Author's Notes: Kurt Hummel is not a fan of New Mexico—all of that brown, and tan, and more brown. And the snow. And too-fucking-slow sanding trucks and plows that would never make it through an Ohio winter. And the blocks and blocks of tinsel-wrapped mailboxes. And tourists.

“At least it’s not Texas,” Kurt mutters, glaring at a Toyota 4-Runner driving at a snail’s pace down Cerillos Road. In a raised voice he adds, “Why do they even bother buying these vehicles, when they drive like Rachel Berry with a learner’s permit? Six weeks I was forced to sit behind a panicked Mr. Schuester while she logged her practice hours to get that damn certificate. Stupid bureaucracy; I could drive a stick shift when I was twelve years old! Sitting in the car with Rachel was hell on earth, and this is a close second.”

“Calm down, kid. We’ll get there.”

Kurt glances in his rearview mirror at his dad in the first backseat row next to Erin and Meg, then at Finn and little Charles, singing a silly tune. Sitting in the passenger seat next to him, Carole is wide-eyed, camera raised for photo opportunities. She wears the first of several obnoxious Christmas sweaters she undoubtedly brought along for the trip. And somehow, Kurt can’t seem to make himself care. He’s too happy. He’s got a car full of family and an amazing visit planned for everyone in this magical city—who cares if he has to stare at a blue-sequined snowman for the next few hours?

Kurt may not be a fan of New Mexico—he may find it frustrating, and too dry, and remote as hell; he may even finally understand why the locals refer to the “Land of Enchantment” as the “Land of Entrapment”—but he most definitely loves this city.

It took them two years to find a house they could afford and that Kurt could stand to live in while they renovated it. They kept Blaine’s flat in London and Kurt’s apartment in New York; their careers—Blaine’s music and Kurt’s furniture line, Haven by Hummel—demand that they spend a great deal of time in both places. But deciding on Santa Fe as their permanent residence was easy for both of them. Here, they found each other again. Here, they were accepted and loved. Here, they became the men they always intended to be.

“Dad, see the mountain range there, at the edge of the city? Those are the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the southern Rockies,” he says. “If you look to your left you can see the summit, there, all covered in snow. We call it ‘Baldy,’ for obvious reasons, and you can see it from the Rio Grande.”

“No kidding,” Burt says, craning to look out the front window.

Blaine is waiting in the gravel driveway when they pull up, wearing the heather sweater Kurt bought him last Christmas, a pair of jeans and a smile brighter than the sun. He claps his hands as Meg hops out of the car. She runs right to him, shouting, “Uncle Blaine!” and he scoops her up into a tight hug.

“Gosh, you’re big,” he says. “Stop growing!”

Her little crush on Blaine still in full force, Meg giggles and hangs on to his neck. I understand, little girl. Believe me.

Kurt smiles warmly at the pair and then helps his dad and Erin unload the trunk as Finn gathers Charles and his things. After everyone shuffles inside, after the family is situated and the house tour complete, Blaine steals Kurt away to the kitchen to help him with dinner, and pulls him into the pantry. Once inside, he takes Kurt’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly, deeply, like the only thing that matters is Kurt’s mouth, Kurt’s tongue, the swell of his bottom lip, still sore from last night’s adventures.

Blaine wraps Kurt up in his arms, leans him back against the pantry door and says, “Hi, baby.”

“Missed me? I was only gone three hours.”

“I’m just happy.”

“Yeah. So much.”

More kissing, a little groping and still more kissing, until a knock on the door and a familiar voice interrupts them. “Kurt, can you take your hands off your husband long enough to kiss your goddaughter?”

Kurt turns in Blaine’s arms and opens the door to find Antonio standing in their kitchen, holding baby Cora. Not even six months old, she is the perfect combination of Antonio and Sarah—dark hair, a sweet face and, even at her young age, a wise expression. Kurt wonders if, like her father and great-grandmother before her, she will be able to spot soul-love, too.

Baby now in his arms, Kurt says, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s bringing some of the kids over in the van. They’ll meet us there,” Antonio replies.

Blaine kisses Cora as he walks toward the stove. “I’ll just start on the hot chocolate. Did you bring the extra thermoses, Antonio?”

“In the bag,” Antonio says, pointing to a large paper shopping bag on the counter.

Kurt squeezes Cora, takes her with him as he goes to explain the plan for the night to his family.




On his way to grab a few extra wool blankets for their excursion, Blaine runs right into to his sister-in-law in the guest hallway, studying the row of framed, handwritten song lyrics. Kurt had installed miniature spotlights above each piece, his own design, which made the narrow hallway seem bigger and gave it the feel of a tucked away space in an art gallery.

“Oops, didn’t mean to run you over,” Blaine says, opening the guest linen closet. He roots around looking for the new Hudson Bay blankets his mother sent from her last online shopping adventure.

“This one is my favorite,” Erin says, pointing to a song he knows all too well. She leans in and stands on her tiptoes to get a closer look.

“You’re not sick of it, then, I take it,” he teases, finding the blankets on the bottom shelf. He shuts the closet door.

“Never. Like I said; it’s my favorite,” Erin replies. “You won a Grammy for this, right?”

“Yup. I co-wrote it with Adele.”

“Why is most of the song in black ink, and this part in purple,” she asks, pointing to toward the bottom of the page.

Blaine moves to stand next to her, looking at the paper. A few coffee drip stains on the top left corner, a few lines crossed out in red, it’s the verse in purple permanent marker—all he could find in the studio that day—that stands out.

“I wrote those lyrics the day after Kurt left Santa Fe,” Blaine explains.

“Ah yes,” Erin replies, “the weekend of the surprise visit from Uncle Kurt.”

Erin turns to face Blaine, leans one hip against the wall. Aside from her short stature, Erin is the physical opposite of Rachel Berry: curvy (or “stacked,” as Finn likes to call his wife) and soft, with warm, patient eyes and, though tempered by marriage and motherhood, a hint of wildness about her.

“We’d been trying to get the song right for weeks, and then—well, you probably already know the story.”

“I may have heard bits and pieces. Know what else I heard?”

“Oh no, I don’t like that tone, Mrs. Hudson,” he teases, shifting the blankets to get a better grip on the blankets in his arms. “The last time you used that tone on me I ended up getting toasted at Meg’s soccer game. That’s the last time I trust you to make any drink for me, especially hot cider.”

“No one knew, god,” she says, with a good-natured eye-roll. “I heard that you like to serenade people. Sometimes in public places.”

Blaine laughs. “Erin, I perform in front of thousands of people—”

“Not the same thing! A serenade is personal.”

“Are you asking me to sing to you?”

Erin bounces on the balls of her feet. “Come on—it’s my favorite. Please? Consider it my Christmas present.”

“So I can take back that turquoise choker we bought for you up in Taos?”

“No way!”

Blaine laughs again, sets the blankets on the floor. He leans back against the wall, facing the lyrics he knows by heart, and sings:

Forever Man

A girl like me
Don’t have as many options as you see
At least, not the kind that means the world to me.

I was in a world of doubt
All my dreams, my moments going south
Until you took me by the hand, up, up, and out.

You’re not a sometime thing, no
You’re not my summer fling
You’re not a line drawn in the sand.

You’re not my maybe, baby
You’re not my compromise
Darling you’re my everything, forever man.

A girl like me
Wants the stuff no Billboard rocket can buy
That look you give that always makes me sigh

It was always you
Though I held out to see it through
And it feels so right to tell you now that it’s true

You’re not a sometime thing, no
You’re not my summer fling
You’re not a line drawn in the sand.

You’re not my maybe, baby
You’re not my compromise
Darling you’re my everything, forever man.

If there is only this, if there is only you
Then I’ll be happy until my dying day
There is nothing temporary about that thing you do
Or the way my heart asks to stay and stay.

You’re not a sometime thing, no
You’re not my summer fling
You’re not a line drawn in the sand.

You’re not my maybe, baby
You’re not my compromise
Darling you’re my everything, forever man.



It’s only a few blocks to Canyon Road from their house, and since it’s a relatively warm winter night they decide to bundle up the kids and walk. The babies asleep in their strollers, the family joins other Santa Feans and tourists making their way to the iconic Christmas Eve Walk. Meg bounces with excitement; she’s never been allowed to stay up this late before.

Farolitos, paper bag lanterns filled halfway with sand and lit by votive candles, line both sides of the sidewalks, and plastic replicas dot the roofline of nearly every adobe house and gallery along the walk. It’s magical, like a winter fairyland, with bonfires on every other corner, carolers strolling along the winding street and art galleries open to share mulled wine, cider and cookies.

They find Sarah and the Alex Marin House kids halfway up the road, waiting for them next to a bonfire. After she checks on her baby, hugs everyone in the group and tucks her hand into the crook of Kurt’s arm, Sarah says, “See? Isn’t this the most beautiful thing?”

Kurt nods, kisses her on the forehead and watches as she and the others walk ahead. They’re a motley crew, tall men with children and the tiny women they love. He smiles as his dad takes hold of the stroller for Antonio so he can slip into a gallery for whatever they’re offering.

Kurt is so full up with the night, with his family, old and new, with the joy of standing on his true path, with this man he loves completely and the brilliant possibilities set before them, with the generous gift of…

“Grace,” Blaine says, breaking into Kurt’s thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking about our favorite argument,” Blaine replies, slowing down to walk in step with Kurt.

“The one where I say our impromptu reunion was random and you say it was fate?” Kurt asks, a gentle tease in his tone.

“That’s the one.”

“And?”

“And I’ve come to believe that we were both wrong,” Blaine explains. He stops and turns to stand in front of Kurt, his face illuminated by hundreds of votive candles and the soft light emanating from a nearby gallery.

“It wasn’t fate, or chance. It was grace.”

The mellow-sweet feeling Kurt has come to know so well, the feeling that replaced all of his worries, and regrets, and fears—that feeling washes over him now, ushering in perfect joy. He beams at Blaine, wraps his right arm around him at the neck and pulls him in for a hard kiss that says Love, my love, how could I have doubted you for a moment?

When the kiss ends Blaine laughs, steps back a bit and looks up ahead on the road at their families. He holds his hand out to Kurt. “Coming?”




That night, Blaine is so, so grateful Kurt talked him into a Spanish-style house with guest quarters in a separate wing. The family tucked away on the other side of the house, Blaine decides it’s time for another new tradition: Christmas Eve Sex.

They’ve been stocking up on cute customs, and silly anniversaries, and other “couple” rituals ever since the week he spent in New York, holed up in Kurt’s sublet on the Upper East Side. They reasoned they had a lot of lost time to make up for, and therefore should get a pass on gag-inducing antics. It had started out genuine, but as was their way, quickly devolved into a game, another reason to laugh. All those years they’d spent longing for these moments and somehow poking fun at the clich� of it all released them from the burden of regret, of missing something they’d never had.

Even after more than two years together, he still finds the sight of Kurt undressing ridiculously distracting, to the point where he often forgets whatever he’s doing and stands there, staring, mouth agape, like a teenager getting his first peek at a naked boy.

Kurt is already down to his navy briefs when he snaps his fingers in front of Blaine’s face. “Blaine?”

“Hmm? What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry, I—”

“Love.”

“Hmm?”

“Take off your clothes.”

Blaine watches as Kurt pulls back the salmon-colored duvet, climbs on to the bed and moves to the middle. He spreads out, lazy, his back mostly on the bed and his shoulders up against the headboard. Blaine steps out of his jeans, pulls his sweater and undershirt over his head. Socks off, he leaves his gray briefs on and climbs in the bed after Kurt.

Kurt’s knees too close together, Blaine taps the right one twice with is hand.

Kurt smirks. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really. Spread ‘em.”

“I see marriage has done absolutely nothing for you in the romance department, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt teases, pressing his legs together, even closer.

Blaine leans over the top of Kurt’s knees, hands on the bed on either side of Kurt’s hips and says, “Marriage has done everything for me.”

Kurt beams, fans himself with his right hand. Blaine laughs and then pulls Kurt’s legs down flat.

“I bet I could get you to spread your legs,” Blaine teases.

Blaine presses his body down on top of Kurt’s, covers him. He grinds down on Kurt’s hardening cock, tries to line them up just so, but the position is all wrong.

Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s back, pulls him closer. “You could just ask.”

Blaine lips graze Kurt’s cheek as he leans in, mouth wet, and whispers, “Would you spread your legs for me, baby?”

Kurt’s long legs open and fall to the side so fast, it’s as if Blaine pushed a button. Blaine adjusts his position and soon it’s the perfect friction of thin cotton on cotton, as Blaine presses down, down, down onto Kurt’s cock. Blaine scoots back a bit, presses his bulge further down between Kurt’s legs, a promise. Up and down, Blaine works his clothed cock under Kurt’s balls, over his hole, the confines of their briefs a delicious tease. All the while Blaine talks, his voice deep and soft: “Gonna fuck you. Flip you over and slide right in, fuck you hard.”

Blaine works Kurt over until Kurt’s fingers slip under the waistband of Blaine’s briefs and tug.

“Off,” Kurt whines.

Blaine obliges.

The sex is so good between them, so much fun; Blaine has never had it like this before, and he’s frankly a little surprised their sex life has only improved over time. To be married to the star of your some of your earliest sexual fantasies is an opportunity for deep satisfaction and serious wish fulfillment, say nothing of the love, hot and close in uh uh uh rhythm; the love, sweet and quiet, a smile kissed into a sweaty hip bone; the love, wrapped up in a tight hug, sure.

That night he fucks Kurt long and deep, Kurt’s face pressed into a goose down pillow to muffle the sound. Blaine no longer feels compelled to stare into Kurt’s eyes every time he fucks him, for fear that he would forget, that it was the last time. Now, he wakes up to those beautiful, ever-changing eyes every morning. Now, he is his.

After, Kurt traces stars onto Blaine’s chest and belly, and Blaine listens to the sound of their house, quiet, their city, asleep. From their bedroom window he can see a row of Farolitos adorning the adobe wall that separates the neighbor’s yard from their own. The lights flicker, and dance, casting shadows on the stucco. The picture reminds him of the candles he lit in Chimay�: four sacred hearts, one prayer.

He stills Kurt’s hand, brings it up to his mouth and kisses his fingers. Blessed.




Kurt wakes early to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Blaine banging around in the kitchen. It sounds like he’s singing intermittently—working out a song for Adele’s new album; they start recording in the spring. “Get Here” is a song about missing someone, about needing someone so deeply you’ll do anything to get him or her closer to you. Blaine wrote it when they were still apart, when the distance was so hard on Blaine, the waiting. It was painful then; now, it’s just a good song, on its way to being great.

Fresh pajamas on, Kurt goes in search of his husband. He finds him stacking pancakes onto a plate in the oven to keep warm until the rest of the house wakes.

When Blaine notices Kurt, he lights up. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Kurt wraps Blaine up in a hug, kisses his ear. “Merry Christmas. Anyone up yet?”

“No. We were out so late at the walk,” Blaine replies with a shrug.

“You making my mom’s ‘special occasion pancakes?’” Kurt asks.

“Yup.”

“Thanks, love.”

A mug of coffee placed in front of him at the kitchen island, Kurt eases into the day. There will be breakfast, and presents, and naps, in the afternoon. Carole will make a Christmas ham. Since most of the Alex Marin kids will be joining relatives for Christmas dinner, they’ll have Wyatt and Erick—still together, despite their young age and unfortunate circumstances—over for the day. His daughter studying abroad and unable to join him for the holiday, Mitch will join them at some point. They’ll call Adele, and Deidre, and Blaine’s parents. They’ll take pictures, and laugh, and show their family the city, dressed up for the holiday with four inches of fresh snow.

But for now there is only them.

Still sleepy, Kurt shuffles out to the foyer, picks up the stack of mail and small packages that arrived yesterday, and returns to the kitchen.

“Deidre said she sent a copy of her book,” Kurt says.

“Fuck You, You Fucking Fuckers?”

“Blaine. Stop being mean about it,” Kurt says, trying not laugh.

“Oh what—like The Ex-Wive’s Guide to Happy Endings is any better.”

Kurt does laugh, then. And he’s still laughing when he opens a padded envelope addressed to both of them. Looking at the return address, he tears in to the envelope. He had no idea this would be ready in time for his family’s visit.

He reaches in the envelope and pulls out a note and a DVD, which he holds up for Blaine to see. “From Paul,” he says.

“Already?”

“Guess so,” Kurt says. He leans to the side, listening for sounds of the house waking up. “Should we watch it without them?”

Blaine turns off the stove, moves over to the other side of the island and opens his laptop. “We’ll just watch our part. Then we can watch the whole thing together after presents.”

Paul’s request had come as a surprise. Just a few months after Kurt and Blaine married, Paul’s assistant April contacted Kurt and asked if he and his “new husband” would be willing to participate in a documentary about life after the National Marriage Equality bill. Kurt had heard about Paul’s engagement through friends—Samuel, a rising young filmmaker—but still, it seemed odd. He should have known Paul simply wanted video evidence that they had ended on amicable terms.

Blaine forwards until their segment comes up, then presses play. Shot in a studio in Manhattan, at first Kurt and Blaine seem a bit stiff, discussing the basics of their marriage, where they live, if they want to have children.

Then, the interviewer asks them how long they’ve been together. Onscreen, they both start laughing.

“Umm, that is a point of contention,” Kurt says into the camera, Blaine still giggling.

“Yeah, we’ll just end up arguing. You don’t want arguing.”

“Because I say it started in Santa Fe three years ago—” Kurt says.

“—And I say it started seventeen years ago, when we met,” Blaine says.

“I was walking down a staircase—”

“You were spying—”

“Alright, yes. I was spying. I was a cute spy—”

“The cutest. And you said—”

“’Excuse me, can I ask you a question?’”

“And that was it,” Blaine says, smiling into the camera.

“What was it?” Kurt asks, onscreen.

“Love.”

“You were hardly in love with me then,” Kurt says.

“Okay, but soon after—”

“Years, Blaine. Years, after.”

“No, don’t you remember?”

In the kitchen, Kurt and Blaine move closer together; they know what’s coming.

“Remember what?” Kurt asks, onscreen.

Onscreen, Blaine looks at Kurt, takes his hand and pulls it into his lap, and then looks right a the camera. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with him.”

Onscreen, Kurt looks fondly at Blaine and says, “Our wedding was nice.”

“Yeah, and it only took three months to get there.”

“Three months and fifteen years,” Kurt says.

Onscreen, Blaine kisses Kurt and says, “Worth it.”

In the kitchen, Blaine sits, pulls Kurt into his lap. He wraps his arm around Kurt’s waist, holding him there. On the video, the interview has moved on to a different couple.

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Blaine says, “Let’s watch it again.”