Kurt's fist hovers over the rich, polished wood of Blaine Anderson's front door. He's plucking up the courage to knock, and he knows how pathetic it is, he really does, but he can't help but be intimidated. He's never been inside this house, unless you count the few times he stood in the foyer, anxiously waiting for Blaine to please hurry and get down here for their unfortunately completely platonic trips to the local theatre. He met his parents once, a sufficiently awkward yet mostly pleasant experience. Mr. Anderson had acknowledged his presence with a brusque nod as he passed, and his wife offered him a glass of juice and an invitation to sit while he waited.

This time's different though. Blaine's not here. He's caught in traffic somewhere, sending him apologetic texts and assuring him it's fine to wait for him in his house. Their maid, Belinda, is there, he says, so she'll let him in and whip him up a snack if he's hungry. There's also a TV in his room, if he wants to put on a movie while he waits.

Kurt finally brings his knuckles to the door, ignoring the embellished doorbell. He waits for a moment, then hears the telltale click of a metal deadbolt sliding back, and the door opens. A squat, middle aged lady stands in front of him, almost a foot shorter. She looks him up and down, and Kurt suddenly feels quite self-conscious, but she nods and allows him entry, grabbing his coat and hurrying off to wherever she came from without a word.

And now he is, for all intents and purposes, alone in this massive house. He admires the warm browns and reds that make up the colour scheme, and add a sense of lived-in-ness to what he knows to be a frequently deserted home. The carpet under his feet is plush, and springs back up after each step. He notices that it hasn't been trodden down in what should be frequently travelled areas, meaning it's new, or doesn't see much traffic. Judging by the lack of new carpet smell, Kurt assumes the latter.

He makes his way past the sitting room, a gallery of expensive furniture to be admired and coveted, but not sat on, never subjected to something as damaging as family life. He catches a glimpse of the kitchen as he walks to the staircase. Top of the line appliances in stainless steel are sandwiched between marble countertops. It's beautiful, and he finds himself aching for a chance to explore it, to root through the drawers where he knows he'll find every utensil, pot, and skillet he's ever had on his wish list, all in perfect condition, and probably all unused. He clutches at the banister and tears him mind away and trods up the steps, following Blaine's directions. Second floor, second door on the right. This hallway is similarly furnished as the main floor, warm and inviting, but still somehow sterile. Maybe it's the scent of Pledge that wafts off every surface, masking the house's unique scent.

It's not hard to find Blaine's room; the sign reading BLAINE'S ROOM hanging from the closed door makes it hard to miss. Kurt takes a deep breath in, as though he's about to walk into an active war zone, and turns the handle, slowly pushing forward.

It's not what Kurt expected, but it's exactly what he should have expected. The room is dark, he notices first. The walls are lined with hunter green and cream striped wallpaper, with monochromatic wood panelling along the bottom. The overhead light is harsh, and casts the room in a synthetic glow, so he promptly flicks it off again. There's just enough light coming in through the sole window, but the sun is rapidly setting. He reaches for a lamp instead, which does a much better job of illuminating the area. A glimmer directly to his left catches his eye, and he sees a fairly impressive collection of trophies gathered on top of a tall dresser. He moves closer, curious.

Not surprisingly, he recognizes a handful instantly as singing awards, all dated between the years 2000 and 2007. Two of them are for polo, which is surprising. He doesn't ever remember hearing Blaine mention it, or even horses for that matter, but the many pictures around the room indicate that it must be important to him. He'll have to ask him about that. There's a small plaque leaning against the wall, this one for fencing. Also a small shock: he knew Blaine fenced from time to time, but he never mentioned competitions. The last trophy, the second largest, makes Kurt smile. Ohio State Spelling Bee, 2008- 2nd Place.

Kurt pads across the hardwood floor to the vanity. There's an assortment of knickknacks cluttered there, and a bottle of hair gel he refrains from stowing away in his bag. He doesn't want to snoop, so he moves on, admiring a bright red armchair that feels somewhat out of place in an otherwise quite sombre room, but it's really the most Blaine piece he's seen so far. It looks quite comfortable, but there's a pile of neatly folded clothes on the seat, so he can't test his theory.

Then there's the eyesore of the room, a large plasma TV mounted on the wall. It's nice, certainly, and Kurt's quite envious if truth be told, but on top of the many reasons he's against having such a distraction in what should be a sanctuary, it jars with the cohesive aesthetic. The room is quiet, old fashioned, and dark, but the TV is new and flashy. He starts forming his argument to convince Blaine to take it out.

Kurt turns away, and winds up face to face with Blaine's bed. He's been trying his best to ignore it ever since he walked in. It's just so personal, he thinks, and also painful. It's where he wants to be most right now, curled up under the covers with Blaine beside him, fingers entwined and foreheads resting together. The thought causes his throat to constrict, but he's brought back to reality by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. He panics, not sure how he should be situated when Blaine walks in. He doesn't want to just be standing there awkwardly, like he's uncomfortable being here (which, yeah, he kind of is- but Blaine doesn't need to know), but he thinks it might be a bit forward to just sprawl out on the bed.

He ends up crouching in front of the small assortment of DVDs, grabbing one at random and pretending to read the back as he does his best to calm his heartbeat back to an acceptable pace.

"Hey," Blaine says, smiling at Kurt as he tosses his bag across the room. "I'm so sorry for making you wait. It must have been kinda weird being here alone."

"It was fine," Kurt lies breathlessly, smiling back and watching the other boy sink onto the bed. "I wasn't here long. Just thought we could watch a movie or something before we start on this history project." He holds up whichever case he has in his hand with a nonchalant shrug, trying to show Blaine just how totally not weird it is for him to be in this room.

But Blaine's blushing now, a rare occurrence, and Kurt starts to worry he's acting a little too comfortable. Are they not at that point where they can root through each other's DVDs? Because Blaine said it was fine.

"Uh…" Blaine starts, an eyebrow quirked, "were you planning on watching that exact one?"

Kurt looks down at what's in his hands for the first time. As it turns out, he's holding up a copy of Anal Adventures 5, and in a move he's not proud of, shrieks and throws it across the room. There's a moment of silence as they watch the disc fly out of the case as it smacks the wall and roll in wide circles along the floor until it collapses with a shudder.

Blaine reacts first with a hearty laugh. Just a single bark at first, but it the look on Kurt's face and the tense silent acts as a catalyst, and he breaks into hysterics. He's actually doubled over, hands clutching his stomach, and Kurt's pretty sure those are tears in his eyes. For his part, Kurt's frozen with embarrassment, only slightly relieved Blaine can see some sort of humour in the situation (because he sure can't).

"I… It's…" Kurt sputters, trying to form a coherent sentence over his crippling shame and Blaine's guffawing. "…you keep that in with your normal movies?"

Blaine takes a moment to compose himself, almost as red in the face as Kurt. "No one's ever in here," he explains, rubbing his hands over his cheeks. "But I forgot that was there; it was a present from Jeff. God I wish I had a recording of your reaction." He rises from the bed and picks up the projectiles, still chuckling. He flips the disc over, examining the back and wiping something off it.

"Did I scratch it?" Kurt asks, just to be polite. It shouldn't matter if it's scratched, should it? Has Blaine watched it?

"It'll be fine," Blaine shrugs, snapping the case shut and tossing it into a drawer. "It's always been kinda wonky anyway. I'm pretty sure it's a bootleg."

Kurt feels his brain shut down at those words. Blaine's watched it. He's watched it multiple times. Probably while on that bed, with his hands-

"We should start." Kurt says abruptly. "Our homework, I mean."

Blaine nods and scoops up his bag, digging through and pulling out his notebook, muttering quietly about the Russian Revolution. Kurt hasn't even opened his English textbook. It's that damn bed, he grumbles to himself. Taunting him; a symbol of everything Kurt wants but he can't have, because Blaine's just not interested. And Blaine's rambling on and on about the Tsar, completely unaware that Kurt's stewing in his emotional juices, on the verge of a breakdown. He needs to get out of this room.

"It's so dark in here," Kurt interrupts, trying to keep his voice light. "And your overhead light is terrible. How do you do anything in here without straining your eyes?"

"I guess I'm just used to it," he says, looking at Kurt over his notes. "Is it bothering you? We could do this somewhere else."

"If you don't mind," he replies, eternally grateful. Kurt all but runs around the room, collecting his stuff, and they make their way down to basement where he can finally focus on his work without that nagging distraction.