“Remind me again why it was so important that we include these pictures,” Kurt grumbled, brushing a few chestnut strands away from his face. Blaine had started to notice the beginnings of gray hairs around Kurt's temples—something which had, at first, mortified Kurt but that he was now growing used to. Blaine couldn't help but find Kurt more attractive than ever, coupled with the fact that his husband was slowly catching him up; Blaine's now salt-and-pepper curls had begun to turn five years previously, and both Blaine's husband and his agent, Cooper, steadfastly refused to let him reach for the Just for Men.

“Because you can't appreciate the good without the bad. They're in there to remind us that even at our worst or craziest moments, we still found a way through. You still managed to turn in a project that looked like you had spent the entire two weeks on it rather than six hours, and you still managed to come top of the class,” Blaine replied, still feeling that same swell of pride in his chest, even after all the years that had passed. He slipped his hand into Kurt's, giving it a small squeeze. “Though I still to this day have no understanding of how miniature burning Tokyo inspired you.”

“And you never will, so I won't try to explain it again,” Kurt said, almost smugly. He turned to the next page of the book and gave an involuntary shiver, a contented sigh escaping from his lips. “I remember saying back then that that afternoon was the best sex of my life.”

“I hope I've improved on it since,” Blaine mused, taking in the image of his twenty-year-old self splattered with cake batter, the photograph accompanied by brightly patterned cupcake cases and a copy of the recipe from which he'd been attempting to work.

“Over and over,” Kurt answered softly.

Pleased with his progress so far, Blaine stepped back to survey the island. He had the recipe, the oven was pre-heating to the correct temperature and all of the necessary ingredients were laid out before him. Everything he needed to make the cake for Kurt's twenty-first birthday. And to think that Kurt had been both ready and expecting to make it himself! Blaine wrinkled his nose at the thought as he rolled up his sleeves. At first, Kurt had been apprehensive. His cakes were usually quite elaborate, taking hours to make, finish and perfect. He simply wouldn't have the time to start over if Blaine was unsuccessful. So yes, perhaps Blaine hadn't been entirely truthful when telling Kurt of his 'vast' amounts of kitchen experience, but it was a cake. How difficult could it really be?

Hitting play as he pointed the remote control in the general direction of the stereo, his ears were greeted by the familiar strains of Perfect by Pink. Smiling to himself as he made a wrong turn (once or twice) down memory lane, surrounded by the warmth and vanilla scent of Kurt's beloved old Navigator, he grabbed a wooden spoon from the utensil holder and set to work.

Ten minutes of thorough mixing later and Blaine's arms were beginning to ache; he was experiencing a newfound respect for his boyfriend, especially given the amount of baking that he did. He made it look so effortless, and the results were never anything short of mouth-watering. A number of Blaine's college friends had, upon sampling Kurt's red velvet cupcakes, declared themselves in love—even a couple of the straight guys—and proceeded to call dibs in case Kurt ever found himself single.

Pausing for a moment to stretch out his fingers and roll his wrist to try and release the knot of tension that had formed there, his mind scrabbled around for an easier method. Scanning the tiny kitchen, his attention settled upon the cupboard underneath the sink. Grinning, he bent to retrieve the small, electric hand mixer that had been languishing there since they had finished unpacking. It had been part of a housewarming gift from Blaine's mother, but Blaine rarely cooked and Kurt always preferred to mix by hand, using the methods he had learned from the late Elizabeth Hummel.

Plugging in the mixer, he flicked the switch experimentally and smiled as it loudly whirred to life in his hand. Oh, yeah. This was going to make things a whole lot easier. Judging by looks alone, trying to feel like he was a seasoned professional, Blaine guessed that the batter would only require a thirty-second blast to get rid of any remaining lumps. He lowered the mixer with one hand and awkwardly reached across to switch it on with his other. At the last second, he noticed the 'turbo' button and decided to throw caution to the wind.

Five seconds later, stunned and covered in cake batter with the upturned mixing bowl spinning and clattering to a loud stop on the floor, Blaine realized his mistake.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

A soft click and a bright flash brought him out of his daze, and his head shot up to see Kurt standing on the other side of the island, keys dangling from his hand as he lowered that damn camera.

“When—ugh. How much did you see?”

“I think I came in at pretty much the perfect moment, Bridget,” Kurt replied, biting his lip as his shoulders shook from the hysterical laughter he was desperately trying to hold in.

“Go ahead, you can laugh,” Blaine muttered, suddenly feeling altogether useless.

“You, um... You've got a little something,” Kurt murmured, fingertips brushing the side of his face.

Blaine mirrored the gesture, but succeeded only in smearing around the smudge of cake batter on his cheek. He shook his head, frustrated. “Why am I so full of fail?”

Kurt dropped his bag and keys onto the bar stool, rounded the island and took Blaine by the hand. “Come with me,” he whispered, fingers running along the inside of Blaine's wrist. He obeyed, with a cursory glance backwards at the mess. Seeing this, Kurt locked eyes with him and shook his head, continuing to pull Blaine towards their bedroom.

“Sit,” he said, his fingertips on Blaine's chest gently guiding him backwards. He slowly removed his jacket and shirt, leaving on only a thin black tank, and climbed onto the bed to straddle Blaine's lap. Blaine absently noted that Kurt was wearing a set of dog tags; contrasted against Kurt's lithe frame, it was a good look for him. “Now. We need to get you cleaned up. How do you propose we go about that?”

Seeing the playfulness dancing in Kurt's eyes—which appeared, at that moment in time, a hungry mix of deep blue and steel gray—Blaine couldn't help but shiver, his hands trembling as he tentatively rested them on Kurt's thighs.

Without another word, Kurt leaned forward and ran his tongue along the line of Blaine's jaw. “Hmm. That seems to be working,” Kurt mused, licking his lips and meeting Blaine's eyes with a hungry look. “Tastes good.”

Blaine's cock twitched hard at that; Kurt simply smiled and tugged the hem of Blaine's t-shirt up and over his boyfriend's head before leaning further into him, pressing him to lie back on the mattress. Hands holding onto Blaine's sides and thumbs tracing figures of eight into his ribs, each soft touch filled with his love and passion, Kurt pressed his mouth to Blaine's neck and sucked away a smear of sweetness.

“Kurt,” Blaine breathed, his hands snaking up underneath Kurt's shirt and gripping the curves of his shoulders.

Kurt hummed in response, licking away another spot at the base of Blaine's neck. As he grazed Blaine's collarbone with his teeth, Blaine couldn't help bucking his hips up into Kurt's. Kurt immediately reciprocated, grinding down into Blaine, and all at once there was too much separating them: clothes; inches; air. He leaned down, crushing his lips to Blaine's and grabbing a fistful of those stupid, messy curls, and Blaine's hands were underneath his thighs, pulling and demanding that he be closer.

“I used to make up songs about you all the time, in my head,” Kurt murmured, slowly rolling his hips as he sat back, letting his fingers trace over Blaine's skin without making any contact. “Before we were together, when you kissed me, the first time you said you loved me, in the damn Lima Bean, of all places. Every—ah—single thing you did and it was like there was a chorus line in my head and I was writing musicals about how you're my boyfriend and—mmm—I love you and hey, just pointing that out to everyone.”

Blaine's breath caught in his throat and he was momentarily lost for words. “I...”

“Shh. This is about you.” Eyes dark, Kurt trailed a single finger across Blaine's lips and there it was, that was it, they were locked at the mouth and fumbling to remove clothes as quickly as they could. Kurt kept on the dog tags; Blaine had never seen him look so irresistibly hot and grabbed them to pull his boyfriend back down on top of him, groaning and arching into Kurt's skin as he wrapped his fingers around Blaine's flushed erection. His kisses were luxuriously—agonizingly—slow, and as Kurt's fingers settled around the base of his cock, he dragged his way down Blaine's body to take him in his mouth.

“Jesus, fuck,” Blaine moaned at the sight of Kurt's hollowed cheeks, carding his fingers back and forth through Kurt's hair and struggling to keep his hips from bucking up into the wet heat that surrounded him. He could feel it when Kurt relaxed his throat to take more at once, humming around him as and Blaine almost came right there and then. “How are you so fucking good at this?”

Kurt chuckled low in his throat, the vibrations rippling through Blaine's entire body, and Kurt was sucking two of his own fingers into his mouth as well, then dropping his hand down and pressing against the tight ring of muscle there. Blaine moaned, letting his legs fall further apart and taking a breath to pause and relax himself, relieved to have taken a somewhat thorough shower just before setting to work in the kitchen—though since just after their first time together, it had become second nature. Kurt gently pushed inside, just staying there for a second to let Blaine adjust, before slowly and rhythmically moving in and out, shallow and deep, scissoring a little before adding a third at Blaine's urging.

It was a well-rehearsed dance between them, but somehow always managed to be new and different; they never did things quite the same way twice, almost like Kurt with his outfits—always changing a little something up to keep things fresh.

Blaine was suddenly empty and it felt like a bereavement; he needed Kurt inside him, needed him to fill him up and ride the wave with him, make him forget all about his disastrous attempt at doing something for Kurt instead of him having to do it all by himself. But no sooner was Kurt removing his fingers than he was pushing Blaine's knees further apart and lining himself up; Blaine could feel his cock against the underside of his thigh, somehow slick with lube and okay, he had never found multi-tasking a turn-on before but damn. Then Kurt was pushing inside and Blaine felt dizzy and quiet and peaceful on the precipice; that first moment of adjustment, of release, of settling. His fingertips brushed numbly against Kurt's chest, every line and contour perfectly committed to memory yet still scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, pale skin.

Sometimes, when Kurt began to move inside of him, pulling almost all the way out before burying himself to the hilt—rinse, repeat, forever please—it was all Blaine could do to keep from shoving a fist into his mouth and fighting back tears at the overwhelming love he felt for him. This cluster of heart and soul and emotion and passion and everything that Blaine had been looking for forever, that he had for so long been oblivious to, and here he was giving Blaine everything he needed and wanted and more. Always more, more than he could ever have asked for. Kurt began moving faster as he leaned over him, supported by a hand on the bed by Blaine's neck, his lips parted and Blaine's name falling from between them.

Sweat shimmered on his forehead and he met Blaine's eyes, a darkness there that Blaine would never get used to. “Fuck, Kurt,” he choked out as Kurt thrust into him, his whole body tensing and relaxing all at once as Kurt moved within his core and Blaine grabbed his hips, surging upward to capture Kurt's mouth with his own, meeting him thrust for thrust. Their kisses were sloppy and mismatched, more their lips sliding against each others with clumsy abandon rather than kissing, just desperate for more contact because any less would be so far below enough.

“Harder,” Blaine pleaded, growled, begged from somewhere deep down where his climax was building. Kurt's fingernails raked down his chest hard enough to leave angry red trails in their wake and he gripped Blaine's hip, fucking into him with everything he had, dropping his head to his chest as he felt Blaine constrict around him, eyes squeezed shut and crying out Kurt's name as he came between them, shaking and jerking upwards. Kurt's head fell onto Blaine's shoulder and, trembling, his thumb brushed up over Blaine's neck, chin, jaw, fingers fisting into his hair as he tumbled over the edge, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

A silence broken only by their rapid breathing followed, and Kurt curled into Blaine's side, wrapping himself around him to watch the rise and fall of his chest. Blaine drew patterns onto the back of his neck with shaking hands, eyes unfocused on the ceiling above them and a warm, sated smile on his face.

“It's nearly your birthday.”

“Hmm... I know.”

Blaine pulled him closer, pressing a kiss into hair that Kurt had left mostly loose that day. Or maybe he was imagining that; Kurt's best friend was a can of hairspray.

“Best ever,” Kurt whispered.

“And I'm clean. Of cake batter, at least.”

“It would have been delicious.”

Blaine smiled at that, and Kurt could feel it against his hair. “No one's ever offered to bake me a birthday cake before. Not since mom,” Kurt murmured by way of explanation, and suddenly it all made such perfect sense. “Even if it didn't work out the way you hoped, I love that you wanted to try. ...Bridget.”