with a kiss to Kurt's cheek, eyelid, nose. “What are you doing here? I thought Mom was coming.”

Kurt gracefully slid from Blaine, hands fisting in the front of his shirt at how different, how much more fragile Blaine's body felt. He'd always been solid: slim, but well-built and toned. Now, his frame was nearer to matching Kurt's own. “Cooper ran interference. I missed you,” he said, shakily. Blaine's eyes searched Kurt's for a moment before recognition flickered there.

“I must look really different, right?” he asked, Kurt nodded, biting his lip—he was not going to cry, dammit.

“You're so thin,” he said, and Blaine settled his arms around Kurt's waist.

“You don't need to worry, I promise. I actually feel fantastic,” Blaine told him, and Kurt's brow raised a fraction. “I've never been in better shape. I can go all day long, now. Or all night, depending on your preference.”

After pausing for a moment, Kurt smiled, finally letting go of all the worry and the stress of the past three months. This was their weekend, and he was going to make the most of it.

“You have witchcraft in your lips,” he said, threading his fingers through Blaine's and leaning forward to press their smiles together. Blaine thumbed over Kurt's cheekbone, barely a ghost of sensation, like he was making sure that he was real.

“Henry the Fifth, I'm impressed,” Blaine replied, leading him back towards where his friends—Carlos and Zoe, Kurt presumed—were waiting for them, both smiling like they were about to melt.

“I know my Shakespeare,” Kurt quipped.

*

“God, I've missed you,” Blaine groaned, taking another huge bite of his sandwich. Kurt gave him a pointed look. “I meant you, not the sandwich.”

“Of course,” Kurt said knowingly, picking at his salad more for show than anything else, content to simply watch Blaine.

If anyone had asked him what he thought of as the perfect way to spend his birthday... Well, it wouldn't have been in Florida, for starters. It wouldn't have involved watching his fiance plow his way through a foot-long sandwich—turkey, cheese and sweetcorn on wheat bread with Chipotle sauce—like it was more necessary to his existence than the oxygen he breathed. It also wouldn't have involved taking his fiance to get a much-needed haircut at the first place they could find that took walk-in appointments. But in practice, it wasn't so bad. In practice, while Kurt was tired and sore from a thoroughly sleepless night spent getting fully reacquainted—Blaine wasn't lying about being in the best shape of his life, ignoring the pronounced hip bones and vertebrae—it was all, in a ridiculous way, kind of perfect. It was he and Blaine, spending time together and letting loose, working all of the tension and frustration out of their systems. They needed this.

“What time do we need to be at the bar?” Kurt asked as Blaine finished his sandwich with a final, blissful sigh.

“We should probably get going, actually,” Blaine said, almost regretfully, “they'll probably be hanging out there already.”

They slowly made their way around to Milliken's Reef, a bar that the crew team who lived in the area had rented out for the evening. Blaine's hand found its way into the back pocket of Kurt's jeans, and he felt like it was air underneath his feet instead of sidewalk; it reminded him of those first few weeks back in New York when every touch was reverent, every look lasted a lifetime, every kiss made him tingle all over. This time around, the distance was easier; they were that little bit older, that little bit wiser, and a lot more secure in their relationship. They knew what it was to live with a significant other, to get used to their endearing quirks and grating habits, but knowing those things made it somehow easier. The price of Blaine following a life-long dream was six months of coming home to a silent apartment, long evenings spent alone with their kitten, and Kurt had made his peace with it.

As soon as they set foot inside the bar, they were greeted by a round of cacophonous cheering and applause. Kurt watched, wide-eyed, as Blaine slipped back into a skin he wore only when in front of a rapturous audience; every cell alive with the thrill of the performance. These people were his friends, his family, and it was plain to see how much they adored him.

“Blaine, my man,” Carlos said, catching him in a one-armed hug, before turning to Kurt and firmly shaking his hand. “Party can really get started now you two are here.”

Kurt learned that that was exactly who Carlos had become during his four months on the ship—Blaine had brought out that side of him, chasing away the cobwebs of shyness and breaking him out of his shell. With his endless optimism, he tended to bring out the best in people, and they loved him for it. Kurt met more people, learned more names that night than he could keep track of (“That's Marek, he's from Budapest. Awesome cook. And Agata, she's from Poland but she's been all over. You have to ask her to tell you the shrimp story! Oh, and there's the rest of the cooks; Rico, Alejandro and Ferdinand, but he makes us call him Steve. No one really knows why. And that's...”) and by the time Blaine seated himself at the piano, they were both several shots deep and buzzing pleasantly. Kurt was sandwiched between Zoe and Jessica (another of the few Americans on crew) giving them advice on how to coordinate colors with the seasons, when Blaine tapped on the microphone.

“Hey, everybody! Having a good time tonight?”

The answering cheer was nothing short of raucous, and Blaine shot them all an electric grin.

“Most of you know that I'm here tonight with someone pretty special,” he continued, pausing for the whooping and cat-calls to die down. “Kurt? Where you hiding, beautiful?”

“He's here!” Zoe and Jessica called out in unison, and Kurt took another shot before locking eyes with Blaine.

“Some of you might know that it's Kurt's birthday today. And because we're all poor as fuck, I didn't get him a gift!” Blaine went on, and was met with booing and hissing worthy of a pantomime. “Kidding! Totally kidding, of course I got him a gift! But we have this little tradition, he and I, where we always sing a song to the other on their birthday. Kurt, baby, this is for you.”

The opening notes were pure and clear, and though it was being played on piano rather than guitar, Kurt recognized it straight away; another song from their year apart that gave them strength when it seemed like they were being laid to waste.

“You're the northern wind sending shivers down my spine, you're like fallen leaves in an autumn night. You're the lullaby singing me to sleep, you are the other half, you're like a missing piece,” Blaine sang, and Kurt closed his eyes, letting the song wash through his heart and into his very blood. “Oh my love, oh my love, oh my love, you don't know what you do to me.”

As if from far away he heard the girls either side of him sigh when Blaine sang the final notes, and there were a few beats of silence before the crew burst into applause, which Blaine met with a sheepish 'thank you' into the microphone. “You know, Kurt's voice is beautiful. I've been dying to show him off a little.”

Kurt's gaze shot up. It's been so long, he thought, and suddenly all the Dutch courage in the world wasn't doing a thing. There was a time when every microphone was his, when he owned every stage given to him (along with more than a few that were not). But he had left those days behind, and though he still sang almost every day, it was something for which he no longer wished to be lauded; it was a release, an expression, an intimacy he shared with Blaine.

“Baby, come on up here and sing a little somethin' with me,” Blaine's voice broke through his thoughts, and Kurt couldn't resist rolling his eyes.

“You always get really deep South when you've been drinking tequila, did you know that?” Kurt half-shouted as he made his way across the floor.

“You love it,” Blaine replied. When Kurt reached him, Blaine offered a spare microphone, holding onto it as Kurt's fingers closed around it in order to pull him in for a kiss, eliciting a collective sigh from the room.

“So, what are we going to dazzle our audience with?” Kurt asks, speaking into the microphone and gesturing to the crew. It was kind of amazing at how easy it was to slip back into the stage persona. Kurt Hummel: Diva Extraordinaire.

Blaine didn't answer, simply began playing. Kurt took a deep, bracing breath, and sang in unison with him.

“I'll find a map and draw a straight line, over rivers, farms and state lines, the distance from A to where you'd be, is only finger-lengths that I see,” they sang, still harmonizing perfectly even without having sung this song since that very first month apart, when they'd both decided it was too painful a song upon which to fixate the terms of their separation. Now, it didn't hold so much sway. “And miles from where you are I lay down on the cold ground and I, I pray that something picks me up and sets me down in your warm arms.”

*

The departures board at Orlando International Airport loomed over them almost like a challenge, and as Kurt's gate was announced, he sighed heavily and leaned into Blaine's chest.

“What's past is prologue; what to come, in yours and my discharge,” Blaine whispered, arms tightening around him, and it was absolutely all Kurt could do to keep from falling apart right there and then. “I'll miss you so much.”

“How am I supposed to walk away from you?” Kurt asked as he pulled back, hands fisting in Blaine's shirt.

“You turn around,” he said softly, gently tugging Kurt's hands away. He pressed one last kiss into his hair, then took his shoulders and turned him to face towards security. “You start walking, and you don't look back. I'm not here, anymore. I'm waiting at the other end, in two months' time.”

“I love you,” Kurt said, not looking back but taking hold of Blaine's fingers where they rested upon his shoulder and pressing a folded slip of paper between them.

“I love you, too. Text me when you land, and... I'll write you,” Blaine told him softly, dropping his hands and taking a step back. He watched Kurt's shoulders lower as if they were once more taking on the weight of the world, and then he stooped to retrieve his carry-on bag, held his head high, and started walking. He didn't look back.

When Blaine was in the cab taking him back to Port Canaveral, he carefully unfolded the slip of paper Kurt had given him. In Kurt's neat, looping handwriting were written the words of Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, and he couldn't have chosen a more perfect poem with which to say adieu.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height can be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new text message from: Blaine b29;

Blaine (12:44pm) – Deadline day! Good luck, baby. You've got this.
Kurt (12:45pm) – I think I might throw up. It's not even announced until next month. I miss you.
Blaine (12:46pm) – Relax, baby. I believe in you; now believe in yourself. 59 days.
Kurt (12:47pm) – 58 and a half. I love you.
Blaine (12:48pm) – I love you too, little blackbird.

*

Dear Kurt,

I humbly do beseech of your pardon/For too much loving you.

It feels so weird to be writing to you again, when just a week ago you were here, in my arms. I think I miss you more now that you've actually been here, in Florida (our vacation aside, since we were here together). Now that you've met my friends, now that you've been to the places we go on the very rare evening off, it's like everywhere I go I'm just retracing your footsteps. Before, it was wanting to come home to you. It was anticipating the day where I get to pack my bags and walk off this ship and get on a plane and catch up with the Blaine I told you would be there waiting. Now, it's so much more clear, and... present.

Thankfully, there's been a lot to do to take my mind off it since switchover. We're on our new route now and I'm back on the excursions rotation—I'm writing this to you from St. Maarten, during our break for lunch. I want to bring you here one day; you'll love it, Kurt. It's so beautiful. There are so many places to explore, and the history of the place is just so fascinating. Did you know there used to be pirates here? They'd organize expeditions against the ships leaving the island for Europe.

I have some pretty exciting news to share! Carlos and Zoe are totally a thing. Well, they will be once they're off the ship. We're not allowed to 'fraternize', for obvious reasons. But you should see them together, Kurt. They're so adorable. And they live like, twenty minutes away from one another. Carlos has been wandering around after her like a lost little puppy ever since she first started, and then the other night he just took her to one side while we were all hanging out at the crew pool and finally told her. I'm happy for them. I am, it's just... It's hard, you know? I mean, I know they're not together yet, and they're not trying to push any boundaries or break any rules. They're being completely professional. But it's just knowing that they're together in the sense that they can look over and see the other one right there.

I'm sorry. I've just been sad lately, is all. I can't wait to see you again. 59 (58 and a half) more days.

Ik hou van jou,
Candle

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

FROM: imtheceobitch@gmail.com
TO: getoffmyrunway@gmail.com
DATE: 06/05/2017, 7:45PM (PST)
SUBJECT: (none)

Kurt,

I tried calling you, but you must be busy working still. Blaine told me about how you get when you're locked onto something.

Oh god, Blaine. How the fuck am I going to tell him?

There's a problem; a big problem, with the company. Just... Can you call me as soon as you get this? I need to hear a friendly voice and I really can't face mom right now.

Coop

*

Beep-beep, beep-beep
Message delivered successfully to: Cooper

Kurt (7:59pm) – Do not, I repeat, DO NOT breathe a word of whatever this is to Blaine. He's fragile enough as it is right now. Still working but I'll call you when I finish in a half hour.

*

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Kurt b29;

Kurt (10:05pm) – I love you so much, baby. I'm so proud of you.
Blaine (10:43pm) – I love you too! What was that for?
Kurt (10:47pm) – No reason. I just love you.

Dear Blaine,

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

With that in mind, have a few new pictures! Most of the McKinley gang made it into town to see Mike's company performing on opening night at Carnegie Hall (he was spectacular, Blaine. He only had a small part but he stole the entire show) and afterward, Puck insisted we went to Hooters. Let's just say, the sangria was definitely not strong enough for the things I witnessed that night. I may be suffering from a mild form of PTSD.

Things have been quiet at work. Like, really quiet. Too quiet. No one's saying anything about the contest. Since the deadline passed, it's like it never even happened. This could have the potential to shape my entire future career, yet it's all quiet on the Westwood front (please forgive the terrible pun; it's been a long day. Long week, really).

I'm so, so thrilled for Carlos and Zoe! I knew they'd make the cutest couple, I just knew it. I can totally understand what you said about seeing them together, though. Rachel just broke up with Dominic, again. Something about 'moving in different directions, creatively'. Sometimes I just want to shake that girl. She has an insanely cute, talented guy who hangs from her every word and is absolutely crazy about her, yet she still can't see past the end of her own nose long enough to see what is right there, ready and waiting. It's just so frustrating that she doesn't appreciate what she has, when you're so far away from me and all we have is words on a page or screen and voices at the end of a phone line.

Full of ennui. 40 days to go, handsome.

Te iubesc,
Blackbird

Dear Kurt,

Doubt that the stars are fire/Doubt that the sun doth move his aides/Doubt truth to be a liar/But never doubt I love.

I'm so, so sorry about our stupid fight. Figures that the first time I've been able to get a signal in the past two weeks and I end up picking a fight with you about something so trivial. I've just been so frustrated with not being able to speak to you or even receive a text or email from you. I'm sorry.

The internet's been funky on the ship since last week and we've been getting so many complaints—each voyage is so different, they're almost shaped by the groups of passengers we take on. I guess there were a lot of businesspeople this last trip—which, why? Why would they go on a Disney cruise and work?

To speak of happier things—Happy 4th of July! The parties today were insane. There were flags everywhere, and we put on a huge barbecue for the guests down on the lower deck (I've never seen so many fire extinguishers at once, just in case). Then there were watermelon and hot-dog eating contests (we had real hot dogs, Kurt. They tasted so damn good I almost cried), and a bunch of the engineers started a tug-of-war tournament down on the lower deck. Then we had a huge firework display and sang the National Anthem. I feel very patriotic today. Tell me all about the celebrations back home!

One last thing before I turn in for the night. I got approached the other night by this guy I'd seen around the ship and at all of the shows. You remember I told you that I'd be taking the stage more for the Reprise shows? I've been performing every night, and it's been such a rush. I can't wait to get home and into the studio for a little while, though my first project will of course be to finish it. Anyway, back to the point. So I was hanging out with the crew in one of the function rooms we were able to take over for the night, and we were all just sitting around talking and playing music and dancing, and Zoe asked me to play the song I wrote for you. I felt kind of weird about it at first (you don't mind, do you? I mean, if I were to ever record it, I'd change it a little to make it less... personal, but I wanted to check), but I got into playing it and it was just like being back in Central Park with you. I just closed my eyes and you were standing in front of me all over again. When I finished, I realized there was this guy standing there, one of the guests. He was all black shirt and gelled hair; kind of reminded me of Sebastian at first. But then he handed me this business card (the one I've sent along with this letter) and told me to give him a call once my contract on the ship was up.

Can you look into it for me and see if he's legit? Like I said, the internet's been funky and pretty much out of action whenever I've found the time to head into one of the cafes between working and waiting for guests to clear out, and I don't want to get my hopes up if he doesn't check out.

I can't wait to see you, exactly four weeks from today. This time in four weeks, I'll be back in New York. My flight will have landed, and I'll be collecting my bags, and then walking into the Arrivals hall and there you'll be. I miss your arms, and your thighs, and your hair. I miss your kisses and touches and the way you look at me afterward.

28 days.

Mahal kita,
Candle

P.S. Have you heard anything more about the contest, yet? And also, since this might be my last letter to you before coming home (!!!), can I have a clue about my surprise?

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Kurt b29;

Kurt (9:12pm) – So guess who just got back from dinner with Rachel Berry, Dominic (yep, back on again), and HUGH JACKMAN?
Blaine (9:15pm) – What.
Kurt (9:17pm) – He's back for a second run in Houdini! Rachel's been cast as one of the Spiritualists!
Blaine (9:19pm) – WHAT.
Kurt (9:20pm) – I know! I wish you could have been there, baby. He's wonderful. He said he wants to meet you.
Blaine (9:23pm) – ...WHAT???
Kurt (9:25pm) – How did he put it? 'I'd love to meet him sometime; bring him to the show!'
Kurt (9:37pm) – Blaine?
Blaine (9:39pm) – Hey Kurt, this is Carlos. Your boy just jumped into the pool with all his clothes on, and now he's just floating around in there singing Katy Perry songs and yelling 'Hugh Jackman' every few lines.
Kurt (9:40pm) – Oh dear lord.

*

Beep-beep, beep-beep
One new message from: Kurt b29;

Kurt (1:12am) – If you've sufficiently recovered, I want to show you what your surprise is.
Blaine (1:13am) – Yeah, baby, sorry about that. It's just... HUGH FREAKING JACKMAN.
Kurt (1:15am) – Blaine.
Blaine (1:17am) – I know. Sorry. You want to show me my surprise?? What is it??
Kurt (1:19am) –

Blaine (1:24am) – YOU FINISHED IT?! Kurt, you... You are the best fiance ever. It looks spectacular! I love you. I love you so damn much.
Kurt (1:25am) – All for you :) You'll have to make sure all the equipment is in the right place, but... I'm glad you like it.
Blaine (1:27am) – In a week and a half, I'm going to SHOW you how much I love you. Thank you so much. I don't even know what else to say.
Kurt (1:30am) – Goodnight, Prince Blaine. Sweet dreams.
Blaine (1:31am) – Seriously. Best fiance ever. Goodnight x

Dear Blaine,

I love you more than words can wield the matter/Dearer than eyesight, space and liberty.

Well, it looks like this will be my last letter to you before you come back to me. I get home at the end of every day feeling a little lighter, like more and more weight is being lifted. Stephanie told me she noticed I'm wearing more colors again—I hadn't even realized!

The 4th was fun. Rachel and I met up with Andrew, Toby, Jeff and Stuart and we all went down to Coney Island for Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest—Rachel and I obviously didn't participate, but... Well, at the risk of sounding crass, it looks like Stuart is a very lucky man indeed. Did you know? After that, we all went back to Manhattan in time for the Macy's firework display. It was spectacular, as always. I missed you, though. I miss you every second you're not here.

I'm going to call you tomorrow when you're back in port, but I need to know that I've already told you, if that makes sense? The results of the contest were announced today. Stephanie called me into her office and told me I was taking the afternoon off, and that I should go straight over to Starworks. I was shaking the entire way there. I got called in, and there was Vivienne Westwood herself. She was just... She was so amazing, Blaine. She just radiates this energy and passion for what she does. And she's so funny! I think you'd love her.

Blaine, I won. I won the contest. It's real, it's happening, my collection's going to be made and worn and it's going to be 'Kurt Hummel for Vivienne Westwood'! It's my very own Sarah Burton moment!

Thank you. Thank you so much, baby. For believing in me, for helping me, for everything. You made me trust myself and my vision and now it's a reality (even though I still can't quite comprehend it). I've been walking on air all day long.

So I looked up the guy whose card you sent with your last letter. I decided not to tell you over the phone because I wanted to write this down, see it in black and white. Baby, I think this might be it. You need to call him as soon as you get home. He's one of the top headhunters at EMI. He checks out. Come home. Come home, come home, come home to me and our future.

Je t'aime. Oh, fuck it. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I LOVE YOU.

Ten days. TEN DAYS.

Yours forever,
Blackbird

Blaine's every last nerve was fizzling with anticipation. He could barely remember getting off the plane and making his way through the long and winding corridors of LaGuardia, and he couldn't stop fiddling with the straps of his holdall as he anxiously waited for his suitcase at the baggage carousel. Jesus fucking Christ, why did I take anything with me? If I didn't have any luggage, I wouldn't be standing here right now. I could have just walked right out into Arrivals and then I'd see him and he'd hold me and kiss me, and—

“Finally,” he muttered, bending forward to sweep his case from the carousel. Extending the handle, he pulled it along behind him as he followed the black and yellow signs out into the Arrivals hall. He was vaguely aware of a banner welcoming him home, his friends holding it up and cheering as he rounded the corner, but everything fell away as Kurt ran towards him and they collided with one another: lips meeting passionately, hands on waists, in hair, on necks, in clothes. It didn't matter that it was a shorter separation than the first four months. It didn't matter, because Blaine was home and while he wouldn't give up a single moment of his six months working on the ship, he had missed this.

They broke apart slowly, their breathing labored. Kurt's eyes shone a deep blue in the fluorescent lights overhead, and they pressed into one another as close as they could get.

“I missed you, fiance,” Kurt said, and Blaine grinned.

“Kiss me, Kurt, we shall be married o'Sunday,” he quoted.

“Taming of the Shrew, I'm impressed,” Kurt murmured.

“I know my Shakespeare,” he replied, and then Kurt was laughing and taking him by the hand and leading him towards his welcoming party, staying right at his side—and that was, quite possibly, the best feeling Blaine had ever experienced.