Kurt lies awake in bed for hours that night, his hand on his chest as he stares at the ceiling. He's so full of conflicting emotions that he's afraid he might burst and so full of restless energy that he's almost tempted to pull on a pair of straight-leg sweats and a light hoodie and go for a really-early-morning jog—and he probably would if they lived in a better neighborhood.

On one hand, he feels absolutely ridiculous for so readily accepting Blaine's fantasy-like proposal. He knows Blaine is genuine—he's familiar with the type of passion that had been in Blaine's eyes when he'd said it, but...Kurt is still just a kid. He didn't go to college, and he probably won't.

He wants to be a fashion designer, a hard enough industry to get into in the first place, if Project Runway is any indication, and when word gets out that he's dating a model scout he's going to be a very popular unpopular subject of discussion all over the fashion world and fodder for some extremely vindictive lies and rumors.

However, on the other hand, despite their age difference, Kurt really does like Blaine. He likes his smile, his laugh, the sexy way he drinks a martini and he adorable way he delicately eats his food. He likes the raw passion he'd seen, and the openly honest way Blaine had talked to him in the restaurant. He hadn't been treated like a teenager wanting to become someone's trophy husband: he'd been treated like he was the very important center of someone's universe, like the fragile new beginning of something, a delicate, crushable baby bird in someone's palm.

And Blaine...well, he's far from lecherous, or creepy, or any of the other things you're supposed to think when a man over twice your age hits on you. When Kurt looks at Blaine, he may see the physical markings of someone who's lived a long, full, possibly sometimes hard life, but, as he's learned, that's just an exterior. Age doesn't embody, doesn't define, it just is. Kurt likes Blaine Anderson the person, not Blaine Anderson the number.

What he doesn't want to think about, though, is how Blaine had been his first kiss. It had been nice—amazing, actually, and something he knows he'll never forget, that shower of sparking bright fireworks as their lips had touched and pressed and melded together—and he doesn't regret who it was with, but it's terrifying to think that the man who had been his first kiss, who might eventually be his first everything, is much older and much, much more experienced than Kurt's ever imagined himself being. And he's scared of bringing it up, of telling Blaine that he's a virgin in (now almost) every sense of the word. Though Blaine doesn't seem the type to just run away, Kurt's still afraid that it would be too much, that the pressure, the responsibility, would ultimately be the thing to crumble and undo all of this. And then where would he be? Heartbroken again.

He rolls over onto his side with a groan, tugging the sheets up to his shoulders. He should at least focus on the good things like how well the date had gone, how Blaine's hand had felt on his thigh. How he'd wanted to kiss him and never stop.

And when he finally does drift off, Blaine's face is the last thing that he sees.

----

Rachel is already in the kitchen when Kurt shuffles in the next morning, unshowered and in sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, and she turns, two white ceramic mugs in her hands. She beams at him, and from the thin black pants and tight tank top Kurt's guessing that she's just finished her early-morning workout routine. He feels bad for being so lazy this morning, but he hadn't gotten asleep until late, and as a consequence had slept in later than he'd have liked.

He sits down at the table and accepts one of the mugs, taking a careful sip and wincing at the bitter, cheap taste. "God, I hate this stuff."

Rachel sits down next to him, resting her elbows on the table. The steam from her mug rises up in wispy, silvery vapors, curling and dancing until they thin out and disappear. "Cheaper than Starbucks every day. Though, I think you should be the last person complaining right now." She grins and leans in. "How'd it go last night with Mr. Sexy Billionaire?"

"He wouldn't let me see the check," Kurt says. "The menu didn't even have prices."

Rachel whistles, nudges Kurt with her elbow and grins. "He must really like you."

Kurt shrugs, takes another sip of his coffee, and sets the mug down. All the signs point toward Blaine genuinely liking him, but Kurt's still afraid for a catch, for the other shoe to drop, for him to wake up and this all be a very elaborate dream. Men like Blaine don't just do things like this without wanting something in return. But it seems like all Blaine wants is a shot at them, to see if that spark could be kindled into something roaring and everlasting.

"I think he does," Kurt replies, slowly, carefully choosing his words. "I'm just—guys don't usually buy thousand-dollar scarves for me because they matched my eyes."

"Blaine said that?" Rachel sounds positively giddy. Kurt nods, raising an eyebrow, and Rachel's grin grows even wider, sly and knowing this time, and Kurt shrinks back in his seat.

"What?"

"He wants to be your sugar daddy, doesn't he?"

"I—I, um...well..." Kurt flushes scarlet, staring down into the milky brown depths of his half-drank coffee, and feels the heat of Rachel's gaze on him. He hadn't thought about it that way, in those terms, but hearing Rachel say it, Kurt knows she's right, that that's what Blaine wants, and it makes him feel oddly...proud, in a sense. "Blaine may have—he said some...things, more or less, and made some, uh, promises that I kind of...agreed to."

"I knew it! God, if he wasn't gay I'd be so jealous right now."

"But we really like each other!" Kurt defends quickly. "He's funny and smart and charming and so gorgeous. He holds doors open for me, and walks me to my front step...he even kissed me goodnight."

"Oh my god, so he was...?"

"My first kiss?" Kurt smiles fondly at the memory, his lips tingling again. "Yeah."

"Does he know?"

Kurt swallows hard, shakes his head, and feels that same roiling apprehension, that nervousness and fear. "No. We didn't really bring that up, and I didn't want to tell him. Not yet."

Rachel frowns. "Don't you think you should at least tell him soon? That's kind of a big thing, Kurt, and it's not like you two are the same age. He might want more before you're ready."

Kurt waves it off, but he knows she's right. "I'll tell him when I'm ready. Besides, he texted me last night after he dropped me off." Kurt bites his lip to hide his smile, runs his thumb over his phone in his lap. "He asked if the kiss was moving too fast, and when I told him no, it was perfect, he said he didn't care how slow we moved, just that he was happy it was with me."

Rachel awws, eyes big and misty with tears, and places her hand on Kurt's on the table. "I know I said it before, but I mean it this time. Keep him."

Kurt's phone buzzes, and when he sees Blaine's name on the lock screen, his heart quickens and flips. The text isn't much, just a sweet good morning, my prince :), but the knowledge that there is someone now, someone besides Rachel and his family, that's more than enough. "I think I might."

----

"If you could choose one Broadway show to see right now," Blaine begins over the phone that evening, his voice tinny and echoing in Kurt's partitioned-off room, "which one would it be?"

Kurt pauses in trying on ties for his outfit tomorrow, staring at his iPhone on the bed. "What do you mean?"

"Purely hypothetical, of course. I want to know your taste in fine entertainment."

Kurt laughs, shakes his head and settles on a bloodred tie that will go great under his black, silver-pinstriped jacket and against his slate-gray oxford. "Well, Wicked has always been one of my favorites. I sang 'Defying Gravity' in high school in an inter-glee club competition—don't ask, it was a nightmare and I lost to my best friend—and when Rachel and I first got here we went down to the Gershwin and just stood there staring up at it, seeing it for the first time in person, and it was so amazing because it was real."

Blaine doesn't say anything right away, and Kurt busies himself by putting away the colorful heaps of discarded accessories and outfit pieces. When he's done, jittery and still running on I could screw all of this up in an instant because I'm a stupid kid who doesn't know how to act around guys that like me, he asks, hesitantly, "Blaine?"

"I love Wicked," Blaine replies. It's soft, and it sounds like he's smiling.

----

A letter arrives the next day at work with Kurt's name on it. He knows it's from Blaine before he even sees the slanted handwriting, and he wonders why Blaine is sending him anything in the first place. Regardless, he waits until he's on his lunch break to open it, and the minute two heavy pieces of paper fall from the torn envelope, he's glad he waited until he was alone because he's sure the scream he'd just let out wouldn't have been appreciated by anyone.

On the surface of the table tucked into the corner of the lounge lie two fourth row, orchestra center tickets for tonight's performance of Wicked. Tickets Kurt's only ever dreamt about holding in his hands. Tickets he thought he'd never see.

He's having trouble breathing, short, staccato breaths and muted gasps, and he keeps touching the tickets like he's expecting them to vanish, or for Ashton Kutcher to pop out and declare him Punk'd. He's going to see Wicked. He's going to see his first Broadway performance ever—and, oh god, Rachel is going to kill him. She's going to hate him so much.

He lifts up one of the tickets, his hands trembling, and lets his eyes stray to the price for only a moment before he's back to tracing the name over and over. He blinks, and still it says Gershwin Theatre. He blinks, and they're still there. He blinks, and his phone rings, and he doesn't even look at who's calling before he answers and breathes out, "Blaine."

"Surprise." Blaine's voice is that same special softness that it had been last night when he'd said that he loved Wicked.

"Blaine, this isn't—I can't—I mean—"

"I'm going to take you being speechless as a good thing," Blaine teases. "I like making you speechless."

"Blaine, you can't just...I can't..."

"You said you wanted to see Wicked, right?"

"We'll, yes, I've wanted to see it for years, but, Blaine—"

"Then it's settled." Blaine's voice is finalized, and Kurt knows that arguing will be completely useless. "And we can get dinner afterward."

"Blaine."

"Relax," Blaine says, laughs, and his deep chuckle makes Kurt's skin burn hot, makes him ache in ways he's never felt before. "The menu has prices this time. I promise it's nothing extremely fancy."

"Something tells me that, also adding in the keyword 'extremely,' your idea of fancy is a lot different than mine." He looks down at the tickets again, worries his lower lip and tries not to feel too giddy. "Do I even want to know how you got such good seats on such short notice?"

"I have connections," Blaine says mysteriously. "And they're all legal, in case you were wondering."

Kurt smiles fondly, looks down at the grain of the wood. "I wasn't, but thanks for the clarification."

Blaine doesn't say anything for a moment, and Kurt appreciates the silence f the line, comfortable and surprisingly cozy, like the soft sweater you wouldn't think would fit but does. It gives him a moment to soak everything in, to ponder of the now, what this all means and what the future could hold. When Blaine finally does speak, it's hushed, unsure. "Are you happy?"

Is he happy? Kurt's sure he bypassed 'happy' a few days ago. He still feels like he's somehow taking advantage of Blaine (god only knows what an outsider's perspective might be of the two of them), but there's something about the way Blaine had just asked that question that makes Kurt think that, maybe, what this is, whatever it is so far, what it could bud and bloom in to, could become more. More than Kurt's ever imagined, more than he can take, he doesn't know. "I can't remember the last time I was this happy," he whispers, knows immediately that it's the truth, that he's always felt some sort of despair, a niggling, insistent dark cloud that was always just there. "Thank you."

"Thank you." Kurt doesn't know what Blaine's thanking him for, and he doesn't ask when Blaine only says those two words and doesn't clarify. Instead, Kurt dwells on the soaring feeling in his chest, centered around his heart; on the way that he's smiling even when he's completely unaware. He's not longer a single Pepsi bubble: he's a hot air balloon, floating higher and higher with no pop, no explosion and crash, in sight.

----

"You have to tell me everything." Rachel pokes Kurt's shoulder hard, and Kurt winces.

"Ow. Jeez, Rach, calm down," Kurt says, carefully tying and straightening his bowtie. Rachel stands behind him in the mirror, hands on her hips as she watches, then hands Kurt his slim black vest. He shrugs it on, buttons it up, and bites his lip, searching the patterned button-down, the vest, the simple bowtie, and the tight black pants. It needs something.

On his dresser gleams a pin, silver scissors and a chain, and Kurt picks it up, affixes it to his vest, and takes a step back to appraise. It's out there, but simple, and Kurt's been dying to wear this shirt for weeks now since he got it from a leftover comp box at work.

"You look good," Rachel gushes. "Blaine's going to be watching you the entire evening, not the performance."

Kurt's phone beeps, and he looks at it, sees that it's a text from Blaine. "They're here." He holds his arms out, and Rachel flings herself into his hug, squeezing and knocking the breath out of him. "Oh—I wish you could come, too."

Rachel pulls away, rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "No you don't. You may think you do now, but once you see Blaine you'll forget all about me." She winks, and Kurt flushes, ducks his head to hide his smile. He grabs his coat and buttons it up as he rushes out of the building, too excited and nervous to wait.

Blaine is standing outside the car again, dressed in slim black pants and a heavy gray overcoat. His hair is gelled back a little more this time, and he looks solemn as he stands there, hands clasped and covered in sleek black leather gloves, but the moment Kurt steps outside, collar turned up against the wind's brisk chill, his face lights up.

Kurt bites his lip when he stops in front of Blaine, reaches a shaky hand out to brush against the wool of Blaine's coat. "Hi."

"Hi." Blaine's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and Kurt notices that one sideburn is graying faster than the other. "Your nose is red."

"It's cold."

Blaine chuckles; then, without warning, he's leaning in and kissing Kurt's cheek, and Kurt feels his jaw drop, wants to bring a hand up to touch the warm circle where it feels like there's a brand. "That it is. Come on, Roy wants to say hi."

He opens the door, but before Kurt can step in, Blaine's grabbing his wrist gently and leaning back in, and this time his lips brush Kurt's ear. It takes everything in him not to moan, to fall to pieces or melt like jelly. "This is becoming incredibly redundant, but wow, Kurt, you look stunning. How have I gone my entire life without ever meeting someone like you?"

"With those lines it's no surprise." But Kurt smiles as he says it, looks at Blaine through half-lowered lashes and wonders if he's being maybe too coy. He swallows his fear and grabs the back of Blaine's neck, pulls him in for a kiss, and the surprise has Blaine's lips soft and pliant under Kurt's, but he keeps it simple, chaste, and parts to say, "You look as suavely handsome as ever, Mr. Anderson. Now let's go before I freeze to death."

----

Kurt is only slightly ashamed to admit that he'd spent about half of the performance watching Blaine in between being amazed at actually seeing everything on stage the way he'd seen through grainy YouTube videos, but much better quality and a lot closer. He notices little things about Blaine this way, like the way he clenches his jaw when he tries not to cry (but Kurt had taken his hand during the last ten minutes of the second act, and Blaine had squeezed back), the way his lashes look when he blinks, the soft wave of his hair and the slight bump of his nose all cast in muted, silhouetted profile.

Before the lights had gone down they'd been looking at Kurt's Playbill together, Blaine pointing out people he knew, or productions he'd seen, and his hand had again found Kurt's thigh, farther up toward the apex of his hip this time, and Kurt had sucked in a breath, hadn't exhaled until he'd absolutely needed to, but Blaine hadn't flinched. He didn't move his hand until fifteen minutes into the production, and Kurt had felt the warmth, the press, for the rest of the evening.

He's shocked and slightly terrified about how much that makes him want more. He's never been on a true date, much less a second one, and he's definitely never had anyone pay such close attention to him before like Blaine does. Blaine makes sure that Kurt has what he needs, offers his jacket when he thinks Kurt looks cold, gives him a smile at just the right moments and always, always knows when to kiss him. Kurt's still a little more reserved, fresh from oppressive Ohio, but Blaine has lived in New York for years, and slowly he's helping Kurt come out of his shell and realize that the world is changing and it's okay.

This feels like more than a second date, if Kurt wants to be honest. Already they've developed an intimacy that far surpasses anything Kurt's ever had, and when they leave the performance that night, Blaine's arm around Kurt's waist as Kurt sniffles and dabs at his still-damp eyes, he feels inexplicably at home in that moment.

Roy is waiting for them at the curb, and he gives Kurt a knowing smile through the rearview mirror when Kurt slides into the backseat, smiling and shifting toward the warmth of the seat warmers. Blaine slides in, his knee knocking Kurt's, and there he keeps it until Roy stops fifteen minutes later in front of a homier-looking restaurant.

"I feel like we're taking advantage of him," Kurt says after he and Blaine climb out, casting a backwards glance as Roy expertly glides back out into traffic.

"He's a driver," Blaine says, but he says it lightly, and Kurt shivers with delight when Blaine reaches between them and seeks out Kurt's hand, twining their gloved fingers together. "It's kind of his job. And he doesn't mind it, I promise. We've been friends for a long time, and, truth be told, I overpay him for what he does. But his kids are great and his wife makes the best carrot cake rolls."

"I think I've found your weakness," Kurt teases, turning his head to see Blaine practically salivating. "You're lucky that I love to bake."

They're led to a table by a waitress who looks from them to their clasped hands, blinking in momentary surprise before neutrality settles back in, and Kurt's hackles rise for a few seconds before he forces himself to remember that couples like him and Blaine—both gay and age-differentiated—aren't that uncommon in New York.

When he sees the menu, however, he groans and almost wishes that there weren't any prices. "You are such a liar," he says, scanning the items. "If my meal the other night was anything like this—"

"You don't want to know what your meal the other night was like," Blaine says dismissively, flipping through the laminated pages. "But it doesn't matter to me. I'll say it again: don't worry about it. I said I was going to treat you right, didn't I?"

Kurt slouches in his seat, then sits up straight. Blaine has a point, and he knows it, but letting go like this is still difficult. He's staring at a fifteen-dollar appetizer, sitting across from a man who'd taken him to his first Broadway show, had unknowingly given him his first kiss, and who's willing to do anything to make him happy. Most sane people would take it and run, not asking any questions. Kurt, however, isn't most sane people.

He startles when he feels Blaine's hand on his own, and he looks up. Blaine's tie is askew, and Kurt longs to fix it. His lips are wet, like he's just been licking them, and Kurt longs to kiss him. Before Blaine can say anything, Kurt smiles. "Okay."

And that's all he needs to say. Okay. Blaine's face lights up, and Kurt does lean over then, carefully, and kisses him, letting his hand run over the gel-stiff bumps of Blaine's hair. This is him giving in, accepting Blaine and Blaine's ideas, his propositions and whatever else he can present to Kurt. This is him running with it for once, latching onto that thin, delicate thread of happiness when it dangles and refusing to let go.

And after dinner, when Blaine's Town Car hums at the curb and he stops at Kurt's front step, Kurt kisses him again, hand on Blaine's jaw and fist tight in the lapel of Blaine's coat. He deepens it slowly, tilting his head and letting their lips slide together, and he feels the near-imperceptible tightening of Blaine's fingers in his hair. When he brushes his tongue fleetingly across Blaine's lower lip, Blaine's back-of-the-throat groan prompts him further, emboldens him to slide his tongue into the damp heat of Blaine's mouth for the first time, and he stiffens only slightly when Blaine tugs him closer, their bodies flush together as they kiss until Kurt's lips are as numb as his ears.

"I really like you," Blaine breathes when they part, breath puffing out white in front of him before being whisked away by the wind. His eyes have darkened slightly, hazel diluted down to a deeper brown, and his lips are red, and Kurt thinks, wide-eyed, I did that. Blaine's thumb is gentle where it brushes Kurt's cheekbone, and he wants to keep it there, wants Blaine to never stop touching him.

"I really like you, too," Kurt whispers.

"I feel like I should have done something more extravagant, maybe something that involved heating or a glittery present to make your eyes light up, but I kind of like this." Blaine kisses him again, but pulls back when Kurt tilts his head and lifts his chin. "It feels spontaneous and young."

"Ah, age jokes. I'm starting a notebook just for you, so be prepared."

Blaine just laughs. "I thought that when I hit forty, I'd finally cease to be surprised at the turns life can make. I've seen a lot, and I've done a lot. I've met a lot of people, too, but none I've ever wanted to do this so badly to." Kurt's lips part in a cut-off gasp when Blaine tugs him forward by his lapels, and this kiss is more heated, deeper, and Kurt squeezes his eyes tightly shut, clings to the back of Blaine's coat and lets himself be swept out like he's caught in the tide.

Blaine parts with a gasp, and on that same exhaled breath he asks, "Will you be my boyfriend?"

"Yes." Kurt doesn't hesitate, and he kisses Blaine's lips, the chilled tip of his nose, his cheek. "Yes, of course, Blaine. I'd love to be your boyfriend."

"You'll have to update my Facebook for me, though," Blaine says, and his eyes glint in the yellow streetlight. He grins, pulls Kurt in for a kiss just because he can. "Too young for me and all that, you know. Electronics are way too advanced for someone of my age."

"That joke doesn't work when you have an iPhone, silly," Kurt teases, but his grin grows wider, if possible, and stretches his frozen cheeks almost painfully. He throws his arms around Blaine's neck, breathes in deep the spice of his cologne and aftershave. They kiss until Roy honks and Blaine parts sheepishly, his lips slick with Kurt's saliva, and Kurt's so hopelessly addicted to this man already, past head over heels and into flat on his back.

"Better get back to your dad," Kurt says, smirking, and Blaine parts with one last kiss before he's gone. Kurt stands in the stoop long after the car has disappeared, wonders how he's going to tell Rachel, how he's going to tell everyone. He jumps up and down a few times, squealing quietly, and stares up at the sky as he bites back his grin.

He has a boyfriend.