Chapter Seven - The Bus Boys
Saturday 27 August, 2044

Blaine collapsed into laughter as they touched upon the next set of pictures in The Book.

“I will never, ever get over your face when I asked you—when I asked you—”

“You know, it's incredibly unattractive when you snort like that,” Kurt interrupted. “Besides, it was all Flint's fault. There's a reason it took me two months to speak to him again after that night.”

Blaine held his fist to his mouth, eyes crinkling at the edges as he struggled to keep his laughter in check. “Alright, alright. It was completely Flint's fault. You know that I had no idea. But it all worked out in the end, right?”

Kurt sniffed disdainfully. He was, however, unable to resist a small smile as he took in the picture of Blaine and the rest of the former Warblers congregated in the underground parking garage.

“We should round them up and have them all over for dinner one of these days,” he murmured. “A Warbler reunion, of sorts.”

Blaine nodded, leaning in and resting his head on Kurt's shoulder. “I'd like that.”

---

Saturday 17 October, 2015

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Kurt.”

“No.”

“Kurt.”

“...No.”

“Fine,” Blaine huffed from his seat at the back of the shopping cart. He'd been holding Kurt's hand awkwardly over his shoulder, but now pulled it away, crossing his arms over his chest. Kurt fought back the urge to laugh, stopping in the middle of the aisle and bending down.

“If I told you what it was, it would ruin the surprise,” he murmured next Blaine's ear.

“I don't want a surprise, I want a party bus,” Blaine muttered under his breath.

“I told you,” Kurt began carefully as he straightened up and carried on walking, “that they're tacky and anyway, what I've got planned is much, much better than some ridiculous bus with TVs and a stripper pole.”

Blaine sniffed. “I was going to dance for you, you know.”

“I know, baby,” Kurt said after a deep breath, patting Blaine's shoulder. “I know.”

---

“Kurt, this is ridiculous. Can I just take off the blindfold? I know it's not a party bus, we're not even outside or anything. And I'm pretty sure that cab driver thought you were kidnapping me to make me a sex slave, or something.”

“Trust me, you'll gladly be my sex slave when you see. Okay, step down... Now turn left... And stop.”

Kurt stepped around to face Blaine, his fingers snaking around to the back of Blaine's head and fiddling with the knot. Leaning in, he lightly brushed his lips across Blaine's. “Happy birthday,” he whispered, finally whipping the blindfold away and stepping to the side.

“SURPRISE!”

Blaine's eyes went wide. Everyone was there. Wes, David, Jeff, Nick, Thad, more of his Dalton boys than he could count. The Warblers. All in New York City for his birthday, all clapping and cheering, all wearing ridiculous hats and—for some reason—fake mustaches, all standing in front of—

“No way,” he breathed, turning to Kurt.

“Just call me your Fairy Godmother,” Kurt said, before scrunching his nose up. “Actually, don't. That could easily be taken—“

“Shut up,” Blaine growled, grabbing the lapels of Kurt's jacket before roughly crushing their lips together. “You got me the bus.”

“Yes, I got you the damn bus,” Kurt replied, winding his arms around Blaine's neck. “I couldn't not; it's the one thing you asked for. You even said if I got you the bus, I didn't have to get you a present. Which I did, by the way.”

“Kurt,” he sighed. “You're incredible.”

“Yes, I am,” Kurt agreed, satisfied.

“Um, guys?”

Kurt and Blaine turned, and saw Wes looking at them pointedly. They stepped apart sheepishly, Kurt smoothing down his collar with a faint blush. Blaine grabbed his hand and ran over to the Warblers, hugging each of them in turn; Kurt doing the same.

“How did all of you guys manage to be here at the same time? Don't you have, you know, college? Lives?”

“Well, yeah. But, as all of us are already twenty-one and therefore older than you,” David ribbed him, “we have access to our trust funds. And besides, Blaine, it's you!”

Blaine smiled wider than Kurt had even seen—which was saying something, given his annoying habit of being almost perpetually happy—and pulled David into another hug. “Just, um... what's with the mustaches?”

Thad shook his head. “It was Jeff's idea.”

Blaine turned to Jeff, who was wearing a black handlebar mustache that contrasted horrifically with his hair. He had his hands behind his back. “We're all old men, now. And as of midnight tonight, so are you,” he said, almost too smugly, producing a clear box that contained a black Fu Manchu mustache and holding it out. Blaine grabbed it a little too eagerly for Kurt's taste, pulling on the party hat that Wes offered before immediately sticking on the mustache. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Kurt, take a picture of us!” he exclaimed, and in true Warbler style, they followed his lead and lined up in front of the bus, Blaine in the middle, all grinning like there was no place in the world they'd rather be.

Click!

---

This is chaos, Kurt mused, swallowing another healthy mouthful of his drink and taking in the pandemonium around him. I love it.

Two hours after the big surprise reveal and everyone was already drunk, or at least on their way. As the bus cruised around central Manhattan, they had played a drinking game; a gulp for every time they got honked at. Thad and Nick, neither of whom had visited New York before and therefore had no idea what the drivers were like, didn't listen to the others' protestations that taking a shot—instead of a healthy gulp of a beer or cocktail—every time was a very, very bad idea. They had been charged with keeping count, and had promptly lost it somewhere after twelve. As a result Nick was currently in the middle of an incredibly drawn-out and embarrassing striptease, insisting that Blaine simply had to have a birthday lap dance to the backdrop of Rod Stewart's Do You Think I'm Sexy blaring at full volume, with the slightly more coherent former Warblers providing a harmony of what Kurt could only guess were meant to be sex noises. In a strange way, it worked.

Nick's thumbs were hooked in the waistband of his ridiculously tight boxer briefs (honestly, Kurt thought, he may as well not be wearing them for how little they leave to the imagination) and he was about to take them off completely when Wes suddenly staggered to his feet, banging the bottom of his beer against the table as if it were a gavel—old habits die hard—and announced that they needed to fire up the karaoke machine. The dollar bills that David and Jeff were holding as they sat either side of a red-faced Blaine fluttered out of their fingers and Nick looked like someone had just kicked his puppy. Blaine's stood, sliding carefully past Nick, and plopped himself down next to Kurt.

“I wanna live on this bus,” he slurred, winding his arms around Kurt's shoulders and climbing into his lap. “Can we live here, please?”

Kurt smiled and nodded, slowly brushing his hands up and down Blaine's thighs. “It's a lot less tacky than I thought it was going to be,” he admitted, melting a little at the look of pure and unadulterated joy he received in return. “There's even a disco ball.”

“Best birthday ever. Best boyfriend ever,” Blaine affirmed, draining the contents of Kurt's cocktail glass before immediately pressing their lips together to pass him the remaining drops of Tequila Sunrise—albeit a somewhat stronger version than what Kurt was used to. Blaine's mustache tickled as the tequila warmed him from the inside, and his skin felt on fire at every touch; he hummed into Blaine's mouth as their tongues slid lazily against one another, those wonderful drunk kisses where every nerve ending is aflame.

Marry me, Kurt thought, and pulled back, blinking in surprise. Thankfully, at that moment, Jeff staggered over, throwing an arm around Blaine's neck.

“Dude. Bro. Dude, you have to sing. Kar-kar-karaoke,” he managed, holding in a burp. “Wes is demanding that shit. And drink more; the liver is evil and must be punished.”

Kurt cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward but doing his best to shake it off as he caught Blaine's eye and nodded with as big a smile as he could muster. Blaine reluctantly clambered into an upright position, readjusting his mustache before reaching down to straighten Kurt's collar. “Be right back,” he said with a wink, voice low and eyes dark.

Kurt simply sat, shocked at the force of his own thoughts. I'm just drunk. Just good and drunk and it's not like I've never thought about marrying him before. The color scheme is going to be a challenge with our skin tones, and of course it will somehow have to tie in with the season. Fall. Maybe August twenty-eighth, for mom's birthday?

He glanced up. Blaine was graciously accepting the microphone from Wes with an exaggerated gentleman's bow, and Kurt couldn't help but smile as the TV screens lit up with lyrics and the opening bars of the song poured from the speakers.

“You think I'm pretty without any make-up on,” Blaine sang, his hazel eyes burning with a combination of love and Scotch as he looked at Kurt and the Warbler collective chimed in with backup. Kurt settled back into his seat, shaking himself a little to pull himself from his reverie, and let the song wash over him.

Perhaps Gotham Hall, he thought with a smile. You are cordially invited...

---

It was closing in on eleven o'clock, and the party was headed to Pieces, the famous Christopher Street gay bar in the West Village. Thad and Nick were passed out on the floor of the bus with graffiti all over their faces (courtesy of Wes and David) and their mustaches super-glued on (courtesy of Jeff). Kurt had tried to stop them—honestly, the effects that Sharpie ink and strong adhesives could have on the skin were the stuff of nightmares—but instead, coupled with the fact that Blaine had chosen that exact moment to deliver his promised pole dance, it had him on the floor clutching his sides and shaking with laughter.

“You okay, Kurt?” asked Flint from somewhere behind him, gingerly placing a hand on his arm. “Dude, say something, you look like you're having a seizure.”

Kurt finally rolled onto his back and let out a howl of laughter, tears streaming down his face. Flint broke out into a grin, taking Kurt's hand and pulling him to his feet. Kurt smoothed out the wrinkles in his jacket as much as he could, before thinking better of it and taking it off completely, folding it and putting it into one of the lockers to the side of the seating area. He had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek as Blaine practically fell from the pole in the middle of trying to hang from it upside down.

“He's having a good time,” Kurt observed happily, basking in his alcohol buzz.

“Dude, this is like, the best birthday he's ever had. I mean, he's a pretty animated guy but I've never seen him like this,” Flint replied, putting an arm around Kurt's shoulders. “He's lucky to have you; my girlfriend would never do something like this.”

“I hated the idea when he first suggested it,” Kurt admitted, smiling to himself a little. “But it's actually been really fun. And I'm glad Blaine's enjoying himself.”

“He's gonna marry you, you know,” Flint said matter-of-factly, stretching his arms over his head. Kurt froze, eyes locked on Blaine in the middle of his fairly accurate impersonation of Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder.

“What?”

“I mean, he hasn't said anything but we've all known him a long time. It's written all over his face every time he looks at you.”

“Really?” Kurt asked, his voice barely audible over the pounding beat of Low by Flo-Rida.

Flint nodded. “Oh, yeah. The guys have got a bet going as to who's going to be in the wedding party.”

“Who are the favorites?” Kurt asked absently, his mind reeling as Blaine met his eyes and stopped dancing.

“Your brothers,” Flint answered, taking a drink. “But just between you and me, Wes is kind of desperate to get in on that—not that he'd ever say as much.”

Kurt managed a shaky laugh, not understanding why he suddenly felt like he'd fallen off the edge of the world. It wasn't like it was definite. Nothing in life ever was, after all. This was only the shared opinion of their friends; it wasn't like Blaine was coming towards him right then...

Or reaching into his pocket...

And he definitely was not dropping to one knee in front of him...

Oh, shit.

“Kurt?” Blaine began, taking hold of Kurt's left hand.

Kurt looked around wildly, unable to meet his boyfriend's eyes as he silently prayed for an intervention. Not here, not now, not on a goddamn fucking party bus! We're both drunk, we're too young, we have no money, I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED AT CITY HALL!

“Would you do me the honor...”

Kurt swallowed, feeling faint.

“...of becoming my gay bar superstar, for one night only?”

Kurt glanced down at his wrist, around which Blaine was fashioning a bracelet out of a glow stick. He swayed on his feet, relief coursing through him, and sank to the floor to throw his arms around Blaine's neck.

“How could I refuse?” he replied, one eyebrow raised, before catching Blaine's mouth with his own to rapturous applause.

“Yeah, let's blow this joint!” Thad roared, still half-passed out on the floor, before once again succumbing to unconsciousness.

---

“Very nicely done,” Wes loudly congratulated Kurt, who had successfully caught the bartender's attention by holding his arm out across the bar, a twenty dollar bill folded between his index and middle fingers.

“Try it when you're hailing a cab. Works every time!” Kurt replied smugly, leaning back into Blaine, who had his arms wrapped around Kurt's middle and was swaying them from side to side in time with the beat. “Though it helps to always look as fabulous as moi.”

“Let's dance, baby,” Blaine murmured, a haze of whiskey licking across Kurt's jaw as he found himself being led to the middle of the dancefloor.

They were surrounded by a sea of bodies, the scents of sweat and alcohol intermingling in the rising atmosphere. Blaine's arms were around his waist, hands sliding down to hook his fingers in Kurt's back pockets and tug him closer; chest to chest and hip to hip. The song was a fast one, full of tripping beats and a dirty bass line, but just like always, they swayed in time with their own tune. It was almost out of character for Blaine, who was never one to shy away from dancing like no one was watching—though, usually, they were—but Kurt let himself enjoy it, feeling the fuzzy edges of his consciousness beginning to come back into focus.

“Hmm. How are you ever going to top this, Mr. Hummel?”

“Don't even go there, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine fell quiet, moving against him in time with the music, fitting his body against Kurt's like it was made only for him. “You thought I was going to ask you—“

“—to be your gay bar superstar,” Kurt finished for him, and he could feel Blaine's smile against the curve of his neck.

“But for the rest of our lives,” Blaine said as he pulled back, searching Kurt's eyes with his own. Kurt settled for leaning his forehead against Blaine's, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip before claiming his mouth in a deep kiss.

“If there's one thing that you've taught me, Blaine Warbler,” Kurt said, fondly, “it's that we're worth waiting for.”

---

Saturday August 27, 2044

“Kurt?”

“Mm?”

“Were we?”

“Were we what?”

“Worth waiting for?”

Kurt laughed that musical laugh of his and pulled Blaine closer. “How do you even remember me saying that? We were both completely drunk and I didn't even think you could hear me.”

“Well,” Blaine said, “as much as I'd love to say that I remember everything about that night... I remember the way we danced, like we could never get close enough. I remember that deer-caught-in-headlights look in your eyes when I was down on one knee. I remember lip-reading your words and being more sure than I ever was that I was going to belong to you, someday.”

“You belonged to me ever since that moment on the stairs.”

“I know,” Blaine replied. “...Kurt?”

“Yes,” Kurt said. “We were.”