It was late, or early, depending on one's concept of time, and he was awake. He lay stretched out on his bare stomach, edge of the sheet tickling the small of his back. He rested his head on his crossed arms and smiled at the deeply slumbering boy beside him. It was a wonder he wasn't equally as exhausted; after all, the activity they'd engaged in not half an hour earlier was quite draining. But it seemed that the lightly snoring boy's power of captivation was superior to those of fatigue.

The bedroom window was cracked, the early summer night air cooling the passionately heated room. The breeze tickled their thoroughly tousled hair, and his smile grew fonder as his lover's nose wrinkled at the sensation. The sleeping boy then sighed and rolled over, obscuring the onlooker's view of his face.

Suddenly, the observer had an overwhelming desire to look at the stars. The urge was one he often felt when he was in a state of utter contentment, a state in which he found himself frequently as of late. This urge created a dilemma: he could stay here, lay with his love, and let his mind burn with the intensity of the stars above, or he could leave the bed, clear his mind, and risk his lover awakening alone.

He carefully slid from between the sheets, not wanting to disturb his bedmate. He donned a McKinley t-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants, not caring much for fashion at the moment, slipping his cell phone into his pocket. He crossed to his desk, scribbled a quick but affectionate note, and placed it on his discarded pillow. He then silently left the room, stopping to step into flip-flops on his way out the door.

There was something about swings that made everything in the world seem so much simpler. When he rounded the corner that brought him to the neighborhood park, he bypassed the jungle gym, the merry-go-round, and the seesaw, instead strolling straight for the swings. He sat down, arms automatically twisting in the chains. Toes dragging in the sand, sandals long forgotten, he rocked gently back and forth, neck craned skyward.

The heavens above were clear, not a single cloud to mar the black canvas sprinkled with clusters of white dots. He couldn't identify any constellations save one of the dippers, but that was irrelevant. It was what the stars meant, not what they were or how they were arranged, that struck him. How, in an infinite universe with infinite substances in infinite combinations, he was there, on that swingset, in that playground, on that night, with that boy in his bed. What had he done? What good deed had he done in what past life that could cause his proverbial stars to align so perfectly in this moment? With a small laugh, he shook his head; who was he to question this gift given to him?

"What's so funny?"

His head turned sharply, but his smile never faltered. "Nothing." He returned his gaze to the heavens. "Nothing at all."

He tried to focus on the stars, but with the sudden addition of the other boy's presence, the twinkling lights above could no longer hold his attention. He turned again in time to see his lover take the swing next to his. "How long have you been up?"

"Not too long." The boy pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of the sweats the first boy recognized as his own. "'Dear Kurt, I've gone to the playground on Baker Street for some stargazing, so don't worry, I haven't left you. If you awaken before I return, I'm sorry I wasn't there to hear the little squeak you make when you rub your eyes.' I do not squeak, Anderson." He shoved Blaine lightly, and then resumed his reading of the note. "'You are more than welcome to join me, or you could go back to sleep. Either way, just know that I will be returning to you shortly, for how could I stay away from such a beautiful sight for long? For always and ever, Blaine.' Honestly, who writes like that?"

Blaine chuckled. "Excuse me for being romantic."

"No, I loved it." Kurt folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. He then wound his own arms through the swing chains and began rocking to and fro. "So, have you gleaned anything from the heavens yet? The meaning of life? The secret of the dead? The reason Queer Eye got cancelled?"

"Oh, too soon," Blaine joked. He glanced upward. "No, no answers. Just...more to fathom."

Kurt reached out, grabbed the chain of Blaine's swing, and pulled him close, threading his arm around the links to keep him there. "Stop being so deep. It's far too early for that."

"Do you think we'll make it?" Kurt looked over in surprise at Blaine's murmured question. "Do you think, will all of the millions of variables we'll encounter, that we'll still be together in five, ten, fifty years? 'Cause sitting here, looking at the stars...I can't imagine a life without you, Kurt. And I really, really don't want to."

Kurt was speechless. He was no stranger to doubts about the future, even the one with Blaine. The letdown that was his NYADA letter brought many of these uncertainties to the forefront of his mind, but he knew, deep down, that Blaine wasn't going to leave him, despite his failure. He just knew that he'd be there, for always and ever.

"We're a constant." Blaine turned to him, brows furrowed in confusion, so he elaborated. "You asked how millions of variables will affect us, but they won't. Because we're a constant. We will remain unchanged throughout all of time and space."

The two swung in silence for some time, alternately staring upward at the glimmering lights and catching sneak peeks at the other's face. Eventually, Blaine wordlessly slipped off of the swing and extended a hand to Kurt. The older boy took it, and the two walked arm-in-arm back to Blaine's empty house.

"I wasn't lying, you know," Blaine said as they shed their clothes and slid back under the covers. "I wasn't lying when I wrote 'for always and ever.'"

"I know you weren't." Kurt snuggled into Blaine's open arms, breathing in the scent of summer and their earlier activities. "I love you too."

"For always and ever?"

"For always and ever."

They slept.