Kurt came around slowly, feeling himself ease quietly back into consciousness. He felt like he was floating, weightless, no strands tethering him to the soft grass pillowing his body.

Wait. Grass?

His eyes shot open, and it was as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. Sun streamed down between the tree leaves that were just beginning to crisp along the edges overhead, creating dapples across his clothes as they swayed in the gentle breeze. It would all have been very beautiful were it not for the fact that Stomp seemed to have claimed Kurt's skull as their latest musical playground.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back and performed a quick but thorough check of his person. Good. Keys, wallet and phone all intact. Upon closer inspection, also intact: three condoms, a shark's tooth key chain, a Polaroid of him sans shirt straddling an equally shirtless Blaine inside the nightclub, and a small green tiki mask pin. As he gingerly moved to a sitting position, pain simultaneously flared in his head, butt, and elbows, and he swore under his breath while surveying the objects in his hands. There were seven multi-colored glow-stick bracelets around his left wrist, and a huge, tacky plastic diamond ring on his ring finger.

What? Fuckfuckfuck.

No, no, calm down, Kurt told himself as he yanked off the ring and shoved it deep into his pocket where it could no longer visually offend him. You took it off at home, just in case. It's in its box, next to the alarm clock. Blaine made The Face even though he knew it was a good idea.

As if on cue, Kurt's phone began blaring Purple Assassin at full volume, and he noticed that beneath the picture of Blaine asleep in their bed, it listed nine missed calls. For a few seconds he could only stare dumbly, before realizing that, no, the phone was not going to answer itself. Grimacing at the taste of stale alcohol and death in his mouth, he cleared his throat and winced as he swiped across the screen and raised the phone to his ear.

“Blaine?” he rasped, recoiling at the wrecked sound of his own voice.

“Kurt! Oh my fucking god, where are you? You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay, Kurt, please,” Blaine exclaimed frantically, and Kurt found himself holding up a shaking hand as if his fiance were standing before him.

“I'm fine,” he said, cradling his head and hunching over. “I have a headache and I'm pretty sure something crawled inside my mouth to die, but I'm all here.”

Blaine's sharp exhale of relief became static across the connection, and all Kurt wanted to do (other than never, ever let another drop of alcohol pass his dry and chapped lips) was succumb to sleep until he woke up feeling less like a microwaved corpse. “Where are you?”

“I'm—“ Kurt stopped short, glancing around himself and digesting his surroundings. “I'm by the zoo.”

“What—the hell happened—last night?” Blaine asked, sounding muffled.

“I don't know,” Kurt groaned, leaning heavily on the trunk of the closest tree in order to stand up. The ground looked like it was at a forty-five degree angle. “Blaine, I—can you...”

“I'm on my way. Just stay where you are, I'll be there soon.”

While Kurt waited, he had time to reflect on the insanity that had been the past two weeks of his life. He had been in London for two weeks at Westwood HQ, and the day before he was due to fly back, he had received a thin and unassuming FedEx packet. It wasn't an unusual event; he was always being sent fabric samples and swatches for approval, after all. What was unusual was that it was from Blaine. Blaine, who never set foot inside FedEx, if he could help it. When Kurt had opened it and processed the contents, he had immediately called Blaine, not caring that it was 3am in New York.

”Kurt?”

“Blaine,” Kurt had greeted him shortly.

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

“I guess that depends on how you look at it,” he responded cryptically, running his fingers over the heavy vellum of the wedding invitation that gave a time and date, but no location.

“Baby, just—what's going on?”

“I'm getting married.”

After a pause, Blaine spoke again. “Yes? I mean, I did ask you...”

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

It was then that it all came tumbling into the light. One night two weeks earlier, after Kurt had called Blaine and told him about his newest television obsession—an English TV show called Don't Tell The Bride, where an engaged couple was given �12,000 and three weeks to plan their wedding, the only catch being that the groom had to plan it with no contact with or input from the bride (or the other groom, in a couple of cases)—Blaine had decided to take it upon himself to plan their wedding.

“Are you insane?”

“That's what everyone keeps telling me,” Blaine groaned, and Kurt couldn't help but feel more than a little guilty.

Blaine went on to explain that he hadn't been able to get the idea out of his mind. That while all of their friends and family knew that when it came to planning and organizing events, Kurt was without doubt the best, Blaine knew Kurt at his core. He may not have always had a complete grasp on Kurt's taste or why he followed certain trends, but he had intimate knowledge of the inner working of his fiance's mind. Kurt was always the one running himself ragged to pull off miracles in no time for little money, but no one ever did anything like that for him. Kurt wouldn't even think to ask—which, Blaine said, was the part he loved the most—but Blaine knew that deep down, Kurt wanted someone to do for him what he so often did for others. He knew what it meant when the sparkle in Kurt's eyes dimmed a little as he watched the people for whom he had orchestrated the event enjoying themselves. He knew what it meant when Kurt flopped onto the couch at the end of an evening and sighed a little to himself; satisfaction undercut with a current of longing. He knew what it meant when Kurt would pull him close after a party and let Blaine give him whatever he needed, wanted, never asked for. Kurt was taking something for himself, something that was only his to take, and for a few moments simply reveling and securing himself in it.

Blaine told him he'd had phone calls from Kristy, emails from Kurt's family and even a visit from Cooper all to say that he was certifiable, but he didn't care. The florist, caterer and photographer were all booked and triple-confirmed, with exhaustive manifestos concerning the color scheme, cake and order of the ceremony in their respective care. Blaine had met with the Justice of the Peace who was, thankfully, available to perform the ceremony. He'd sent out urgent Save The Dates via email ahead of the real invitations, along with notes imploring the recipients not to tell Kurt any of the details. Somehow he'd even gotten hold of Vivienne to request vacation time, and she had then taken it upon herself to create Kurt's wedding outfit, saying that although she wouldn't be able to attend the wedding itself, she would be there “in spirit and silk”.

Once everything had been put in place, with the final guest list confirmed, he had mailed Kurt's invitation and all that was left for Kurt to do was choose his best man and show up on the day.

When Kurt had returned to New York, he'd hunted through the entire apartment like a hurricane, but he hadn't found a single shred of a clue as to where the wedding was taking place or what to expect.

In the middle of searching through old boxes of sentimental things for which they had no place in the apartment proper, he'd come across one of Blaine's old NYU shirts, the earthy scent of Paco Rabanne still clinging to it. He'd inhaled deeply, remembering their college years with fondness. Living together for the first time, discovering all of the quirks and habits they both possessed, lying on the couch with feet tangled and breathing easily as they watched reruns of Friends in between studying and cooking and socializing. He folded the shirt in his lap, splaying his fingers through the softness that can only come from washing something over and over and over, and decided to stop his search. Blaine had done all of this for him, and it was unfair to ruin the surprise.

Half an hour after calling Blaine, Kurt was sitting on a low wall, bent at the waist with his hands hanging limply between shaking knees. Eyes closed, he concentrated only on breathing in and out to a measure of eight, which was helping to stave off the almost overwhelming bursts of nausea. The air in front of him shifted, and he knew without looking that it was Blaine laying warm hands on his shoulders and a kiss on the bed-head of hair that he had not yet dared to look at in the darkened screen of his iPhone. His shoulders slumped, relaxing into Blaine's embrace, and Kurt let out a shuddering breath.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Blaine asked, using the pet name he usually reserved for when Kurt was sick. His voice was soft, like a cool and soothing shore lapping at the rough sand inside of Kurt's skull.

“I am now,” he mumbled, and he reached out for Blaine's arm to steady himself as he slowly got to his feet, shielding his eyes from the bright August sunlight. Wordlessly, Blaine took off his sunglasses and set them atop Kurt's nose. “Oh, that's so much better. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Blaine said, taking his hand. “Via Quadronno's right around the corner, do you want—“

“Coffee, yes. Coffee would be heaven,” Kurt groaned, pitching forward and letting his head rest on Blaine's shoulder. “How are you not disgustingly hungover right now?”

“Oh baby, I am,” Blaine laughed. “I can't remember a thing about last night. But I took a freezing cold shower when I woke up, before I realized you weren't there. It was more painful than the headache.”

“I swear to all I hold dear in this world that I am never getting drunk again.”

*

Inside the coffee shop, Kurt left Blaine at the counter to get the hit of caffeine they both sorely needed and all but collapsed into a chair at one of the tables in the back. Taking off Blaine's sunglasses, he wearily rubbed at his gritty eyes and scratched at the barely-there stubble lining his jaw before spreading the mementos of the previous night (save for the condoms—he still retained some sense of propriety, bachelor party notwithstanding) out over the table in front of him and studying them closely.

“You too, huh?” Blaine's voice came from above him. Kurt glanced up gratefully as he took his steaming mocha and inhaled deeply. From the very first rich and bittersweet sip, Kurt began to feel more alive and less like a mountain of glass shards stuffed inside a human skin.

“Me too, what?”

Blaine set down his cup and gestured at the neat pile of obscure objects on the wooden tabletop in front of Kurt. At Kurt's blank expression, he fished into his messenger bag and produced three objects of his own: a blue and white pacifier; a tiki pin to match Kurt's, and a small silver key with a tag that read 'Schwartz Travel Services, 355 W 36th Street', along with the number 28.

“The pacifier could easily be Tina's, since she brought her diaper bag with her to hold all of her party supplies.”

“Yes!” Blaine exclaimed loudly, before offering an apologetic glance to the startled customers nearby. “I remember now, she dropped it when she was digging out the hats and I picked it up. She was already off handing the hats out and I didn't wanna go through her things, so I just stuffed it in my pocket. Guess I forgot.”

“You're adorable,” Kurt said fondly. “That explains the pacifier, then. These tiki pins, though... I guess we could send out a mass text? Wherever we were, we were obviously there together.”

Blaine nodded his agreement to Kurt's reasoning, and picked up his phone to begin tapping out a message.

“What about this picture? And who even has a Polaroid camera anymore?”

“Jeff does, you know he's into all things retro,” Blaine answered, setting his phone back down on the table and doing a double-take as he saw the picture. “I—Wow. I do not remember that.”

“At least we look good semi-naked,” Kurt mused, quirking an eyebrow at Blaine's appreciative, sweeping gaze. Sipping at his coffee, he picked up the key and turned it over between his fingers. “Looks like we're making a trip to Schwartz. But I'm not going anywhere until I take a shower and make myself look fabulous.”

“Kurt, you look fine,” Blaine told him.

“Blaine, you're getting recognized more and more. We don't want people thinking you're dating some hobo.”

“You don't—“

“You know better, Blaine.”

*

Once Kurt was showered, moisturized, coiffed, dressed and once again wearing his real engagement ring, he and Blaine made their way out of the apartment and caught the elevator down to the lobby.

“Treasure hunt,” Blaine said, grinning excitedly.

“I thought the pirate days were behind us,” Kurt grumbled as they stepped back out into the sunshine.

“The pirate days will never be behind us,” Blaine quipped, slipping his hand into Kurt's and swinging them back and forth as they set off along Amsterdam Avenue.

He and Blaine walked in a peaceful and companionable silence, sharing smiles every now and then as they soaked up the latest Surprising Sunday—a private joke of theirs. After Blaine's first three days living in New York, Kurt had finally put his foot down and demanded that Blaine needed to see more of the city than their bedroom (and their couch, and their shower, and their kitchen island, and their...). As they had taken their first stroll, hand in hand, down 5th Avenue—just as busy and loud as it was on any given weekday, albeit with significantly less suit-clad businessmen—Blaine had commented on how surprising the contrast was between Sundays in New York and Sundays in sleepy Lima, where the only reasons to leave the house were visits to church or picnics to the park in the summer. Kurt had told him it was the aspect of the city that Kurt still loved the most—he had spent over eighteen years in Lima waiting for his life to begin, and to go from a town that strolled along at a slow and leisurely pace to a city that sprinted as if on steroids was something that still made him pause for a moment to saturate himself with the atmosphere.

Lost in his own thoughts and memories, retracing their footsteps in his mind, he didn't realize Blaine had stopped dead outside Brooks Brothers when they reached 65th and Broadway. Kurt rolled his eyes with a smile and turned to go inside, but Blaine's hand shot out and held onto Kurt's wrist tightly.

“Do you hear that?” he asked with a horrified expression, and he pointed over Kurt's shoulder. Following his line of sight, Kurt turned and immediately locked onto an African-American man walking down the opposite side of the street with a 90s-style boombox perched on his shoulder.

A dirty, gritty bassline. Cymbals. Sexy boy.

”Come on, guys,” Blaine cajoled the mostly drunk Warbler and New Direction collective as the club—which was empty save for their group thanks to best men Cooper and Finn—was pumped full of LMFAO. Carefully getting to his feet, fingers curled around his mic, he waved a hand in Kurt's general direction. Santana ran past him and up to the DJ box, holding out a piece of paper to the female DJ before giving her a lascivious once-over and swaying her hips as she returned to the group. “He's not gonna do it. In fact, I will bet all of you the next round of drinks that he doesn't have the guts.”

Kurt bristled at that, and he tried to tamp down his urge to prove his fiance wrong.

“Challenge accepted,” he heard himself saying coolly as he stood and brushed himself off. It was nearing one a.m., they were amongst their best friends (many of whom had been present for quick-changes throughout high school) and he was still in almost full control of his faculties despite the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Blaine grinned widely and tossed the mic to Wes before pointing at Kurt and crooking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. Quirking an eyebrow and ignoring the catcalls from the dancefloor, Kurt followed after him curiously.

“Okay, so there's no pressure here,” Blaine began once they were inside and he'd checked to make sure they were alone, “but Santana got us these.”

Kurt took the small plastic baggy that Blaine held out to him and studied the tiny pink pills. “Ecstasy?” Blaine nodded, eyes dancing excitedly. “Are you?”

“I've wanted to try it for a while, but if you're uncomfortable or if you'd prefer I didn't—“

Kurt placed a hand over Blaine's mouth to stop his rambling, and Blaine smiled back at him somewhat sheepishly. “Okay,” he said, simply.

“Okay?”

Kurt nodded. “You first,” he said, opening the bag and holding it out to Blaine. He was still a little unsure; they'd experimented with weed a couple of times in the past, back when Santana and Brittany had still been going strong and came to visit, bringing with them a vaporizer and they'd sat on the roof of their building giggling like born-again teenagers. Blaine had his eyes locked on him as he placed the pink pill on his tongue and held it there. Kurt found himself nodding, and then Blaine was kissing him with his hand gentle and comforting on the nape of Kurt's neck; there it was, that tiny little pill, and he could feel it fizzling into his taste buds as Blaine took the other.

Kurt swallowed, washing it down with a gulp of the bottled water Blaine had brought in with them, and took a moment to rest his forehead against Blaine's. He couldn't help but laugh a little at how giddy and free he felt, riding high on a cresting wave of love and disbelief that he was getting married in just four days' time.

“I love you for doing all of this,” he told Blaine as he pulled back and brought his arms up to loop around his soon-to-be husband's neck. “I know my first reaction was maybe less than gracious, but... Everything you said was right. I forget sometimes that you know me better than I know myself.”

“Always will. And on Wednesday—“

“It'll be official.”

“Nervous?” Blaine whispered.

“No,” Kurt said simply. “I'm ready.”

Blaine smiled and kissed his jaw, murmuring the words, “me too” against the skin there. “Are you ready for this, though?”

Kurt breathed in sharply, and rolled his shoulders as if limbering up. He began to feel something moving through him, a certain electric languidity that was sweeping into every corner within. When he glanced up at the harsh strip lighting and turned his head from side to side, there were trails left behind as if he was writing his name with sparklers on the 4th of July. Blaine followed his gaze, pupils blown darker than ebony, and smiled almost serenely as he turned to lead Kurt from the bathroom. Santana was waiting outside for them, and Kurt draped himself over her, feeling loose-limbed and warm.

“You ready to get your freak on, Twink?” she asked, quirking her eyebrow, and Kurt nodded as the multi-colored lights swung slowly and lazily overhead, creating a mess of spectrum and pretty. She signaled to the DJ, who pulled out a vinyl record with a flourish, twirling it in her fingers before setting it up on the decks and expertly fading between the two songs.

A rush of adrenaline and clear-headedness overtook Kurt as a dirty bassline filled the club, and he strutted to the middle of the dancefloor in time to the beat as a high-hat began filtering through. He turned on his heel, staring at Blaine through half-lidded eyes as he undid his tie and looped it around Blaine's neck, pulling him close enough to kiss but not following through. Their friends were wolf-whistling, musical notes dancing in the air around Kurt like he could reach out and touch them, and he backed Blaine onto the nearest of the high-backed couches to straddle his thighs.

Stanzas of sheet music wrapped around his middle and he circled his hips as breathy vocals in French flooded his senses, the translations shimmering before his eyes. He smiled, the warmth from Blaine's hands either side of his knees washing throughout his body, and glanced around at the group of people there for them, to celebrate their engagement and their wedding and their love for one another. He saw them in slow motion, Finn turning more and more red as he averted his eyes; Santana fist-pumping the air and cheering him on; Mercedes and Tina laughing behind their hands; Thad and Flint catcalling either side of a somewhat flustered Wes. Kurt loved everyone, he loved them all, but they were only audience members to the production of which he was one of two leading men. He fixed his gaze on Blaine, leaning over him and finger-walking down his torso to untuck his polo. In one smooth movement that stretched for a forever-second, Blaine raised his arms and Kurt swept it off, swinging it once over his head before flinging it away to his right, where Jeff caught it and shouted out something obscene.

Kurt backed away, swinging his hips to the beat that seemed to sound from beneath the surface of his skin, and began working his hands behind his back to loosen the laces of his corseted waistcoat. Blaine rubbed his palms up and down his thighs and shifted around in his seat, and Kurt wanted to laugh as he caught the hazel flecks through thick eyelashes and lip-synced the words 'sexy boy'—if Blaine had still been wearing his shirt, the flesh beneath the collar would certainly be aflame. Kurt slipped off the waistcoat and held it on his fingertips as he moved closer again, the music in his veins coming from somewhere deep within and being exhaled with every blink, every movement. Draping the waistcoat over Blaine's shoulder, he surged forward to sit in Blaine's lap, gyrating and grinding into Blaine's crotch. Soon enough, his own shirt was being pulled over his head and as the hazy, cloying air hit him, Kurt placed his palms flat to the cool leather seat back either side of Blaine's face, bracelets casting pink and yellow and blue across his skin. He leaned in, no longer moving his hips, and twisted his hands into Blaine's hair to drag him close enough that he could smell Negroni. Kurt licked along Blaine's bottom lip and then took it between his teeth, eyes unblinking. There was a flash somewhere in his periphery, and Kurt could feel his entire consciousness disappearing inside a world where the ground was darker than just before the dawn and the sky over his head was a tawny amber that always reminded him of sweeping leaves in the fall.

“Oh, god,” Kurt said, covering his face with his hands. “Oh god, I gave you a lap dance in front of everyone.”

“Keep walking,” Blaine said sympathetically, watching the man with the boombox stride further and further away, taking Air with him. He placed his hand at the small of Kurt's back and gently guided him forward. “It's not like anybody apart from us and our friends saw. Don't freak out.”

“Easy for you to say. I don't do things like that, Blaine,” Kurt protested, his head feeling thick and fuzzy under the weight of recollection.

“Hey,” Blaine said, letting his arm slip around Kurt's waist, “you felt great, right? And you had a good time?”

Kurt nodded. “Yes, but—“

“You were insanely hot, too,” Blaine interrupted matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather. Kurt smiled to himself, and thought better of arguing his point any further.

Another thirty minutes saw them stepping inside Schwartz Travel Services, no closer to solving the mystery key chain or tiki pins (none of the text messages they'd received in reply had been able to shed any light), though Kurt wasn't really lamenting the fact, wondering if some stories were best left undiscovered. Instead, he was beginning to feel excitement at what could be waiting for them, and he sped up to match Blaine's quickened pace. They approached the counter and handed over the key to the clerk behind the desk, who smiled and led them through to a room filled with small locker. Once left alone, Blaine gave the key to Kurt and gestured towards locker 28, directly in Kurt's eye line. He looked about ready to burst with excitement, and it was the first thing that tipped Kurt off to the fact that the key wasn't something Blaine had woken up with: it was something he'd been holding on to. He pushed the key into the lock and turned, letting the door swing open. As he did so, he let out a gasp and covered his mouth with his hand.

Blaine had painstakingly recreated Kurt's locker at McKinley, complete with miniature postcard art, Mardi Gras beads and figurines, and the 'courage' collage (the only different being that the photograph had changed from Blaine's Dalton picture to the photograph from their first prom together).

“Blaine, how—this is incredible,” Kurt breathed, tracing his fingers over the collage. “What is all this for?”

Blaine smiled, and nodded back to the locker. Kurt looked inside to see a thick white envelope propped up, and on the front was written 'Mr. Kurt Hummel-Anderson-To-Be'. Tentatively, he picked it up, eyes coming to rest upon the object that had been keeping it upright: a small, replica lighthouse. Brow furrowed, he returned his attention to the envelope and slid his thumb beneath the flap that had been tucked carefully inside. He could feel Blaine's eyes on him, and his hands trembled as he took out the envelope's contents, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. The entire past week had been one big game of mystery and intrigue, and he still had no idea what to expect next. It felt like a throwback to when they had first started dating.

When he unfolded a flight itinerary and two sets of tickets fell into his palm, his jaw dropped. “The Maldives?” he asked breathlessly, and happiness swelled up in his chest at Blaine's answering nod. It had been Kurt's number one honeymoon destination. White sandy beaches, crystal clear ocean, huts built on stilts out over the water. It was a disappearing paradise, and while Kurt had never been one for vacations in the sun, he had wanted to see it while he still had the opportunity. “Blaine, I... How are you even real?”

Blaine ducked his head at that, before reaching inside the locker and retrieving the lighthouse. He balanced it in his hand and held it up front of Kurt. “Clue,” he said quietly, and it all finally clicked into place. Kurt's eyes welled up and he took a step back, dropping heavily onto the wooden bench when he felt it against the back of his knees. Blaine knelt in front of him, and Kurt found that he couldn't quite look him in the eye.

“How did you book it at such short notice?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

“Cancellation,” Blaine answered, thumbs rubbing circles just above Kurt's knees. “Too much?”

“Always,” Kurt replied, laughing a little and biting his lip as he sighed and reached forward to pull Blaine forward, head against his chest.

“Change?”

“Never.”

*

“Do you think we'll ever figure out the key chain, or the pins? Or why I woke up in Central Park?” Kurt asked when they finally arrived home. He had two fingers looped into the back pocket of Blaine's jeans, the digits of his other wrapped around the lighthouse, thumb rubbing against it absently. Blaine hummed a kiss underneath Kurt's jaw, and Kurt could feel the smile against his skin. “I think I'm going to freshen up a little. And check for bruises.”

“I should probably do the same. My ass hurts every time I move,” Blaine confessed, turning to set down his bag on the end table just inside the door and pulling out the tiki mask pin, pausing to look at it thoughtfully.

“Mine too,” Kurt said offhandedly, before the tiki pin caught his attention. There was a singular, horrifying moment when he finally remembered where it had come from, and judging by the mortification written all over Blaine's face, he was remembering, too.

“Kurt...”

But Kurt was already running for the bedroom, unbuckling his belt and almost tripping over in his haste to push off his jeans. Blaine was hot on his heels, mirroring Kurt's motions. Once fully divested of their pants and underwear they shared a bracing breath, turned their backs to the mirror, and looked over their shoulders. Memories flooded Kurt's mind: lying down on a table; Blaine giggling into his ear; a constant, high-pitched buzzing; a sensation not unlike Blaine's fingernails scratching across his skin; everywhere the motif of tiki masks in the shop called Tiki Tattoo.

“Fuck,” Kurt ground out, breaking his long silence. “'Property of Blaine'? Whose idea was that?”

“Yours, if I recall,” Blaine replied quietly, brushing his fingers across his own tattoo—reading 'Property of Kurt' instead—and wincing at the slight sting.

“Oh god, it was my idea,” Kurt groaned, bending quickly and yanking his clothes back on as fast as he was able. “All right. All right, we need to—we need to just find a clinic, where we can get them removed. I've heard it's painful, but—“

“Hey, hey,” Blaine shushed him, gently putting his arms around him and rubbing circles into his back. “Calm down, we've got time. I don't think there's anything we could do about them right now; they'll need time to heal. And anyway...”

“Anyway, what?” Kurt prompted, pulling back a little. Blaine gave an awkward half-shrug.

“I don't know. I kind of—honestly, I kind of like it,” he admitted, and Kurt looked at him skeptically. “Look, I know you and I are forever. I know that. So why not? It's not like anyone will ever see it but us.”

Kurt sighed heavily. “Why do you always have to make everything so damn sweet? I have ink on my skin. Permanently.”

“Ink that says you're mine,” Blaine practically purred, and Kurt backed away even further, already feeling himself beginning to crumble.

“I have an appointment to make.”

*

Saturday 27 August, 2044

“I'm glad you canceled your appointment,” Blaine whispered, looking from the tiki pin to Kurt, who smiled at his husband affectionately.

“Me too.”