Blaine floats dreamily around the room as he gets ready for his and Kurt's next meeting, an amateur production ofRENTthat Kurt got them tickets for, shyly confessing over the phone that it was the first musical he auditioned for off-Broadway while he was at Parsons, and he played Angel for a three-week run. Blaine can almost feel himself falling harder and harder for Kurt with every moment they spend together, and contracts don't seem to matter anymore.

"You are so smitten, this is ridiculous," Tina says, lounging on his bed and caressing a hand slowly over her bump. "Try the bowtie with the little pizzas on it with the blue polo and the black jeans, and put socks on for God's sake, it's freezing out there."

"Can I wear the socks with the little fries on them, have an entire meal on my body?" Blaine jokes, to Tina huffing over his terrible sense of humour and throwing a handful of rejected bowties at his head. "I don't know, shouldn't my outfit be a little classier for the theatre?"

"It's just amateur theatre, then you're going out for pizza, I think it'll be very cute," Tina tells him, carefully easing herself up. "Okay, I'm going back to my room, have a wonderful evening with Prince Charming, Cinderella. But please, come back here with both your shoes on."

Blaine smiles at his friend and ruffles her hair as she left, adjusting his bowtie in the mirror and tucking his shirt neatly into his jeans, until a knock comes at the door and he almost knocks his kneecap hard against the frame of his bed as he finishes adjusting his shoes, pulling the door open to meet Kurt's sparkling eyes, his hair perfectly coiffed as usual, utterly heart-stopping in a custom-tailored grey suit and silk shirt. "My God, you look..." Blaine trails off, tracing his eyes along the curves and angles of his body, beautifully outlined by his suit. "I can't even think of a word. You are just...completely indescribable."

Kurt smiles bashfully and ducks his head, hands neatly behind his back. "I bought you something," he says, softly, shyly, and proudly holds up a stunning bouquet of red and yellow roses. Blaine's jaw drops around a soft gasp, and he takes the flowers as reverently as he's seen men hold their newborn children, as Kurt magically produces a vase from behind his back too, ducking into the bathroom to fill it with water and place it just so on the nightstand.

They arrive at the theatre together, Kurt's arm around Blaine, warm and comforting and so wonderfully familiar, stylish and elegant, long and lithe and completely gorgeous as he hands the tickets to the usher with practised ease, his arm around Blaine, with some of his curls springing out of their gel after getting soaked by snow on their walk from the centre, dressed in jeans and a polo clinging to the softness of his stomach that he stopped trying to exercise away two years ago, instead choosing to enjoy it, his socks patterned with fries and his bowtie with pizzas.

Being in the theatre with Kurt is a whole new experience. Someone there with him who shares a passion for the story, clinging to his hand through everything, giggling slightly at Blaine when he produces a handkerchief from his pocket when he starts crying duringOne Song Glory, singing loudly along with him duringLa Vie Boheme, wrapping his arms as much around him as he can duringWithout You, crying into his shoulder fromI'll Cover You (Reprise)all the way toFinale B, and keeping an arm wrapped loosely around him when they both stand up to cheer themselves hoarse and applaud until their hands are red-raw.

The pizza place is certainly a lot less formal than the theatre, and Kurt strips off his elegant jacket and untucks his shirt, slipping the top two buttons from their loopholes, sitting neatly opposite Blaine with one leg crossed loosely over the other, the toe of his shoes dragging over Blaine's calf as he jiggles his leg in time with the music issuing through the speakers overhead. "So what's Kurt Hummel's life story?" he asks softly, and Kurt laughs and smiles, eyes sparkling.

"I was born in Lima, Ohio, when my mum was twenty-one and my dad was twenty-four," Kurt begins with a soft smile. "They knew I was gay by the time I was five, and I knew who I was my whole life. School was very long and boring for me, I was bullied a little bit in high school, and I had the world's worst job at the Lima Bean just so I could earn enough money to move to New York when I graduated and go into Parsons. I ended up dropping out when I was twenty-one for personal reasons, got an internship at , I was lucky enough to become Isabelle Wright's protégé and started my own label at twenty-two, and six years later I'm sitting here with you. And what about you? What is the tale behind Blaine Devon Anderson?"

"Oh, I'm very boring," Blaine says softly. "I was born in Westerville, grew up there, was teased all through school because of my body, left when I was sixteen and joined the centre." He met Kurt's eyes. "Next week, we should stay in, make popcorn, watch a film and talk about bad things in our pasts. I think we need to know every side of each other."

Kurt nods and smiles, waving the waitress over for Blaine to pay the bill before pulling him close and dragging him out of the place, back into the night, ethereally lit by the lights of the streetlamps reflecting against the snow. Kurt wraps an arm around Blaine, pulling him close. It takes Blaine a moment to realise that Kurt is singing, soft and sweet and clear in the night, utterly beautiful, passionate in a way Blaine never could have expected.

"Live in my house, I'll be your shelter
Just pay me back with one thousand kisses
Be my lover, and I'll cover you."

Blaine smiles as Kurt drags him down the street, slipping on patches of ice and compressed snow, snowflakes catching in his hair and eyelashes as Blaine sings back.

"Open your door, I'll be your tenant
Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet
But sweet kisses I've got to spare
I'll be there and I'll cover you."

They're dancing down the streets, holding hands, with the snow swirling around them, singing to and only for each other, smiling as they press close, Kurt's hands on the notch of Blaine's waist and Blaine's arms wrapped loosely around Kurt's neck as they both slow and quiet and stop, gazing deep into each other's eyes.

Kurt giggles softly, and Blaine feels the vibration of it in Kurt's chest as it bubbles joyfully out of him, where they're pressed close and intimate, and he can't help the way his lips quirk easily up into a smile as he asks, "What's so funny?"

"You've got a little snowflake stuck to you," Kurt murmurs, voice lilting with laughter, and he slides one hand up from Blaine's waist, warmth and electricity and sudden knee-weakening want shooting through Blaine's at the glide of Kurt's skin along the lines of his torso through his shirt and jacket. "Right...here." He drags a thumb against Blaine's lip, tugging it down against his chin, and Blaine gazes up at him, feeling light-headed, like flying, with Kurt's thumb still resting lightly on his lip, and it feels like every nerve in his body is utterly alive, thrumming with thrills and anticipation and nervousness.

Kurt kisses him, a sudden duck of his head to capture Blaine's upper lip between his, kissing and sucking, hands gripping Blaine's waist and holding him steady when his legs go entirely out from beneath him and he almost buckles, loose and pliable and eager in Kurt's arms, hanging like a monkey from around his neck, kissing back with as much abrupt desperation, entire body seemingly swelling with longing for Kurt. He feels like he's flying and floating and falling all at once, and it's crazy, but he could be falling, here in the snow with Kurt.

And he never wants to leave.