To Kurt (1:45PM):
What are you doing?

To Blaine (1:50PM):
Going through lists of accessories for Isabelle for the next issue. Ugh. And there's this amazingly adorable fox brooch from Les Nereides Nobles Betes that puts the fox shirt I have to shame.

To Blaine (1:51PM):
But enough about me. What about you? How does the wonderful Blaine Anderson spend his days? Sipping champagne under the blue skies? Having his back massaged by beautiful, shirtless men?

To Kurt (2:00PM):
A lot of phone calls for meetings, actually. No champagne and cute men for me.

To Kurt (2:03PM):
Well, except for the one I'm texting... ;)

To Blaine (2:06PM):
Blaine, what am I going to do with you?

To Kurt (2:20PM):
Do you want to come by my place tonight?

To Kurt (2:21PM):
I'm so sorry if that came across as really forward, but as much as I love taking you out, I want to take you home, too.

To Kurt (2:22PM):
But not like that! I just mean I want you to see my place.

To Kurt (2:23PM):
Wow I'm sorry. I'm really out of practice.

To Blaine (2:26PM):
Blaine, it's fine. If it makes you feel any better, I laughed. But in a purely good way, of course.

To Blaine (2:26PM):
And I'd love to see your place.

To Kurt (2:32PM):
Great! We'll pick you up at six. And dress in something comfortable. I'm ordering a pizza and we're gonna do this boyfriends thing right by cuddling on the couch and watching a movie.

To Kurt (2:32 PM):
btw are you a pepperoni or a mushrooms kind of guy? Because I think that if you don't say mushrooms this relationship might not last.

To Blaine (2:34PM):
I love mushrooms, silly. But I think I'd be happy eating anchovies as long as it was with you.

To Kurt (2:35PM):
:) it's a date then, Mr. Hummel.

"Who are you texting?" Isabelle asks in passing as she glides by into her office, the lingering scent of Trésor sweet and heady behind her. "And if you have the accessories list done, email it to me, sweetie."

"Okay." Kurt smiles down at his phone, stares at the words in the blue and gray chat bubbles until they blur, and says, in a whisper he's sure Isabelle doesn't hear, "My boyfriend."

----

Kurt's sure he's going to throw up. Rachel's gone—out with Brody again, he remembers with an eye roll—and he's alone as he waits for Blaine to pick him up. He'd been completely cavalier about it when he was texting Blaine, but now that he's home and doesn't have projects or phones or discussions to distract him, it's really sinking in where he's going twenty minutes or so.

Being invited over to your boyfriend's house for the first time probably wouldn't be a big deal for others, but for Kurt, who's never dated and who's never been to someone else's own apartment, it is. Just a year ago, if someone had invited Kurt over he would have had to meet their parents, too. But Blaine has an apartment—an empty apartment, Kurt thinks with a gulp, and he feels his palms sweat. He wipes them on the soft cotton of his yoga pants, then wonders of he's too dressed down.

Blaine had said comfortable, but Kurt could maybe be taking it to a different level. What if Blaine shows up dressed to kill, and then there's Kurt, looking like he's on his way to an afternoon of classes at NYU. He bolts up from the couch and runs to his room, sifting through racks of clothes urgently as he tries to piece together a decent outfit before Blaine texts to tell him he's here.

It's ridiculous; Kurt rationalizes as he nearly falls while pulling off his pants to slip on a pair of looser-fitting jeans, to be this worried. He and Blaine are already dating—a thought in itself that makes him squirm happily and grin like an idiot—so why should he be this worried?

He's older, a little niggling voice says as Kurt grabs a soft, slightly-oversized sweater and slides it on. He's experienced. And he could have anyone he wanted—but he chose you, and you don't want to screw that up.

And he doesn't. He wants to prove to Blaine that he isn't just some wide-eyed kid, that dating Blaine isn't going to be for personal gain. Kurt had meant it when he'd told Blaine that he was happy, and he thinks he's always going to mean it. He doesn't need trinkets or dinners or Broadway tickets: he just needs Blaine.

His phone dings across the room just as he's slipping on a pair of shoes, and he almost wishes that Rachel were here to calm him down as he lunges for it, unlocking it and fixing his hair carefully with one hand.

To Kurt (6:01PM):
Your chariot awaits, my prince :*

That's new, the kissing face, and Kurt remembers that he can kiss Blaine now, whenever and wherever he wants, because they're actually dating. He smiles, laughs, and quickly texts Blaine back, grabbing his jacket and keys, leaving a note for Rachel on the fridge, and running out of the apartment, doubling back when he remembers that he'd forgotten to both lock the door and shut off the lights.

Blaine is just outside the car, as usual, bundled up in a thick scarf, navy blue pea coat, and low-key jeans. When Kurt sees him he grins, forgetting all dignity and poise as he runs toward Blaine, flinging his arms around Blaine's shoulders as he kisses him, Blaine's lips soft and pliant and slightly damp under him. Blaine's hands flail for a moment as he regains his composure, and then they go around Kurt's waist.

Blaine's eyes are still closed when Kurt pulls away, lips still slightly pursed, and it's another moment before Blaine blinks, smiles, and Kurt thinks he could watch the crinkle of Blaine's eyes, the little secret curve of one side of his mouth, all day. His hands tighten on Kurt's back, and he sways them lightly side-to-side. "Well, hello, beautiful. I missed you, too."

Kurt hides his smile in the soft cotton of Blaine's scarf, and inhales deep, breathing in spice and floral. He wraps his arms a little tighter around Blaine's neck, moves his head to press his lips to the soft skin just under Blaine's jaw, and feels his stomach flutter pleasantly, his heart palpating like it's been jumpstarted. "I'm hungry."

The rumble of Blaine's laugh echoes in his throat. "Let's go, then."

----

Knowing that Blaine has a lot of money and seeing it are two very different things, and Kurt isn't proud of the way his jaw drops when the elevator finally stops at the very top floor—Blaine's sprawling, floor-to-ceiling windowed penthouse. It's like taking a step into a magazine: the floors are highly-polished dark cherry wood, a sprawling spiral staircase leads upstairs, the kitchen is modern stainless steel full of enviable, top-of-the-line appliances, and the living room hosts a full set of plush-looking white suede furniture and a huge flat screen TV mounted into the wall above a gas fireplace.

"Welcome home," Blaine says, the door clicking shut behind him, and his voice carries, echoes. Kurt stands still, feels the drop of his jaw as he stares at the glittering New York skyline. "It's a bit too modern for me," he admits with a touch of embarrassment, "but I make it work. Personally, I like the bedroom the best."

He walks past Kurt as he says this, throwing a wink over his shoulder, and Kurt inhales a gulp, wondering if it's appropriate to stare shameless at Blaine's ass as he hangs up his coat and scarf in a hall closet a few feet away. "It's...nice," he croaks out, shrugging off his coat and putting it in the closet with Blaine's, and even the closet is huge and easily three times the size of his own back at home in Ohio.

"Roy went to pick up the pizza," Blaine says as Kurt cranes his neck to look up at the recessed lighting and high ceilings. "Do you have a movie preference?"

Kurt snaps himself out of it, shaking his head and hugging his arms tight to his torso. He smiles, and suddenly he's giddy again, his initial shock worn off. He bites his lip, steps forward onto the thick, plush, cream-colored rug in the center of the floor. "I'm not picky. To be honest, I've been too busy for the past few months to even really know what's out in theatres."

"Mm, well," Blaine says, draws it out and opens his arms, and Kurt goes easily, letting himself be pressed close to Blaine's chest, "lucky for you I've got Netflix."

Kurt cups Blaine's cheek, marvels at the feel of black-and-gray stubble under his palm, and looks into his eyes. They soften, searching, and they fall down for only a second before back up to meet Kurt's. He can't get over this easy intimacy, the way they can stand so close, and he leans in, brushing his lips against Blaine's because he can, because it's still new and Kurt gets the feeling that it'll always feel this new.

"How lucky," Kurt murmurs, and he's so close he can count the individual freckles on Blaine's nose. "How lucky that I can...do this." And he kisses him, slow and languid like time has stopped just for them. Blaine laughs, Kurt can hear the huff of breath; feel the stretch of a smile. Kurt places his hand on the back of Blaine's head, holding, pressing, as their lips slide and his body warms pleasantly, the faint fire of arousal throbbing low and still bearable just under the surface of his skin.

The pizza arrives ten minutes later, and they end up watching Pretty in Pink because Kurt's never seen it, something, Blaine says, is a tragedy all in its own. Kurt doesn't pay much attention as they curl up together and eat, paper plates with greasy, cheese-bubbling pizza on their laps. Kurt eyes the red sauce, then the white couch, and says, skeptically, "Do you think we should be eating here and not, you know, your awesome kitchen?"

Blaine carefully lifts a slice to his mouth, bites off a piece and shrugs. "You aren't a messy eater, and I'm not a messy eater, so I think we'll be okay."

"But what if something happens?"

"Then we either flip the cushion or I get a new couch. Either way it's win-win."

Kurt fights back a smile, takes a bite and licks sauce off his thumb. He catches Blaine watching and lets his smile bloom, turning it into a mischievous smirk as he lifts a piece of mushroom off and eats it, carefully licking his fingers afterwards. "You're such a boy."

Blaine raises an eyebrow, wetting his lower lip. He looks from the TV, to Kurt, then to the half-eaten piece of pizza on Kurt's place. "What, because I'm willing to flip a couch cushion if it gets dirty, or because I'm staring at my boyfriend as he licks his fingers?"

Kurt's breath catches in his throat, and he shivers. He's never seen that predatory look on Blaine's face before, sultry and desiring, and he fights back the urge to whimper. "Maybe a little bit of both."

Kurt just now notices how Blaine's Ralph Lauren polo falls open at the throat, exposing the hollow, a faint hint of dark chest hair, and he aches to reach out, to touch and have and take. Blaine leans forward, sets his plate on the large glass coffee table, and Kurt follows suit. The TV plays in the background, but images of Molly Ringwald and Jon Cryer fade from Kurt's mind.

"Tell me that again," Kurt whispers as Blaine scoots closer. Blaine's hand is on the back of his neck, then, firm and supporting, and he places his other on Kurt's chest, shifting to one knee on the couch as he gently lowers Kurt down.

Kurt grabs Blaine's hand as he rubs it lightly along his chest, and with a soft, cut-off voice Blaine murmurs, "Boyfriend."

He says, in that same soft voice, "Is this okay?"

Kurt lifts up, propping himself up on his elbows as Blaine lowers himself on top of Kurt. "Yes."

Kurt clutches at Blaine's shoulders, pulling him down closer as he works Blaine's lips open with his tongue, drawing back to nip, suck, before kissing him again, hard and deep and desperate. Blaine shifts on his knees, and Kurt spreads his legs, hooks one around Blaine's thigh. Blaine's stubble scratches his cheeks and he giggles, squirming at the tickle-then-burn, and he slides his hands down Blaine's back, over the dips of his spine and stopping just above the waistband of his jeans, and he takes a moment to realize that this is the first time he's had the heavy weight of another man pressing on him, pinning him down and grounding him.

He gasps when Blaine kisses down his cheek, then his neck, and he has to bite his lip to keep from moaning. He's never had anyone kiss his neck before, and he hadn't been prepared for how it would feel, like even the slightest press is hardwired to drive him crazy. Blaine's tongue drags, hot and wet, and his teeth are sharp when he nips, and Kurt bites hard on his lip, whining and pressing hard to the back of Blaine's head.

Blaine slides back with a drag, a hungry inhale of air, and he kisses Kurt deep and sound, pulling back just enough to murmur, "Don't be quiet, baby. Let me hear you."

And hearing the pet name, the husk to Blaine's voice, seeing the swollen red of his lips and the flush of his cheeks, is what brings Kurt back to reality. "Stop," he gasps, and Blaine immediately pulls back, sits up, putting space between them as Kurt pulls himself into a sitting position, ignoring the uncomfortable ache between his legs as he gingerly situates himself.

"Did I go too fast?" Blaine asks anxiously, worrying his lower lip.

Kurt shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. He tips his head towards the ceiling, counts to ten and looks back down. Blaine's brows are furrowed in worry, and his salt-and-pepper hair is in slight disarray from Kurt's fingers. It makes Kurt smile, proud that Blaine looks disheveled because of him.

"You were fine," Kurt assures, and he takes Blaine's hands, smiles. "I just...we should talk before we get carried away. Not about sex," he quickly adds when he sees Blaine open his mouth. "Not yet. Right now I kind of...I think I need to know more about you before me. You said you'd been engaged before, right?"

"It wasn't serious," Blaine replies dismissively, but Kurt knows better.

"You were engaged," Kurt presses, and he makes sure to leave no room for argument in the tone of his voice. "That's serious."

Blaine sighs, retracts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and suddenly he does look his age, forty and world-weary, and Kurt honestly doesn't think he's ever seen anyone as handsome as Blaine. "I'd never been in love," Blaine says simply. "We were serious, and I think I loved him to the point I even asked him to marry me, but it just wasn't right. He didn't make me feel. He didn't make me want to come home, want to have someone else beside me in bed every night. He didn't make me want to try, and that's when I knew that maybe I wasn't in love, maybe I was just trying so hard to find love that I was willing to make it up and settle. Jeremy was a great guy, and what I did to him was horrible."

Kurt scoots closer, frowns, and is shocked to find tears misting in Blaine's eyes when he lifts his head. "Hey," Kurt murmurs, reaching out to cup Blaine's cheek. "He doesn't blame you, does he?"

Blaine shakes his head. He offers Kurt a wan smile, and asks, "Have you ever been in love?"

It's a moment before Kurt shakes his head, but he does, and then Blaine's gentle fingers touch his wrist and he's turning his head, placing a kiss to the tender underside, and Kurt shivers, body crackling and sparking like he's just been flipped on.

Kurt wants to kiss Blaine so badly, then, wants to make him forget every bit of pain he's ever felt, and he does, hopes that the gentle press of lips conveys what Kurt isn't sure his muddled brain could come up with the words to say. But Blaine looks grateful when he pulls away, and they settle against the back of the couch, pizza forgotten as Kurt holds Blaine close and counts his breaths. He's never had anyone to hold while watching a movie before.

----

A few days later another package arrives for Kurt at work, courtesy of Kenny. His name is written in Blaine's slanted handwriting, and the mailing envelope is small and light. Kurt shoos Kenny away, practically shoving him out of the office, and only once he knows he's safe from Kenny's prying eyes does he open the package.

There isn't a note, just a small, tissue-paper wrapped object. Kurt lifts it up, notices the diaphanous quality of the paper, the small, sooth edge of something metal under his finger. He tears it carefully, unwrapping the paper slowly with soft, rustling noises until, finally, a wooden pin of a fox falls to his desk.

Kurt doesn't need a note, because, despite a throwaway text with an offhand comment, Blaine had remembered the pin that Kurt had liked, hadn't even needed to ask what it looked like to get it. He knows he should yell at Blaine—he didn't really need the pin, and it was close to two hundred dollars—but he also remembers the promise to himself to not complain, to just go with it and be happy for once.

Like Blaine had planned it, the pin goes perfectly with the camel-colored sweater and light gray scarf Kurt's wearing today, and he pins it easily to his scarf, tilting it up to look at the blue eyes of the fox, the white enamel of his tail and underbelly markings. When Isabelle comes by, she stops, stares, and Kurt knows she recognizes it. She doesn't say anything, though, and only gives him a small smile that tells Kurt she knows that something is up.

Kurt bites the inside of his cheek as he gets back to typing more memos.

----

"Finn called last night. He asked how you were doing."

The words wake Kurt up faster than the meagerly strong coffee in front of him, and he snaps his head up, looking at Rachel with rounded, alarmed eyes. "He what?"

Rachel leans against the counter, her own mug of green tea in her hands. "Yeah, while you and Blaine were out. He wanted to tell me how coaching the New Directions was going and we started talking about New York. And then he asked if you were there. Said something about how you haven't called home in a few months."

Kurt's mouth feels dry. Rachel has a problem keeping things to herself, and at the moment she's the only one who knows about Kurt and Blaine's relationship. He hasn't called home because he knows his dad will ask if he's seeing anyone, and the last thing Kurt wants to do is lie. He'd wanted to hold off, maybe try to find a way to gently break the news to him and Finn and Carole. It's still too much, too new and unstable, to go around announcing it.

"What did you say?" Kurt finally asks, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He pushes his mug away, runs his hands through his hair. His heart pounds hard, and Rachel's initial silence tells him everything he's already been dreading. "What did you do? Rachel, what did you do?"

"I—I told him you were seeing someone," Rachel replies, sounding shocked. "I thought you had already told everyone."

"No!" Kurt gets up and starts pacing the floor. His stomach knots, roils, and he has to take deep breaths to calm himself down. "I wanted to wait. Just because you approve of me dating Blaine doesn't mean that my family will."

"But he's a nice guy—"

"Who is twenty years older than me! How do you think that looks to other people?" Kurt's voice gets shrill, panicked. "You've met him and my dad hasn't. I just—I wanted to wait for the right time, and then you had to go and fuck it up, Rachel. Why can't you ever mind your own goddamn business?"

Rachel stares, slack-jawed, and Kurt doesn't care, doesn't even give her a second glance. He's being harsh, he's aware of that, but sometimes Rachel doesn't think, and though she may have good intentions she oversteps more often than not, and now is one of those times when he wishes that she'd just ask before acting.

His phone has been on silent since he got home last night, and he hasn't checked it yet, wanting to at least get some coffee in him before reading any texts he might have from work or from Blaine. Now he dreads walking toward his bedroom, afraid of what he's going to find when he gets there.

The floorboards creak behind him, and his anger swells anew as he sets his jaw and turns around. Rachel is standing there, looking upset and nervous. "Do you think your dad called?" she asks in a quiet, timid voice. She wrings her hands together, shuffles on slippered feet. Kurt almost wants to hug her and apologize for yelling, but not now.

"I don't know," he says, slow and measured. "But I think I'd kind of like it if you left me alone right now, Rachel."

She's out of the apartment in ten minutes, mumbling something about grocery shopping. Kurt notices after she's gone that she left the list pinned to the fridge and left her wallet on the kitchen table. He doesn't text her.

He hovers above his phone, staring at it before picking it up, afraid to unlock the screen and see what messages he has from Finn, from his dad, from Carole. From Blaine. His throat closes up at the thought of Blaine and their date last night where Blaine had taken him ice skating at Bryant Park. He remembers, with fondness and that same warm feeling in his chest, how he'd tripped and nearly fallen, but Blaine had caught him and nearly fell over himself. He'd kissed Kurt, then, too, dipped him low while their cold-numbed noses brushed and their wind-chapped lips stayed pressed together until Kurt had had to pull away to gasp for air. He remembers the gleam of Blaine's eyes in the light, the slight smattering of five o'clock shadow on his cheeks and jaw, the flattering lines in his face.

In his hand his phone rings. Kurt stares at it like he's in a dream, letting it buzz and over and over, his dad's name at the top of the screen, before he finally answers it. "...Hi, Dad."

Burt's voice is unapologetically explosive when he answers. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Dad, calm down, please," Kurt begs. His palms prickle with sweat, and his voice begins to edge into hysteria. This is not how he'd wanted it to go, how he'd wanted his first phone conversation with his dad in months to begin. "Your heart—"

"I don't give a damn about my heart, Kurt. What I do give a damn about, however, is finding out that my son is dating someone twice his age after not hearing from him in over two months. And from Rachel of all people!"

"Dad, Blaine's a really good guy." Kurt feels the sting of tears prick at his eyelids, and he grips his phone tighter, starts pacing the floor. "He really likes me, and I really like him. He makes me feel special, like I'm the only person who exists in the world when we're together. No one's ever made me feel like he has, Dad."

"It's sick!" The words come as a slap to Kurt's face, and he feels his jaw drop, feels the warm-wet heat of tears slide down his face as his chin wobbles and his lower lip trembles. Those were the words he'd been so afraid to hear all those years ago before he'd come out, and he'd never thought that, after his father had accepted him, he'd ever have to hear those words directed at him in any way. "This guy is a forty-year-old creep, and I refuse to let you keep seeing him. Kurt, you're not even twenty yet, you have no idea what people can do—"

"I love him!" It comes out as a tear-thick shout, wobbly and unsteady and cracking in the middle, and the moment that Kurt says it on the fly he knows that it's the truth, knows that what he'd been feeling, bubbling quietly under the surface like magma waiting for the volcano to finally erupt, has been love this whole time, possibly from the moment he'd bumped into Blaine at Louis Vuitton. He's in love with Blaine.

There's a dense pause, silence, then a heavy sigh. Burt sounds resigned when he speaks again, and it's softer, quieter, though some of the acid is still there. "Does he know?"

Kurt falls to the couch, rubs his hand over his face. "I haven't told him yet. I—I wanted to be sure before I did. We've only been on five dates"—and have made out in his ridiculously expensive penthouse more times than I can count—"and I don't want to ruin anything. I don't want to lose him." He says that on a whisper, a breath.

The speakers crackle for a moment before Burt speaks again. "I still don't approve of this, Kurt. What if he's just using you, luring you in? You're in New York now; there has to be other available guys out there."

Kurt shakes his head. "No. I don't want anyone else. Blaine is...he could be it, Dad. He could be the one for me. I know that it's unconventional, and I know there will be problems, but I feel like I'm kind of already prepared for that since I'll always have problems because I'm gay."

Burt's chuckle is slightly reluctant, and Kurt suddenly feels inexplicably weary, bone-deep exhausted, for no reason, like a weight he's been holding up has finally been lifted and he's feeling the strain for the first time. "I just want you to remember that when you're thirty, Kurt, he'll be fifty. And when you're fifty, he'll be seventy."

"I know, Dad."

"And you're prepared to take on responsibilities if this thing gets serious?"

Kurt smiles to himself, rubbing at the heavy cotton of his sweats. "I'd do anything for Blaine."

Burt sighs, and Kurt can imagine him taking off his baseball cap to rub his head. "You really are your mother's son, Kurt," he says softly, and Kurt breathes in sharp, blinking at the sudden sting of tears. "She always knew what she wanted, and she'd do whatever she could to get it."

Kurt doesn't say anything in reply for a moment, mulling over words in his head, and he hesitates slightly before finally saying, "I really want you to meet him."

"I know I should rip this guy a new one for even thinking that it was okay to put his hands on you in the first place," Burt begins, "but I haven't heard you this excited since you got that internship deal."

"So you'll meet him?"

"I can't be held responsible for anything that happens when I do, but...yes. Carole, too, though she's a little more positive about it than I am."

Kurt only just resists the urge to squeal. "Blaine will be so excited."

Kurt thinks he can hear Burt mumble something like "should be nervous" under his breath, but he ignores it. It's not going to be easy, but Blaine's a charming man, and a businessman at that, and Kurt knows his father will come around sooner or later—though he's hoping sooner. He pushes his phone closer to his ear, says, "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too, kiddo. Promise me you'll be safe, all right?"

"I promise."

"And tell this Blaine kid that he'd better be a goddamn gentlemanly saint when I meet him."

Kurt laughs, feels homesick fondness for his dad. "He's a regular Humphrey Bogart, charming lines and all."

It isn't until they hang up, Kurt sprawls across the couch to stare at the ceiling, that he has to somehow tell Blaine how he really feels. Though he rationally knows that he should have nothing to worry about, there's still that never-quite-dormant feeling of fearful inadequacy lurking.

"I love him," he says out loud, letting his voice carry and echo. His fingers drum on his chest, and every time he says those three little words, it gets more and more real. "I love Blaine Anderson."