The awards ceremony is long. Many participating bands won't receive any special accolades, only a trophy of participation and an announcement of their names. That and a barrelful of memories.

By the time they get to the Class AA bands, McKinley's class, everyone's getting fidgety. Those accepting awards must stand at attention with fists flexed at the waist for the entirety of the ceremony. And even when it's their turn – even if they win – they're not to move except for choreographed salutes to the crowd or to the presenters. Standing at attention this long gets old, and Blaine doesn't do standing still very well. No one does, really. So, while whispering at attention is typically a no-no, it happens today.

"Does it look like your dad made it?"

"No. Mom texted before we went on the field."

"You okay?"

"I'm perfect."

"Party at Nini's tonight, gaybies."

"Party at my house? What?"

"Would you guys shut the hell up? Jonesy's gonna kill us."

"Not if we bring home the big one, she's not."

"Did you see Dublin Coffman's show? There's no fucking way."

"How did you see it, Disco? We were outside the stadium."

"Wheelchairs bring privilege."

"Do you wanna go? To Nini's—"

An announcement introducing the AA bands interrupts Blaine's question. Artie counts down and they present a choreographed salute and settle in.

"N—no? Maybe? I—what do you want to do?"

"Decide later." Blaine breathes out and takes in the crowd, closing his eyes and slowly opening them again, as if to unveil the moment one more time.

"In Class AA, Percussion, second place goes to...Dublin Coffman!"

And so it begins, Dublin Coffman. McKinley. McKinley, Dublin Coffman. Back and forth, first and second. McKinley takes first place for Music – the award both Kurt and Blaine covet – the one they just missed at their first competition. Today it feels strangely like a personal victory. Kurt gets the honor of picking up that award from Mr. Jonathan Waters himself. Blaine thinks he looks like he might wet himself right there on the field.

They are down to the last two awards and McKinley's squad draws together, out of attention to holds each other's hands. They look up and the entire band follows suit waiting for the ranking for AA band, and then the announcement of Grand Champion. Even if they win AA bands, a Class A band swept their division – nothing is guaranteed.

But even if they don't win both. Don't win anything else, Blaine has Kurt's hand in his and he's just fine.

A win wouldn't be a bad cap to the day though.

"In Class AA, your overall second place trophy goes to...Dublin Coffman!"

They can't react. Not here. Not in this position. The band loses it, however – jumping and screaming and Blaine nudges Kurt to point out Burt hugging the stuffing out of Carole. But the leaders stand motionless at the sideline. Stolid. Hearts pounding. As "at attention" as they can be while holding hands.

The cheers fade and the announcer goes on with what everyone already knows.

"In Class AA, your overall first place trophy goes to...McKinley High School!"

And everyone goes crazy again – simply hearing it. Buckeye Invitational. Ohio Stadium. They won their class. It's plenty. It's enough. It's more than Kurt or Blaine even needed for this day to be perfect.

And they stand perfectly still, waiting for Artie's count, snapping a crisp, choreographed salute to Mr. Waters with such precision, such flair, the crowd goes crazy again.

Once the cheers settle, the announcer continues. "And the Grand Champion of the 2011 Buckeye Invitational, with a total score of 384 out of a possible 400 goes to..."

"Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god oh my god."

"Say it. Say it say it say it."

"From Lima, Ohio – McKinley Marching Titans!!!"

And they can't move. But Blaine hears a whine from Kurt and a whispered yes from Santana and another guttural noise coming from – god, that came from himself, and Artie gives the count. Loudly – with his full attention to the entire band who is having trouble settling down. The leaders at the sidelines release hands and snap the first move of their final choreographed salute and gasp. The band has learned it too, unbeknownst to the attendants up front. All 150 bodies are moving in unison – one-two-three-four-hold-two-three-four-up-and-swing-and-HUAH!

The crowd goes wild again. Dublin tips their hats in respect and the announcer finally, finally bids everyone a good evening.

"Titans...at ease and...dismissed!"

Somewhere in the celebration, Ohio State's band leaves the field. And McKinley's band arrives. Artie is up on Finn and Puck's shoulders lifting the gargantuan trophy in the air. Hugs are shared. Students Blaine has hardly spoken to all season are spinning him around and congratulating him. Girls who have been following him around during rehearsal season finally take their one shot and get their kiss on the cheek. Mike runs to him as if to tackle him, scooping him up and throwing him over his shoulder and charging thirty yards with him, complete with warrior yell and a 360-degree spin before planting him breathless back on the ground.

Rachel deafens him with her wails of joy, Jonesy squeezes the hell out of him and it's simply bodies everywhere jumping and hugging and kissing and laughing and it's perf—

It's almost perfect.

The mass of the band has moved well onto the field and he knows at some point Jonesy will call them to a semi-circle to play their own Alma Mater, but so far he can't even see Jonesy and Beaman in the mess.

Who he can see is carrying Santana around on his back. Joy emanating from every pore. She has her arms wrapped around Kurt's neck and is leaning over kissing wherever her lips land and he's laughing and prancing and he dumps her and picks up Rachel for the same ride, and while she's not as into the prancing as Santana was, they laugh and carry on and finally, Blaine can't stand idle any longer.

This boy. This beautiful, talented, passionate, occasionally pain-in-the-ass boy has a promise that has yet to be fulfilled. And that is entirely unacceptable.

Kurt puts Rachel down and ducks as she swats at him, stepping into a hug from Mercedes, holding her tight. Blaine waits. Rachel pecks his cheek again as she runs to find Finn and then he's there. Looking across a good 10-yard space and smiling. Smiling at Blaine as though he's suddenly the only person he's ever wanted to see.

Blaine's heart skips a beat and he holds out his hands for Kurt to join him. And when he does, Blaine wordlessly pulls them back a few steps while Kurt keeps looking at him, smile turning into curiosity and Blaine momentarily wonders how he can be so expressive with the simple movement of his eyebrows. Well, his eyebrows and the shine in his eyes.

"Blaine?"

Blaine looks down where they're standing. Satisfied. He meets Kurt's gaze and grins, looking down again, hoping Kurt will catch on.

"Meet you at the Block O." Kurt's gaze is still curious.

"Yes. I made a promise today. I'd like to make good on that now, if it's okay with you."

Kurt glances back to the stands, filled now with only McKinley's band family – moms and dads, brothers and sisters, grandparents and neighbors who came out to cheer and support. And they're having a party of their own, not paying much heed to what's happening on the field.

"Well. This is a step up from the boy's bathroom."

"I thought it might be."

Blaine steps forward and Kurt licks his lips and huffs out a laugh when Blaine's hand cups his cheek. And then he's there – Kurt's lips just as he imagined them to be – soft and warm and only the slightest bit wet. The noise from the celebrating band fades away and it's just them in this open space with hundreds of potential spectators and he couldn't care less.

He has Kurt.

Now it's perfect.

He teases the seam of Kurt's lips with his tongue and Kurt moans and pulls him in closer, deepening the kiss, and oh that's his tongue on mine and it's amazing. So amazing, he forgets all the rules about basketball-width-distances between couples and no PDA while representing McKinley High and boys-don't-kiss-boys because who really cares about such things at a time like this?

It all slips away, not even returning when they come up for air, wide-eyed and breathless. Blushing and shy. They press foreheads together and say nothing – not with words anyway – smiling and giggling softly. Blaine feels like the world could implode around him and he'd not notice. Just so he was here. With this boy. With this amazing, blue-eyed wonder of a boy.

Kurt pushes in one more time, chuckling against Blaine's lips when a bobby pin springs free as his fingers scratch at the nape of Blaine's neck. "Oops." But they're not to be distracted. Not when Santana swings by and claps them both on the back.

And not when their directors spy them from the edge of the celebrating band.

"Oh hell. I need to go—"

Beaman grabs the collar of Jonesy's blazer as she tries to walk away to stop the smooching trumpet players. "Oh no you don't."

"Let—what are you do—we have rules, Beaman."

"We do. And those two boys live by them."

Jonesy stops and watches, unable to keep herself from smiling at the scene. She's seen it coming all season. Anyone who's been on the planet for more than a week has seen it coming. They have a perfect backdrop – a stadium of dreams for these kids – where she marched for four years and made many a memory. In fact, where she met her wife – if their marriage would be seen as legal in Ohio. "They do, don't they?"

"They do – don't you remember high school?"

"I remember I never got to kiss the girl—"

"And they can – so leave 'em be. They're not hurting anyone."

"No. No, they're not."

But, after a time, reality must return.

"Band, atten-HUT!"

"HUT!" Kurt and Blaine pull apart and adjust their uniforms and Jonesy can't hold back her laugh, and Blaine knows she saw. Probably everything. They are screwed!

"Instruments are in the pit trucks over at the south east corner. Line up in rehearsal circle centered on the fifty. And, let's skip the Alma Mater, huh? How 'bout an encore of Show Must Go On?"

The band cheers, the remaining family and friends in the stands cheer and Blaine catches Jonesy's eye with a question.

Her answer is a simple wink and a thumbs up.

Blaine bends over in relief, taking Kurt's hand to walk to the trucks. "I do believe we're Jonesy approved."

"Somehow that makes it even sweeter."

~~~**~~~

Blaine wipes his hands on his shorts and takes a deep breath before answering the door. It's just Kurt. He's expecting him. They'd made these plans on the bus ride home from Invitational, still giggly and snuggly and high from all of the day's activities. His mom decided to stay in Columbus for the night. Brittany really is having an overnight party next door.

And Kurt really is standing outside hopefully as nervous as Blaine because—well, because. Everything shifted the moment Kurt said, "You're not misinterpreting things," and he doesn't want to screw it up. But if he doesn't open the door—

He opens the door. And a Hi whispers out of him when all he sees is the top of Kurt's head – hair slightly damp from a post-competition shower, eyebrows lifted in expectation and the rest of his face covered in a lush bouquet of lavender flowers – daisy-like with bright yellow centers.

Kurt lowers the bouquet just a hair and breathes a hello in return, stepping inside when Blaine finally has the sense to step back to let him. "Mums. From my mom's garden. I thought—for your mom's pitcher? Since lemonade season is over."

Blaine can't speak. The mums are plentiful, bound perfectly like a huge bridal bouquet with a pale yellow organza ribbon – the exact pale yellow of his mother's Vaseline glass pitcher he replaced at the estate sale. And the boy behind them – well. He's shining and shy and a little bouncy and looking at him expectantly.

"From—from your mom's—"

The flowers are momentarily forgotten on the door-side table when the smack of Kurt's overnight bag echoes as it hits the Venetian tile of the foyer floor. Kurt grasps Blaine's face in his hands, his lips soft and warm and demanding, the faintest of whimpers dancing in the quiet house around them. The kiss breaks with a wet smack but Kurt has barely moved back, brushing his nose against Blaine's cheek, his breath whispering across his ear. "I'm—I'm sorry. I just—I wanted to do that without an audience."

More softly, more gently this time, Blaine turns his face to seal their lips together again, his tongue teasing at Kurt's bottom lip and now, now without the swimming high of the competition, of the location, of everything that surrounded them at the stadium, he can just feel. Feel Kurt's tongue tracing over his, Kurt's lips, smooth and full and pressing and caressing his own. Hear the soft, delicate moans and hitches in breath between them when Kurt holds him by the waist, or tilts his head just so, or slides a hand up his back to gently scratch at the nape of his neck, even twisting a curl around his finger like he must touch everything. It's all so perfect and delicious and the entire night is in front of them and Kurt is—

Here.

Kurt is here. In his arms. Against his chest. Taking a break from the kisses and nuzzling his nose into his curls and Blaine never wants to move from this spot. "The—the flowers. We should—"

"Oh. Yes. We probably should." Blaine steps back and Kurt is grinning, a soft laugh ghosting out of him and all Blaine can do is mirror him back and take in the joy sparking between them.

Blaine closes his eyes as Kurt traces the line of his jaw with his finger, his touch gentle and soothing and he never imagined wanting such a thing until it's there making him feel things he's never felt before. "Blaine. What have we been waiting for?"

"I have no idea." With another soft kiss, Blaine picks up the flowers. "Maybe we had to wait for the perfect moment." He pulls the flowers in for a sniff, the scent catching him by surprise.

And Kurt laughs at what is most likely a really ridiculous face. "They don't particularly smell good."

"No." Blaine blinks and takes Kurt's hand to lead him into the kitchen, chuckling at himself. "But they're pretty enough to make up for that."

"You'll want to take the ribbon off – maybe put it around the pitcher or something."

They get to the kitchen and Blaine pulls the pitcher off of its top shelf home, swiping a towel inside to remove any dust. "Will you ever stop surprising me?"

"Oh, I hope not."

Blaine unties the ribbon and the flower stems fall into a flattened pile. "Why don't you put them in – I'm sure they'll look much better if you do it."

"I should have—let's leave the ribbon on for another minute." Kurt takes the yellow trail of fabric and drapes it around Blaine's neck, pulling him in for yet another kiss. "That's the most important step."

"I like this hobby already."

"Mmm..." As Blaine fills the pitcher with water, Kurt gathers the flowers back up and wraps them with the ribbon. "Okay, set it down." He guides the flowers into the vase, unties the ribbon and they fall into a perfect arrangement. With quick motion, he loops the ribbon around the neck of the pitcher and lifts it for inspection. "What do you think?"

"I think I need to kiss you again." So he does. "Piano? That way Mom will see them when she comes home tomorrow."

"Piano." Kurt trails him into the living room, lifting a doily from under a photo on the sideboard in the dining room. He cushions the vase with the doily on the closed top of the piano, fluffing out the ribbon a little.

"These are perfect. Mom says she can never get her mums to come back year to year. How do you—I mean, your mom—"

"She taught me a lot before she—sometimes I wonder if she somehow knew?" Kurt pauses and goes insular for a moment, running his fingers along the delicate ribbon on the vase. "She was diligent on pinching the flowers back and weeding and mulching and—I just kept up with it. Carole helps now, of course."

Kurt moves his touch to a petal of the flowers and Blaine waits, letting him enjoy some memories alone for a moment. And when Kurt looks back to him, eye shining and maybe a little sad, Blaine can't help but say the only sentence that has been on his tongue since he opened the door. "You're amazing."

"You make me feel like I am." His smile is slight and still a little shy. "So. You tell me you play this contraption, but I've seen no proof. Now that it's properly decorated—play something for me."

Blaine goes in for another kiss, soft and tender, a gentle sweep of their tongues promising to revisit the kiss later. It's a diversionary tactic, to be sure. He doesn't know what to play that won't seem cheesy. Or disingenuous. Or so completely unpracticed Kurt will leave him forever, wondering why he ever spend time with a hack such as he.

"Will you sing?"

"No promises."

~~~**~~~

Instead, Kurt plays the finger drums on the music ledge of the piano, giggling and bouncing along to Blaine's rendition of Crazy Little Thing Called Love.

It all started with the familiar vamp leading into Don't Stop Me Now with Blaine wagging his eyebrows at the opening lyric. Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a good time, and Kurt simply shook his head and let him continue for a few more lines before interrupting with the softest, sweetest smile Blaine had ever seen.

"You're not sick of that song by now?"

"I'm pretty sick of that song." And he fiddled around a bit and moved on to Ooh, you make me live. You're my best friend, but when he got to the line, I really love you, he had blushed so profusely, he fumbled his piano playing and Kurt giggled and sat down on the bench next to him which flustered him even more. He decided to lighten things up and that's where they are now.

This thing called love. I just can't handle it. And Kurt is biting his lip as he hums along and watches Blaine's fingers dance over the keys. When they get to the end, Kurt has figured out what key he's playing in and chimes in the final chord with him, high on the keyboard.

The sound rings through the room and they're left there, side-to-side, and a little breathless in anticipation? It surely isn't exertion. Kurt walks his fingers down the keys chromatically, showing at least a couple years of piano experience in his technique – 1-3-1-3-2, 1-3-1-3-1-3-2 – until his fingers reach Blaine's hand where he keeps "playing," taking Blaine's hand in his and bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss.

"I love watching you play."

"Watching? Not listening?"

"I like your hands."

Kurt's eyes are dark as they scan up from their intertwined fingers to Blaine's gaze. Blaine has to swallow to find his voice – which is an interesting dilemma because his mouth has dried out completely. "Do—do you want me to keep playing?"

"No."

Want. That's all Blaine can see in Kurt's eyes. Deep, before-I-second-guess-myself want, pupils blown and lips parted and breath uneven as everything in the room seems to twist and swirl around them in slow motion. And Blaine feels that want too, but he's paralyzed. And Kurt is waiting on him to get to it and his lips are so soft and full and begging to be kissed again and yes. He's paralyzed.

Before Blaine even has the end of the sentence calculated in his head, "Do you want to get some water and maybe—" Oh god, he's a nervous wreck and is going to die right on the spot. "Maybe go to my room?"

"Yes. Please."

"Okay."