Kurt leans back against the closed and locked French doors of Blaine's parents' master suite. He's still furious, more than he can easily recall being. His hands are clenched behind him, trapped between the small of his back and the hard wood of the door. He doesn't trust himself not to break something in this room, so oversized and ostentatious: the dainty antique bedside lamp that Blaine has switched on, the pale porcelain woman with the parasol on the mahogany dresser, the ornately framed mirror (it's more frame than mirror, to the point of pointlessness, and while Kurt appreciates art for art's sake; he finds this level of dysfunction pretentious and the quantity of gold leaf garish). He forces his breaths to slow, counts them, times each inhale and exhale until he feels his heart begin to slow and his hands relax.

Blaine seems calm, but Kurt can feel Blaine's agitation like a vibration under his own skin. Blaine's been smiling all evening, but it's been too bright and forced, Kurt is glad to see it gone as Blaine turns to face him. What's replaced it isn't exactly better; but at least it's more honest: the distress seething in Blaine's eyes.

He doesn't ask Blaine if he's okay; Kurt knows he's not. And he doesn't need to ask what's wrong; that's been abundantly clear this evening, though Kurt expects he's only glimpsed the surface of it. He doesn't even need to ask why they're in this room. They started out trying to escape the overly mannered and carelessly cruel small talk downstairs, but then, once they'd got to Blaine's room, Blaine gave him this look and led him down the hall. Kurt has a condom in his pocket. Blaine has the lube. It's a grotesque trespass, being in here like this. It's wrong and inappropriate and motivated by little more than Blaine's anger and hurt. And that's exactly why they're here.

It's palpable between them, Blaine's desperation, even as Blaine is silent in the face of it. Kurt thinks he knows what Blaine wants, and what he, himself, needs to do; but Kurt also knows he needs to be careful. His own anger may have a role here, but only because of the passion that inspires it. Blaine doesn't need to feel worse, doesn't need to suffer more guilt on Kurt's behalf. Kurt's ambivalence aches in his bones—protective outrage and anger tearing him one way, simple affection and sympathy in the other. But for Blaine he will reconcile it to help him with one small act of rebellion. The one thing in this room he knows he will not break is Blaine.

Kurt tips his head back against the door and pushes his hips forward. Blaine is watching him, studying him. Waiting for him. Kurt is almost ready to go to him: to step away from the door, across the glossy polished hardwood, to the dense complexity of the room's cream, blue, and gold rugs (they appear authentically Chinese), and into the room. Bringing his hands to the front of his jacket, Kurt swallows the bitter taste of anger down to a place where he can ignore it, and undoes the buttons with steady hands. Lets himself look at Blaine until he sees him, fills up the hole the anger has left with adoration. Knows he needs to fill up Blaine too, with good things. He thinks he understands, and he hopes it's enough. There's his love, anyway—imperfect (he's not so foolish as to believe his love can be everything Blaine needs, even if he wishes it were that easy) but unconditional—and he hopes that's enough, too.

"On the bed, Blaine, please," he says. "Hands and knees."

~

This evening had started out with such promise. When Blaine had given Kurt the invitation a week ago, he'd been smiling so widely. And when Kurt opened the card to see that he, his Dad, and Carole were invited to the Anderson's annual Christmas party (which was apparently a thing), Kurt is pretty sure what he felt was joy. At last, Blaine's parents were ready to consider him something more than Blaine's strange, intrusive friend, the boy who spent far too much time with their son, but of whom they would not disapprove vocally (since that would be an acknowledgment). They were always friendly, treating him politely enough, but superficially. Almost carelessly. As if their eyes slipping away when Blaine held his hand in front of them rendered it unreal. As if Kurt sleeping over was no different from Blaine's childhood sleepovers with his friends.

So Kurt is hopeful that this means they have made some progress. If Blaine's parents want to meet his parents, that's got to mean something.

It's only a few minutes after they arrive at Blaine's house for the party that Kurt finds out what it does mean. In the wide foyer, beneath the glittering light of the chandelier, swathed in the murmur of party guests and the jangle of Christmas carols, Blaine's father is enthusiastically shaking his Dad's hand, and Blaine's mother is fawning over Carole to take her coat. "Congressman," he says, "congratulations on your victory," and she is gushing, "It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Carole! Thank you so much for coming to our humble little party."

Blaine's mother at least says hello to Kurt, but Kurt is pretty sure Blaine's father doesn't even make eye-contact with him. And then Blaine is there, sparkling smile, perfectly combed hair, looking immaculate in a sharply tailored navy suit over a festive Fair Isle vest. He gives the mistletoe dangling from the bottom of the chandelier a glance, and then he takes Kurt by the elbow to quickly steer him away from the shameless display of obsequiousness that's happening in the foyer. "I'm so sorry," he says, "I swear I didn't know it was going to be like this."

He guides Kurt through the press of guests, not pausing to speak to or make eye-contact with any of them. Then he's backing through the swinging door of the kitchen, into a different kind of bustle. He tells the catering team that they need more plates of hors d'œuvre circulating, and then he's taking Kurt's hand and tugging him through another swinging door into the back hall. They stop near the laundry room. But before Kurt has a chance to respond to anything at all, Blaine is crowding him up against the wall and saying, "God, Kurt, you look amazing." He then presses up against Kurt with a wonderfully sweet and lingering kiss. Blaine breaks it slowly. Their lips cling for a moment, reluctant to be parted, and Blaine whispers against Kurt's lips, warm and ticklish, "Mistletoe."

Then Blaine leans back, cocking his head to look up at Kurt's face and asking, "How are you taller?"

"Oh," Kurt says, stepping to the side, away from the wall and into the light, and turning his heel so Blaine can see his new ankle boots. "New boots," Kurt says.

"Are they velvet?" Blaine says, crouching down to get a better look—to touch.

"Yes, aren't they fantastic? They've got a bit of a heel. Just an inch and a half, but it makes a difference." He loves the extra length it gives the line of his leg.

"Yeah, wow," Blaine says. Kurt can feel the muted pressure of Blaine's fingers over his feet and ankles as Blaine rubs his fingertips indulgently across the dark green velvet. It's weirdly erotic, and certainly unsettling. "They're great, Kurt. I love them." Blaine stands back up, his eyes bright and his cheeks tinged with a faint, ruddy blush.

"I got them especially for tonight. Well, the entire outfit, actually." He steps back and spins slowly to show off the slim three-piece aubergine purple suit he's paired with a richly textured sateen shirt in royal blue and finished with a green and gold paisley ascot. He unbuttons the jacket to show Blaine the brilliant scarlet satin lining and gives another twirl. That was his favorite part of it, the lining. "Green boots and red lining," he says. "For Christmas."

"Subtle," Blaine says approvingly, his gaze sweeping up and down Kurt. "It's fabulous. You look delicious."

"Oh?" Kurt arches an eyebrow and reaches for Blaine's jaw just as Blaine's palm slides warm around his waist He's leaning in to kiss Blaine when the door behind them swings open, and Blaine's mother is there. His hand drops to his side, and he rocks back, away from Blaine, who, more slowly, retrieves his own hand and tucks it into a trouser pocket. "Hello, Mrs. Anderson," Kurt says. He quickly buttons again the top two buttons of his suit jacket and hopes the sudden heat in his face isn't as vivid as it feels.

She looks past Kurt to Blaine. "Blaine, darling, I don't want you hiding back here all evening with the staff. Go out and mingle. You never know who you'll meet, networking is important." Then she smiles broadly at Kurt. "Come, Kurt, I'll introduce you to some of our guests."

And that is that. Soon Blaine's mother is guiding Kurt between clusters of guests, her long-nailed grip firm on his arm, introducing him as "the new congressman's son, Kurt, who goes to school with our son, Blaine." So he's been demoted from friend to schoolmate while simultaneously upgraded into a valuable commodity due to his Dad's new political status. If it were anywhere other than his boyfriend's parents' home and party, with his father's good name in play, Kurt wouldn't bother holding his tongue.

As it is, the best he can do is force his own smile and shake hands. At least those hands that are offered. There are a few refusals, along with occasional whispers between people who think Kurt can't possibly overhear: "The congressman's gay son...", "Could it be more obvious?", "How flamboyant!", "What is he wearing?", "Is little Blaine friends with this boy?" And that's not including the various back-handed compliments and condescending observations about the value of public schools, good working class families, and the virtue of blue collar work. His annoyance is thorough. He hopes his Dad is holding up okay.

So when Blaine cuts in between Kurt and whoever he's to be introduced to next, offering him a glass of eggnog. Kurt is relieved, though no less annoyed. Blaine manages—through some miracle of speech Kurt doesn't follow—to excuse them both with his mother. Soon he is leading Kurt upstairs, taking the route through the kitchen again, and up the back servants' stairs (Kurt is beginning to appreciate these features), apologizing to Kurt every other step until they reach Blaine's bedroom and Kurt has to kiss him to make him stop saying he's sorry.

It's Blaine's apologies that tip Kurt over from irritation into outright anger. None of it at Blaine, but at the situation: how his parents have exploited Blaine's relationship with him. Any disappointment of Kurt's has got to be dwarfed by whatever awful realization Blaine has had forced upon him tonight. And yet, he was still smiling, still being the good son downstairs. And now he is apologizing to Kurt when Blaine is the one to whom is owed an apology. But not from Kurt. His parents should be fucking groveling.

Kurt channels his anger into kissing Blaine with as much urgency and passion as he can, trying to breathe and bleed into Blaine some understanding of how much Blaine doesn't need to be feeling guilt of all things, and how much Kurt loves him and is here with him right now. And then Blaine pulls back, all hints of a smile gone, and looks at Kurt, dark and serious.

Blaine gets what they need from his nightstand, takes Kurt by the hand, and silently leads him down to the far end of the hall, to the French doors Kurt has never seen the other side of.

~

The bed is enormous and decadent with piles of ornately embroidered and beaded pillows, a baroque carved headboard that reaches nearly up to the ceiling, and an elaborate boutis quilted bronze bedspread in what looks like raw silk (it probably is, and Kurt can't think about that too much, because if he thinks too much about what it may take to clean semen from silk, he'll balk). Blaine is taking his suit jacket off, draping it over the stool in front of a spindly Victorian dressing table. He doesn't look back at Kurt, keeps his eyes lowered. Kurt admires the thick, dark sweep of his lashes, the blush creeping up Blaine's neck past his starched white collar, the way his lips are parted around breaths quick and shallow.

When Blaine reaches for the hem of his vest, Kurt says, "Stop." Pushing off from his shoulders, he takes a step away from the door. "Just get on the bed, honey," he says gently. "I'll do the rest."

It helps, talking. Kurt can feel how it may create a new version of reality just for them as he speaks to Blaine. Make things more certain and sure. Establish and molds intention and desire. It's powerful, and he is hyper-aware of the weight of it, the responsibility.

With sure steps and long strides, Kurt moves in an arc behind Blaine as Blaine crawls onto the bed, his knees at the edge, spine stiff, elbows locked. Kurt stops when he is still too far away to touch and out of Blaine's easy line of sight. There are few reflective surfaces in here aside from the ridiculous mirror and dressing table (whose mirror is small and discolored with age) both of which are behind Kurt. It's disorienting and oddly cloistered not to be able to see more and from different angles, not even peripherally. Kurt decides his bedroom will always have mirrors, but for now, he's using what he can: Blaine not seeing, but being seen. Transmuting Blaine's tension from anxiety to anticipation.

"That's perfect, Blaine," he says and sees Blaine's spine sag, just a little, but it's enough to encourage Kurt.

"Kurt..." Blaine starts, as if he's about to explain something, but no words follow.

"Shh," Kurt hushes, "There's nothing you need to tell me right now, baby." He slips off his jacket, drapes it over the stool with Blaine's. "I know why we're here." He then undoes his cuffs, deftly twisting his cufflinks free and pocketing them before rolling up his sleeves to mid forearm. "It hurts to be invisible to the people who love you," Kurt says as he unbuckles his belt and moves closer, angling his steps to the side so he can get a better read on how Blaine is responding to his words.

Kurt speaks, in part, to better shape his own understanding, but also to give voice to the things Blaine leaves unspoken. And because Blaine lets him, trusts him with it, he wants to get it right. "You wish they knew. You wish they would look at you and see. Be proud and happy for you." Like his own family is, Kurt thinks. He imagines how hard it would be if they avoided seeing the truth of his relationship with Blaine. If they pretended it was less than it is. It makes his heart hurt.

Blaine nods his head and lowers himself to his elbows, pressing his forehead against the bed. His spine slumps between his shoulder blades as he lets his weight sink. Letting go.

"You wish we could flaunt what we have." Kurt is close enough to touch now, but he doesn't. He unfastens his fly, the vipp of the zipper coming down loud and suggestive. Kurt ignores the trepidation trembling in his chest, just concentrates on Blaine.

Blaine mumbles a soft, "Yes."

"Me too," Kurt says just as softly. Then he reaches with one hand, folding his palm over the firm curve of Blaine's ass, sliding his caress over the vague prickle of the wool gabardine fabric down Blaine's thigh with reverence, communicating his desire. "I see you, Blaine," Kurt says. He hopes this is right and what Blaine wants.

He strokes and pets Blaine over his clothes, his backside and thighs, his back and shoulders, until Blaine has relaxed enough to be rocking with each pass of Kurt's hands and breathing more deeply. Then Kurt reaches around Blaine's waist to his belt and fly and brings his hips close enough Blaine can feel Kurt's erection brush against him as Kurt unbuckles, unbuttons, and unzips him.

Blaine immediately presses back against Kurt, as if that contact has flipped a switch. He grinds back, the harsh contact abrupt and demanding. Kurt has to bite his lip hard enough he tastes blood to keep himself focused, keep his hands steady. He reaches into Blaine's open fly and curls his fingers best he can around the solid shape of Blaine's shaft. His moan echoes Blaine's at that touch, the heat and weight of Blaine's dick in his hand thrills him every time. Kurt jerks him roughly within the thin cotton of his underwear. The friction has to burn, but Blaine responds to it with enthusiasm, rocking forward into Kurt's grip, swearing under his breath, and begging Kurt, "Please, Kurt, please. Don't tease. Not now."

"Okay," Kurt says, "I won't, just..." Now Kurt's hands are shaking as he lets go of Blaine and steps back, his cock throbbing fiercely with the lingering buzz of the lost friction. He takes the condom from his pocket and tosses it to the bed before he pushes his own trousers and briefs down far enough to bare his ass and free his cock. The cool air does nothing to ease urgency of his arousal. Then he reaches for Blaine, sliding down just his pants, to his bent knees, and then pushing the hems of both his shirt and vest up to his ribs. Kurt admires the graceful dip of Blaine's spine, the way the antique lamp lights his skin. There's so much contrasting texture, all the fabrics and fibers of Blaine's clothing and the sumptuous bedding against the stark smoothness of his skin where it's revealed. Kurt wants to touch everything, feel it under his hands and against his own bare skin, but he restrains himself. This isn't a time for that. No foreplay beyond what is essential.

That doesn't mean he has to rush. With a deep breath and much more care, Kurt tucks his fingertips beneath the waistband of Blaine's briefs and eases the elastic down slowly, only gradually revealing to his gaze the high, round curve of Blaine's ass, neatly divided by the tempting line of his cleft. He lets out the breath he's been holding and releases the sharp grip of his teeth on his bottom lip.

"Blaine," he says. "God, you're so..." He flattens his hands over Blaine's buttocks, spreading his fingers to cover as much as he can, and then gently, gently, pressing them apart so he can see in between, see where Blaine's going to take him—wants to take him. "...perfect," he finishes in a thick gust of breath. He steps close again, to lay the length of his cock there, pressing his bare shaft against Blaine's tightly clenched hole, rolling his hips to make it skid a little, hissing a breath at the feel of it—tempting—the way it looks—pornographic—and, most of all, how he's thinking—wondering—what it would be like without the latex barrier, to push inside with nothing at all left between them. But he is content to wonder. Now is not a time for that either, and it would need to be preceded by a conversation, which they are not having right now.

It doesn't stop Kurt from a small indulgence, though. He moves one hand to take hold of his cock so he can drag the head down from Blaine's tailbone, slippery with precome, to rub slickly over Blaine's anus, making it glisten and twitch and begin to relax. And that feels... "Oh." Kurt sighs and stares, tries to remember how to breathe.

Until, without warning, Blaine presses back. And there's just enough of that little lubrication, enough force behind Blaine's motion, that Kurt feels Blaine starting to stretch open for him, feels himself start to breach Blaine's body. It can't work like this, he knows; as seductive as this little kiss between their bodies is, it can go all go so, so wrong. Being rough with Blaine is not the same as hurting him. He staggers back a step, away. Interrupts. "Wait," he says. "Blaine, wait. I wasn't... We're not ready."

"Kurt," is all Blaine says. The 'hurry up' is left unsaid.

So Kurt reaches for the condom, gets it on himself, and then grabs the lube from where Blaine left it near the lamp. He nearly trips over his trouser cuffs, but gets back behind Blaine without mishap. Much as Kurt enjoys taking time, maybe this isn't something to draw out. It's unlikely, but not impossible, that someone will be looking for them soon. Still, he hates feeling careless. He likes everything to be just right, precise and mindful. And since it's been a few weeks since they did find the time and opportunity to fuck he wants this to be worth the waiting.

"Patience, baby," he says. "I'll get you there." There are levels of care he will not sacrifice for speed, however. So while he doesn't hesitate to press a well lubed finger into Blaine, he doesn't let himself savor the feel of it or how Blaine is responding to it. Doesn't drag his fingers in and out slowly to arouse more pleasure, or curl them down against that spot that makes Blaine profane. He does take enough time getting Blaine good and slick and ready for him. Then there is more lube, always more lube, and soon he's pressing his cockhead against Blaine and pushing in as hard and fast as he dares. It takes a few rocks in and out before he's fully sheathed. Blaine is hot and clamping snug around him, gasping out his pleasure so exquisitely he's nearly gagging on the air; his hands fisting so tightly in the fine silk bedspread, Kurt's sure he can hear Blaine's knuckles creak. His own grip on Blaine's hips is making his fingers ache.

This time Kurt doesn't give Blaine any extra time to adjust to him; he doesn't start with slow, easy strokes. He just starts fucking. Not too hard, but not at all gently either, trying to keep Blaine right on the blade between too much and just right. And it is—god—nearly too much for Kurt already. He is sweating in his suit, and seductive heat simmers his blood, beckoning him to fuck into Blaine with harder, slapping staccato strokes. Perspiration gleams on Blaine's lower back as his spine flexes with each quick jolt of their bodies. They're going to reek of it by the time they're done. Maybe that's what Blaine wants. To simply pull up his pants after, straighten his tie, and head back downstairs with his bright smile, smelling of sweat and sex and another boy.

"You know," Kurt says between breaths. "They could walk in any moment now and see their darling little boy taking it up the ass and loving it." It's not true; he locked the door, but he suspects it may be part of the idea Blaine is pursuing, part of the fantasy. Is this a fantasy?

Blaine groans, shoves back against Kurt hard. The impact spikes up Kurt's spine, and he answers by snapping his hips forward brutally, making Blaine cry out.

"You do love it," Kurt says, "Maybe you even want to get caught." He snatches Blaine's hips back to meet another fierce thrust. "They couldn't look away and pretend they didn't see. They wouldn't have a choice."

"Kurt, fuck..." Blaine pleads against the bedspread, sinking his fingers into his own hair, clutching his head, as if trying to hold on to sanity.

"Louder, baby. Maybe they'll hear you." Impossible. They can barely hear the muted thump of the music downstairs, and nothing else. Nothing over the sharp smack of Kurt's hips against Blaine's ass, the rasp of their breathing, and Blaine's pleasure-stricken moans.

"Kurt, I need—" Blaine arches his spine, shoving back, mindlessly seeking that little bit more than he's getting.

"No," Kurt says. He knows what Blaine needs: his hand on his cock, but Kurt wants to try to make Blaine come without it. He doesn't know if he can, but he'll at least try. Kurt pushes Blaine a little farther onto the bed and brings one foot up to the mattress, heedless of the danger his boot heel poses to the fancy bedspread. It changes the angle he's driving in to what Kurt remembers from the first time they did this, when it seemed he lucked out (although Blaine did have his pillow to rut against). "Just fucking take it, Blaine," Kurt growls.

"I am, damn it," Blaine gasps, followed by a muddled stream of profanity to shame a sailor. Kurt's certain he hears his name in there somewhere; it may have been in the vicinity of 'bastard'.

"You want to come all over their fancy bed, don't you?" Kurt says, shoving in hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Yes."

"Then come, Blaine. Whenever you're ready," Kurt grits out, adding a little extra swivel to his strokes, grinding (he hopes) where Blaine needs it most; he's not going to be able to take much more of this himself.

"I can't," Blaine complains, breathless, agonized.

"Try, baby," Kurt says, although he is not confident Blaine will manage; he's getting too close too fast himself, and he's not entirely sure if Blaine actually wants to come on his parents' bedspread, or if he just likes the idea of it. Kurt also doesn't want to drag this out too much longer. There's the start of a chill of apprehension trickling up his spine. They've been gone too long. So he decides to err on the side of prudence, and doesn't do anything more to help Blaine along, just lets himself go. He flexes his grip on Blaine's hips, hammers in short and quick until... Until he comes with a shuddering whimper.

"I'm sorry," he says as he pulls out carefully, mindful of his shirt-tails, and rubbing down Blaine's thighs to soothe. "Let me finish you off," he says. "Turn over."

Blaine obeys wordlessly, and Kurt leans over him, quickly pressing back into Blaine with two fingers. Kurt tips to one knee beside him on the bed, his other leg braced against the floor, trying to keep himself from slipping off the edge of the mattress. He bends over and sinks his mouth down over Blaine's cock, takes as much as he can (which is more than it used to be). "Kurt," Blaine gasps, scrabbling at Kurt's shoulders and trying futilely to arch up against Kurt, but his legs are too tangled up in his trousers to manage much more than squirming beneath Kurt's attention. Kurt doesn't dally or toy with Blaine, just bobs his head while pumping his fingers inside, curling them against Blaine's prostate to swiftly bring Blaine's orgasm shattering through him. He swallows the initial hot pulses of semen, but draws back for the lingering drips to catch them on the fingertips of his other hand, while he holds the fingers inside Blaine still against the last tremors of his climax.

He looks up at Blaine as he gently eases his fingers free, finds him looking a bit of a disaster, flushed, dazed, and tousled, with swollen, bitten red lips. Gorgeous. Kurt wishes badly that they were in his bed right now, so they could linger; but he doesn't tell Blaine that. Instead he says, "One day, I'm going to figure out how to make you come just by fucking you."

Blaine answers with a smile formed around an amused gust of breath, not quite a laugh. He seems content enough, his expression lazy and genuine as he reaches down for his underwear and trousers. He doesn't say anything, though Kurt expects him to say something. But Blaine is quiet, just looking at Kurt with hazy, sated affection.

Kurt holds up his come smeared hand to draw Blaine's attention to it. Blaine watches as Kurt drags his soiled fingers lightly across the bedspread, leaving three small wet streaks upon the fine bronze silk. "There," Kurt says and can't help adding "Protein stains are a bitch to get out of silk."

Blaine starts laughing, wriggling to hike his trousers back up.

Kurt grins. "If they ask, tell them it was eggnog."

Blaine laughs even harder, losing his grip on his fly.

Then Kurt is faced with the immediate problem of what to do with the soiled condom still clinging to his dick.

Blaine points toward a door on the other side of the bedhead. "Bathroom," he says.

"Are you sure?" Kurt asks. It's strange enough having just used Blaine's parent's bed for sex, using their bathroom to clean up is an even more blatant transgression.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "Just don't use the blue towels. They're decorative only."

Kurt nods and goes to clean up. He's quick and efficient and doesn't let his gaze wander beyond his own immediate needs. It's hard not to notice, though, that the master bathroom is bigger than his kitchen at home, and full of gleaming brass and polished marble. The luxury is slathered on so thick, it's not classic; it's excessive.

He wraps the condom in several layers of tissue and tucks it down the side of the bin, ensuring when the trash is emptied, it won't be noticed. Then he chuckles at himself. The likelihood that Mr. or Mrs. Anderson take out their own trash is miniscule. They have servants' entrances; they have staff. He washes his hands, and straightens his clothes. His hair is untouched, but his lip is swollen where he bit it too hard. He runs his tongue over it and tastes iron, but it doesn't sting.

He returns to Blaine who is making the best of the old mirror at the dressing table to smooth his hair into order. He's back in his suit jacket looking dapper as ever, and his color has returned to normal. There's little sign of what they've just done, and Kurt wishes for a moment he'd though to lay a hickey above Blaine's collar, or had gripped his hips a little harder to bruise, or had smeared some spunk across the seat of his trousers. Anything to leave a mark, a reminder, upon Blaine himself. But maybe it's better to leave it this way. A fantasy only, an imaginary and covert rebellion. Kurt's not sure he would even notice the mark on the bedspread if he didn't already know it was there.

Kurt reaches for his jacket, slipping it on. "Are you all right?" he asks Blaine now, because he's no longer sure, and he wants to be. Needs to know if this was correct. None of his own intuition is helping. The longer they linger in this bedroom, the more uncomfortable Kurt becomes, the more it feels like the walls and decor are closing in on him. The more alien it all is.

"Yes, of course," Blaine says, a hint of his plastic smile bending his lips.

"Blaine," Kurt says, because while he may be an intruder here, he deserves more than that.

Blaine sighs, his gaze drops and so does the smile. "Kurt, can we please not talk about this right now?"

"Okay," Kurt says, "Just. Can you tell me one thing?"

"Okay," Blaine says, but the tone of it is strained, provisional.

"Was it what you wanted?" Kurt asks.

Blaine steps in close, takes Kurt's face between his hands. "Yes," he says, and kisses Kurt firmly on the lips as if to punctuate it. Then he takes Kurt's hand and leads him back out of the room. Kurt hopes he won't see it again.

~*~

Kurt had brought his overnight bag; it's still in the car. The original plan had been for him to stay after the party and sleep at Blaine's. But the entire tone of the evening has had Kurt wanting to be anywhere else, and he wants to take Blaine with him. He asks Blaine first, then they head back downstairs and Kurt finds his Dad to see if Blaine can come home with them (the answer is a sympathetic, "Of course he can, Kurt").

They're putting up the Christmas tree over the weekend, so it'll be nice to get an early start and have Blaine join them. Kurt noticed the Andersons' towering tree was nothing but a perfectly styled and soulless caricature, everything too uniform and coordinated, not a memento or trace of sentimentality in sight. The Hummel-Hudson tree, on the other hand, while certainly well-styled itself, is a collection of memories and handmade trinkets precious to the family, new and old. The Andersons' tree is like the stock photo in the picture frame before you buy it. The Hudson-Hummels' is the family portrait. Kurt considers asking Blaine to make something for it this year.

His Dad is looking a little harried and asks Kurt how soon they can go without causing offense.

"As soon as Blaine gets a bag ready," he says.

~

The ride back to Lima is quiet. No one really wants to talk about the party or Blaine's parents. His Dad does say to Blaine, briefly, "Your folks sure know how to host a party!" Blaine says, "Thank you," and then the car lapses into silence, but Kurt doesn't find it uncomfortable. They ride with just the purr of the engine for a time, Kurt holding Blaine's hand loosely in the seat between them, sharing his gaze between peering up at the stars, so bright in the rural night sky; and looking at Blaine who is relaxed and letting his eyes drift shut for long intervals.

Eventually, Carole turns on the radio and finds the holiday station. Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand when "Baby it's Cold Outside" comes on, and he starts singing along, softly at first, just for Blaine. Then, Blaine smiles and joins him adding volume and harmony. Kurt grins and sings louder, until Carole and his Dad join in too. They all cheer and applaud each other when the song finishes, and they take turns with the songs that follow. Blaine sings with him on "Winter Wonderland", and Kurt is grateful for the privacy of the dark backseat. He's heart skips a beat when Blaine sings, "In the meadow we will build a snowman," and Kurt follows with, "And pretend that he is Parson Brown." It feels, for a moment, like a promise. "Silver Bells" is next, and Carole sings it with his Dad. Kurt holds Blaine's gaze with a smile and strokes the back of his hand with his thumb.

In the car with his parents, they're warm and happy, and Kurt is looking forward to tomorrow.

He imagines how it will go. Carole will make French toast while his Dad and Finn go get a tree, and Kurt (with Blaine's help) retrieves the boxes of decorations from the attic. Rachel will come at some point after brunch, bringing elaborately iced snowflake cookies and a winter themed playlist on her iPod. They'll make wassail on the stove to fill the house with the scent of cinnamon and spice. They'll untangle the lights and unwrap the ornaments and load the tree with colorful glint and glimmer. They'll smile and sing and laugh and enjoy each other. And even though it will be just the second celebration of the Winter Solstice for the Hudson-Hummels as a family, and only the first where they will be joined by Blaine and Rachel, it will feel old and familiar, like tradition.

Maybe it will snow and he'll invite Blaine to stay the night again, and Blaine will say yes. They'll light a fire and turn out all the lights but for the Christmas tree. After everyone else has gone to bed, Kurt will make them hot chocolate with real whipped cream on top. They'll sit on the floor together, near the tree with the fire warming their backs, admiring the twinkling lights. Kurt will point out his favorite ornaments and tell Blaine their stories. They'll drink their hot chocolate and end up lying on the rug by the fire, listening to Rachel's playlist and talking about the future: the home they will have, the parties they will host, the friends they will keep.

It's a good fantasy, and Kurt can't wait to share it with Blaine.

~*~

The last day of school before Christmas break, Blaine stops Kurt in the hall and hands him a small jewelry box. What's inside is not expensive or glamorous, it's handmade and humble. It's made of fragile things, stronger for being woven together. It's a promise and a dream.

end Part IV