It didn't take much to convince the boys that they didn't need to be married at City Hall. And if they planned a summer wedding, they could be married here in Ohio where a lot of their friends would already be home for summer break.

Of course, that wouldn't put the brakes to this supercharged engagement, but at least we'd be a part of it. And while maybe it wasn't the wedding Kurt had always dreamed of, it'd be a helluva lot closer to it than some anonymous ceremony in front of a court clerk.

The planning started within minutes, Kurt grabbing a file that he'd been collecting for over a decade, Carole fetching a legal pad for notes. Blaine sat at the kitchen table and looked a little overwhelmed.

At least we had that in common.

There were decisions to be made. Dozens of them. Scratch that. Hundreds of them. The kitchen table got buried under pictures and lists and samples and charts. Flow charts. The house had become wedding central.

* * *

It had been a quiet afternoon in the Hummel-Hudson household: Burt watching the game from the comfort of his recliner; Blaine and Carole engaged in a friendly game of Gin Rummy. Kurt had long since excused himself and disappeared upstairs.

Blaine looked up the staircase occasionally, but said nothing.

“Don't worry, dear. He does this,” Carole said, almost off-handedly after noticing a hint of worry on Blaine's face. “It's nothing to worry about. He's either reading or working on some project.”

Moments later, they heard a faint crash, then the sound of a door hitting a wall. Kurt soon appeared at the top of the staircase, an oversized box filling his arms. Blaine jumped to his feet to help him as Kurt stumbled down the stairs.

“What's this?”

“Just a few ideas,” Kurt said, helping Blaine set it on the dining table.

The box, a clothes storage container designed to fit under a bed, was filled with folders of magazine clippings and photographs, rather than off-season sweaters or swimsuits. It contained years' worth of carefully organized ideas for the cakes, tuxedos, flowers, food, locations and guest gifts for a wedding, collected over a young lifetime of daydreaming.

Blaine figured it out immediately, smiling to himself, then showing a fleeting moment of anxiety as the depth of the collection became clear. 

If he was shell-shocked by Kurt's lifelong commitment to the perfect wedding, he didn't show it for long. His eyebrows rose only slightly at the sight of the box's contents, the faintest look of confusion, before settling back into his poker face.

Burt saw it and had a moment of recognition about Blaine. You may be an actor, son, but you're not fooling me. This scares you almost as much as it worries me.

“Kurt, just how much stuff do you have in there?” he asked.

“Just a few ideas I've collected.”

“A few? This one's dated 2005!” Burt picked up a folder and thumbed through dozens of pages cut from what looked to have been bridal or fashion magazines, each with what he assumed was a different tuxedo, though they all looked a lot alike to him.

“Isn't this a bit much? How are you supposed to sort through all this?”

“Dad, that's why they're in file folders. And do you know how many magazines women look at just to pick out a wedding dress? This box has ideas for everything — and it's already organized. All we have to do is sit down, look through the folders, keep the ones we agree on and then set a budget.”

“What do you mean, then set a budget?”

Kurt rolled his eyes and grabbed another folder marked “Locations”.

“Locations? What's that? The honeymoon?”

“We're not planning a honeymoon, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine said.

“It's costly and Blaine's just starting his new job,” Kurt said.

Carole's eyes softened.

Burt's focused on the folder.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

“Wedding locations, Dad.”

“But I thought...”

“Burt, let's just look, okay?” Carole said, quieting him.

The folder was split into two sections: New York and Ohio. Kurt skipped over the New York tab and opened it to a series of web page printouts of museums, botanical gardens, hotels and even a historic movie theatre. There was a Frank Lloyd Wright house near Springfield, and a page marked Dalton.

There was also a printout from the county courthouse marked civil ceremonies.

“The Packard Museum, eh?” Burt said with a certain sound of approval. “Whoa, there. Site fee, fifteen hundred bucks? And it doesn't include food?”

“Burt...” Carole shushed him.

“The botanical gardens charge $750? But it's a public park!”

“They're just ideas, Dad.”

“I thought maybe you'd have the wedding here,” Burt said.

“But Burt, what about the reception?” Carole said, trying to bridge Kurt's dream wedding with Burt's somewhat less grand plans.

“We can have that here, too! Look, we set up some tables, fire up the barbecue...”

Kurt looked mortified.

Carole shook her head no, a move intended for Burt's eyes only.

“Okay, so maybe not the barbecue, but why not have it here? It's your home, Kurt. We've got a big yard. We can order up one of those tents to keep the bugs out, if you want.”

Kurt simply took a deep breath, and shifted his attention to Blaine.

“I've made some appointments this week to meet with caterers. Can you fit in some tastings with me before you head back?” he said, handing him sample menus from local event firms.

Blaine smiled and nodded. Burt looked over his shoulder and grimaced.

“Salmon? Fois Gras? Really, Kurt? What's this gonna cost? How about some sandwiches or something?”

Carole rolled her eyes.

“Burt, this isn't a Super Bowl party. You don't feed people a six-foot Hoagie and chips.”

Blaine stayed mum through the discussion, thumbing through pictures of cakes: a pale yellow lemon chiffon, a Belgian chocolate triple-decker. He lingered over one — two sleek white squares wrapped with elegant black bow ties of confectioner's sugar and topped with red, black and white roses.

“Mr. Hummel, would you like to help us test cakes?” he said, out of the blue, catching a quick look from Kurt.

“Test? Cakes?” Burt asked. “What are you talking about?”

“At the bakeries, sir. It's just like the caterers. They let you sample all the cakes to help you make up your mind. We've got a couple of meetings scheduled this week. I was thinking, maybe you'd like to join us.”

Kurt could see what Blaine was up to, and quickly agreed. “Dad, they bake little sample cakes for us to try out. Any flavor they make: the cake, the filling, the icing, everything.”

“I thought you didn't want me eating that stuff.”

“It's a special occasion, Dad. We'll make an exception. Wednesday, 2 p.m.”

Kurt and Blaine shared a knowing smile, and Carole saw their hands touch and linger as they moved close to each other's side.

Carole smiled with an expression on her face that said: Yes, Blaine Anderson will fit very nicely into this family.

“Burt, why don't we leave the guys to their work and you can take me out on the town?”

“Out on the town?”

“It's been a while since we've gone out for dinner and a movie.”

Kurt moved in behind Blaine, resting his chin on his shoulder, and pointing out an ecru cake laced with painted leaves.

“Come along. It's about time you took me out on a date.”

* * *

The movie was scheduled to end a little before 10 p.m., and Burt and Carole should have been hitting the driveway just shy of 10:30. At least, that was the plan. That's what they'd told Kurt and Blaine, who appeared destined for a long night of reviewing menus and men's formal wear.

“He's only going to agree to it. It's a wonder he looks at it at all,” Burt said. “We all know it's going to be Kurt's call.”

“Blaine's just being supportive, dear. There's nothing wrong with being agreeable.”

“Kurt walks all over him.”

“Oh, I'm not so sure about that. It's just that maybe he defers these things to Kurt. I'm sure there are things that Kurt lets Blaine take the lead on. He chose the movie the other night...”

“... which Kurt ignored. He read that magazine...”

“... Vogue, dear...”

“Whatever. But it hardly counts that Blaine chose The Avengers if Kurt read some fashion magazine the whole time.”

“He watched the parts with Thor, I think.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe they need a little private time just as much as we do, Burt,” Carole said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “Let's not worry about it, okay?”

Burt gave in to the moment, and allowed himself a night to feel like he and Carole had only just met, just started dating, just begun to realize that this might be real, that this might be for keeps.

They lingered over dinner, talked about the pride Burt had in his son, how Kurt had become a man almost overnight.

They avoided talk of wedding planning.

Burt ordered dessert — a tiramisu, of all things — despite the fact that he had avoided them since his heart attack five years earlier. “Special occasion,” he said with a wink. “I'm trying to impress a girl.”

The problem with the lingering, the relaxing into the moment, is that they both relaxed their way right past the start time of the film they'd planned to see, a new romantic comedy with just enough action scenes to hold Burt's attention, and the next show time wouldn't be until well after 10 p.m.

“That's past quittin' time,” Burt said. “Let's just go home and watch something on cable.”

“You sure that's a good idea, Burt?”

“What? Of course! The guys are probably just watching a movie. Or they've gone to that place with the overpriced coffee or something.”

Carole looked at him skeptically.

“Trust me.”

* * *

They pulled into the driveway at 9:18 p.m. and parked the car outside without even attempting to use the garage. Kurt had already secured samples of outdoor wedding decor from a local party store that now found a temporary home in Burt's usual parking spot.

“I'll tell you one reason I look forward to getting these two hitched,” Burt said, eyeing the garage.

Carole took his arm, and steered him toward the front door.

“Of course, dear.”

They opened the front door to a crash. No, more of a bang. Upstairs, an unfamiliar sound. Not quite a thud. Sharper than that.

“Burt?” Carole whispered.

“Sshh!”

“Maybe we should call 911,” she whispered again.

Another bang, louder this time.

They stood stiller than statues in the darkened room, wondering what to do.

“Oh god, Kurt! Oh, oh, just... yes. Right there, oh GOD.”

Burt blanched.

“Tell me this isn't happening.”

“Oh my,” was all Carole could utter.

They could hear a mumbled voice, one that sounded a lot like Kurt's, but couldn't make out the words.

“Please, Kurt...”

Bang.

“Tell me what you need, baby...”

Bang. Bang.

“If that boy is taking advantage of my son, so help me...”

“Burt...”

“He. Will. Not. Live...”

“Burt, don't.”

BANG.

“Oh GOD! Kurt. Please... fuck me... harder... Kurt, do you even... Oh!... Do you know... Yes!”

BANG, BANG, BANG!

They heard two synchronous loud moans, then quiet.

Burt and Carole looked at each other, unable to move or speak. Moments later, the suddenly calm, muted voice of Blaine Anderson broke the silence.

“Do you know how perfect you are, Kurt? I love you, so much.”

The second voice, the muffled one, said something that sounded a bit like “I love you, too.”

Carole covered her mouth with her hand and looked at Burt. Her cheeks lifted, pushed upward by the smile creasing her face. She was within inches of erupting in laughter. Once she was certain she had it under control, she moved her hand from her mouth to Burt's elbow to steer him from the room.

“Honey, it doesn't exactly sound like Kurt's being taken advantage of,” she whispered.

Burt grimaced, his face flushed red, and glared at the stairwell.

“Sweetheart, they're in love. They're getting married. And they probably haven't had alone time in a while.”

“But...”

“No buts,” she whispered sternly. “You're taking me out for coffee — that expensive place you always complain about. Now.”

“But, Carole...”

“NOW.”

* * *

Two hours later, they cautiously re-entered the house.

“Kurt? You up, buddy?”

The glow of the television screen lit the family room. Kurt and Blaine were curled on to the couch, watching some late night movie. Blaine appeared to have drifted off, having melted his chin into Kurt's shoulder, but Kurt was propped up, half-watching the film and scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Well, you two were out late. We were starting to worry about you,” he said.

“I'm sure...”

“Burt...”

“So, what were you and Blaine up to while we were away?” Burt asked with the subtle snicker.

Kurt looked up, looking for all the world like he was trying to decide whether to answer, change subjects or just stay mute.

Burt just grinned.

“Because I know you had lots you wanted to get done tonight. You're very hands-on with the wedding planning, I mean.”

He chuckled to himself, enjoying his own joke.

Carole elbowed him. Kurt's eyes widened.

“Dad?”

“Never mind Kurt. Your father's just a little punchy, being out so late.”

“We did talk about the ceremony, Dad, and um — if the offer still stands, we'd like to have it here.”

“But I thought you wanted to get married someplace special.”

“I do, and this is. What could be more special than home? I wasn't thinking, Dad. You've offered to pay for this, and we shouldn't be looking at expensive venues. If we could rent a party tent...”

“Sure, Kurt.”

“And if you'll let me do a little sprucing up of the garden...”

“Sounds like I come out ahead.”

“Then we would love to be married here.”

Suddenly, the $1,500 event fee seemed a small price to pay for his son's happiness, but if Kurt was satisfied having the wedding at home, then the $0 site fee for the Hummel-Hudson House sat just fine with Burt.

“You sure, kiddo?”

“Absolutely.”

Blaine twitched at Kurt's side, and burrowed himself deeper into Kurt's shoulder.

“Mmm, Kurt. Don't move. Wanna snuggle,” he mumbled, drifting back to sleep.

Burt sucked his lower lip into his mouth to stifle the laughter bubbling up from his gut. Carole took his hand.

“Come on, Burt. I think it's time to call it a day.”

* * *