Kurt wakes up early – not as early as he had originally planned considering the massive amount of work he has to do, but still relatively early – to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He would bolt up and check on that, but he can't move, the muscles in his body quite content to remain immobile regardless of whatever Kurt decides. And Kurt would usually be more than willing to obey and stay in bed, but there's a problem.

There was someone with Kurt last night, someone he wanted to know better, but with the slamming of his front door, that man might have gone, and Kurt, stuck in his stupid bed, can't go after him.

He feels drained, hungover, having gotten drunk off lack of sleep, adrenaline, and stress – a cocktail he'll remember to pass on the next time it's offered to him. Kurt tries to shimmy up the bed but he literally cannot move, locked in place by a weight pressing on his chest.

Fucking hell, Kurt thinks. If I get sick now, I'm done.

Kurt blinks dry, sticky eyes, and looks around. His room is cool and dark, his curtains pulled tight to block the morning sun, but there's a hot spot blooming on his chest, running down his torso, winding around his waist.

And it snores like a chainsaw.

Craaawwwwwkkkkk!

That noise, like the metal body of a derailed train grinding against cement, catches Kurt by surprise. It makes his head throb like no one's business…but it's a relief, too.

There you are, he thinks, relaxing underneath this weight that he realizes is a person.

Crawk! Snork-snork! Craaaawwwwkkkkk!!!!

Kurt snickers, biting his lip to stop himself before he starts laughing, knowing he'll shake the bed and wake the adorable, curly haired sloth attached to his midsection.

Craaaawwwwkkkk! Crawk-crawk! Snoooorrrrkkkkk!!!

“Oh my God,” Kurt mutters quietly, wondering how in the world he managed to sleep thru that.

Then he feels Blaine's body slide against his – Blaine's naked body – and he remembers.

Dear God, does he remember.

Kurt slept like a baby because after last night – and a good portion of this morning – he was so exhausted, the L train could have stopped in his room to let off passengers and he wouldn't have even blinked.

Kurt sighs happily and lets his body sink into the mattress, the man on top of him snuggling into his chest.

It was one fucking fabulous night.

***

Kurt had been right. Kissing Blaine was addictive. The feel of his lips, their texture, how incredibly soft they were – unbelievably soft. And Blaine – Jesus Christ. He was one hell of a kisser. His were the kinds of kisses Kurt dreamed of – the kind that left marks and made you crave more. The kind that, once you had them, you knew you couldn't live without them, because every other kiss would pale in comparison.

And it wasn't just Blaine's kisses that were addicting. The noises he made when Kurt started unbuttoning his shirt and caressing his chest – Kurt could live off of those noises, thrive from them. The smell of his skin – so rich, so masculine, so complicated when Kurt took a deep inhale at the juncture of his neck – was something Kurt would like to bottle and carry with him…or wear on his own skin, covering him from head to toe. Even the scratch of his stubble against Kurt's cheek, something that was one of Kurt's biggest pet peeves with other men, felt downright sensual on Blaine.

Who knew that the man Kurt had been bitching about never finding was sitting behind him in class this whole time? Obviously not Kurt. He should look up from his magazines more often. What else was he missing? Unicorns? Circus acts? Three-headed dogs? If someone as incredible as Blaine could go unnoticed, then what else has Kurt been blind to?

Kurt was excited, so eager to get at Blaine, to have him, that he was rushing, nearly tearing Blaine's clothes from his body without realizing that Blaine was almost completely undressed while Kurt hadn't even removed his socks. Kurt got stuck at the button to Blaine's slacks, ready to rip it off with his teeth if he had to, when Blaine caught his hand.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Blaine asked. “I mean, we could be rushing into things. Do you…should we take things slow?”

Kurt looked into Blaine's eyes – nervous and anxious, but excited to be with Kurt, only there were doubts there holding him back.

“I thought about that,” Kurt said, pushing Blaine's shirt open wider and running his nails lightly down his chest. Blaine's head fell back, and then his body, until he became loose and pliant beneath Kurt's fingertips. “But even if we don't have sex now, I'll want to do it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day.” Kurt leaned forward to lick around Blaine's nipple. Blaine grabbed at the sheets beneath him, and between Blaine's legs where Kurt sat, his cock throbbed. “And why not?” Kurt whispered with another lick. “We're both consenting adults. And we both want this…” Kurt sat up, for the first time noticing that he was the aggressor here. He was the one forcing this issue, with a questioning Blaine following behind. “Unless…you don't want this?”

“No!” Blaine said, sitting up so quickly he almost bucked Kurt off his lap, making Kurt giggle. “No, I want this, I want this. I soooo want this.”

Kurt bit his lip and slowly opened the zip to Blaine's slacks.

“Can I ask you a question? I'm hoping you'll be honest.”

“Anything,” Blaine said, staring hard at Kurt's face even though he wanted to watch the hands toying with his zipper, brushing blissfully close to what lay underneath. Blaine didn't want to be rude, didn't want to be so goal oriented that he couldn't look Kurt in the eyes while they talked, regardless of what his hands were doing, how sweetly they were torturing him, teasing him, driving him insane.

“This isn't your first time, is it?” Kurt opened the fly to Blaine's pants and rested his hand on the impressive bulge outlined beneath a thin layer of maroon cotton.

“No,” Blaine answered, his voice shuddering as the heat of Kurt's hand bled through to his skin, “there have been other times.” Kurt started to stroke, two fingers working up and down the sides of his shaft through the fabric. “T-two others, actually.” Blaine gulped. “T-two uncomfortable, unfortunate, and d-disappointing others.” Blaine let his eyes wander. He couldn't help it. He had longed for this moment. He wanted the full experience. “W-would it h-have mattered if it was?” Blaine asked, lifting up his hips to meet Kurt's hand, begging for more.

“No,” Kurt said with a wicked smile, returning his attention to Blaine's shirt, pushing it off his shoulders in an attempt to get Blaine completely naked. “But now that I know, let me try to make that up to you.”

Kurt made a meal of undressing Blaine, and Blaine ate it up, finally drumming up the courage to do the same when his underwear hit the floor. He stripped Kurt of his clothes a piece at a time, tracing the lines of his muscles, connecting freckle to freckle with light brushes of his fingertips, then going over the same paths again with his tongue.

They didn't outright discuss what would happen next, or who would do what. It didn't seem like they needed to. Blaine's fingers traveled down Kurt's body, and when they reached his lower back, Kurt took Blaine's wrist and guided him where he wanted him. Blaine opened him up with careful strokes, gentle scissoring, watching Kurt writhe with a look of wonder that he could do this to Kurt, and that Kurt would actually enjoy it. Kurt found a condom (a relic of sex lives past that luckily had yet to expire) and gave it to Blaine, who put it on without question. Then Kurt climbed in Blaine's lap, his body sliding smoothly over Blaine's cock, and Blaine held Kurt close – impossibly close. They moved together, breathed together, Blaine rocking Kurt in his arms so he wouldn't have to let him go.

It didn't matter that hiding beneath his suit Blaine had an amazing body, a dancer's body, with smooth, tan skin and lean, defined muscles. Or that, completely disrobed, he changed into a slightly different person – less shy, less submissive, more in control. It was the way he looked at Kurt that Kurt would always remember. The way his eyes shone up at Kurt every time he moaned, like Kurt was made of starlight and magic. And the way he kissed Kurt whenever Kurt came close, like he couldn't get enough, like there would never be enough.

Like he'd been waiting for this moment forever.

Kurt didn't know how long they sat on the bed and rocked together, didn't register that, as little curls of pleasure rippled through him, his heart had started to race, and he had begun to sweat. Kurt felt taut and relaxed at the same time, at peace but on the cusp of something ecstatic, overwhelming. Blaine kept him there, balanced on the edge for so long that when Kurt came, it didn't rip through him like an explosion or barrel through him like a train. It washed over him like the gentle swell of a wave rising, carrying everything along with it.

Blaine refused to be apart from Kurt. It took a while before Kurt could leave his lap. When he did, they lay in each other's arms and Blaine touched Kurt, running his fingers over his skin, burying them in Kurt's hair, following with kisses and whispers until every inch of Kurt tingled, so that by the time Blaine took the initiative to slip down Kurt's body and sink his mouth over him, there wasn't too much more he had to do to make Kurt come undone.

But as mind-blowing as sex with Blaine was, the real gift was falling asleep in his arms. After a long night of angst and turmoil and stressing over deadlines, which turned into talking and laughing and fooling around, all because Blaine was there – beautiful, wonderful Blaine…

Blaine was right. This was the best Valentine's Day ever.

***

Kurt hears a chair fall over from somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, but it's the muffled shit! that follows that makes his hair stand on end.

There's someone in the apartment. Someone broke in to their apartment. Of course, it could be Santana, but Kurt's pretty sure it isn't. She never explicitly said when he could expect her back. Then again, she never does. But her Friday nights with Brittany usually don't end until Monday morning. Glancing over at the clock by his bedside, he checks the time.

10:30 a.m.

Yup, that's way too early for Santana, especially on a Saturday.

He lies still for a second longer and listens, but he doesn't hear anything else. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe that sound wasn't coming from the kitchen of their apartment. Maybe it was coming from the apartment next door. The walls can be surprisingly paper thin when Kurt is trying to concentrate on studying or when he wants to sleep.

Their neighbor is a sleep moaner. They try to ignore it.

Well…Kurt tries to ignore it. Santana kicks the wall and makes inappropriate remarks.

Kurt hears the refrigerator open, the Perrier bottles on the door clanging together.

Fuck! It is their apartment, and now Kurt's going to have to do…something. He's not sure what. He should at least lock the bedroom door in case said burglar has any intention of coming in. It may also behoove Kurt to peek out and try to see the burglar so he can report them to the police. His renter's insurance is only going to cover so much, after all. And then there are his suits. How could he forget about his suits!? If some self-entitled prick so much as pops a single stitch on one of his suits, he won't be calling the police to report a robbery.

He'll be calling to report a murder.

Kurt starts to move, detaching himself from Blaine's hold, but Blaine mumbles, “Nuh-uh,” and squeezes. Kurt smiles, touched by Blaine wanting to be near him, even in his sleep. Kurt hears the burglar close another door – Santana's door – and that prompts him to put more effort into getting out of bed, because God knows that if a single one of Santana's designer dresses goes missing, she'll blame Kurt, armed robber or no. Kurt is honestly more upset at the fact that he's going to have to get out of a comfortable, warm bed, and away from a comfortable, warm body than the idea that there's a strange person in his apartment, possibly armed, stealing the television, and sticking their filthy fingers into his freshly made foie gras.

Kurt sighs. Why today, universe? Why give Kurt a smidgen of happiness and then throw a felon into the mix?

He's halfway off the bed when it occurs to him that there is another option. He feels like an idiot for not thinking about it before. All he has to do is find his phone and call the…

Shit!

He doesn't have his phone. He left it in the living room. He'd been using it for the timer. And Blaine's phone – Kurt saw him put it in the inside pocket of his jacket - a jacket that is draped over the arm of the couch.

Double shit!

Kurt continues his climb out of bed, gathering up wrinkled clothes and putting them on. He can't just lie and wait for him and Blaine to be discovered. Whoever else is in the house could be dangerous. He decides to take a look and go on from there. Maybe he can even get to his phone. He takes one last peek in the mirror, stopping a moment to fix his hair and his face. As moronic as it sounds, he doesn't want to be seen by anyone, even a criminal, looking like he just rolled out of bed.

Even if he did just roll out of bed – and it looks good on him, too.

Kurt smiles at his reflection, at his untamable sex hair and the bruises purpling on his neck.

He likes what he sees.

Kurt's life has zigzagged so many times that, some mornings, when he wakes up and looks in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself anymore. That's not a bad thing, just a bit unexpected, especially since he can look at his reflection and see traces of all the people he once was. He can see the little boy of five who thought he would grow up to be a ballet dancer. He sees the slightly older boy at eight who wanted sensible heels for his birthday and had aspirations of becoming a royal. He sees the teenager in high school - bullied, confused, fighting to come out and find his own way. He sees the young man he was before he graduated – much stronger, more determined, much more assured of his path in life.

Then he sees the man he was before he met Blaine – still determined, still strong, but a lot less sure, and lonely.

Tremendously lonely.

Today he's changed again, to a man with the potential to find love, something he didn't see happening to him for a while.

He wants to be able to reflect on that more, appreciate it more, but now is not the time.

Kurt opens his door a crack, peering out with one eye to see the identity of the mystery thief, and make sure that he, or she, hasn't wrecked any of his hard work. He spots a silhouette, a busty silhouette, sees a head of long, brown hair, and hears the familiar click-click of high-heeled Louboutin knock-offs walking away from the kitchen.

It is Santana.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

He can go back to bed, wrap himself in Blaine's arms, and continue with their cuddling, secure that he's not going to be murdered in his own home, but he finds himself stumbling out of his room, closing the door quietly behind him. He doesn't know why, but he needs to have a word with her.

He catches Santana when she comes back out, a rollaway suitcase in tow, grabbing her coat and purse, and heading for the door.

Santana sees him from the corner of her eye and says, “I'm not here. I'm just picking up some things and heading with Britt-Britt to the coast.” She opens her purse and starts rooting through the contents, pulling out a couple of lipsticks and checking the names on the bottom. “So I'll be gone all weekend. You know - out of your hair, in case you need to work…or if you plan to have any overnight guests.”

When she picks out the same tube of lipstick for the third time, Kurt knows that she's stalling, waiting for him to give her details. She glances up and looks him over, a confused look in her eyes. He knows she's trying to figure out if he fell asleep in his clothes from last night, or if there might be another reason he didn't bother getting ready for bed. “You're up earlier than I thought you'd be.”

“Well,” Kurt says, trying to pull off urbane and coming up bashful instead, “I did promise the man breakfast.”

Santana beams.

“Yes,” she cheers, accompanied by a giddy shoulder shimmy. “I knew that guy would be good for you. You should listen to me more often.”

“Yeah, right. If I'd listened to you earlier, I might be married to Vlad the Rat Impaler.” Santana snickers, but Kurt remains impassive. “And about that…” Kurt crosses his arms and leans up against the front door. “I know what you did. The story about the escort service and…and everything.”

Santana straightens, ready to defend her actions, and Kurt has to work hard not to automatically put up his guard. One of the pitfalls of dealing with Santana is her Golden Rule - even when she's wrong, she's never wrong.

But at least this time she looks guilty.

“And?” Santana's eyebrows raise, waiting for a lecture. And Kurt has a lecture prepared, about how even though this worked out with Blaine, it wasn't right for her to toy with his love life, and Blaine's love life for that matter. And normally if Kurt told her to keep her pointed Cruella nose out of his business, she would play it off, but not this time. Something in her eyes says different. Blaine got to her. Somehow, he got to her, and her playing matchmaker had as much to do with her own investment in seeing the two of them get together as it did with the typical, blanket excuse of Santana's always right.

Kurt doesn't let Santana suffer any longer, even if her expression is priceless.

“Thank you,” he says and smiles.

When her sly grin returns, Kurt is actually glad that he's the one who put it there.

“So am I to take it that little man rocked your world last night?” Santana asked. “Or does your current state of sloppy dress mean that you ate some cookie dough, popped in Mamma Mia!, and had the gay man's version of a slumber party?”

“I'm not going to kiss and tell, Santana,” Kurt scolds, diverting his eyes when his cheeks start to burn.

“Come on,” she says, poking a manicured nail under his arm to torture it out of him, “you know you want to…”

Kurt looks at the ridiculous smile on her face, and he can't help himself. Maybe he owes it to her.

He'll never admit it, though.

“If you're referring to the deep dicking you told him I needed, then yes. Yes, he did.” And as thankful as he is, he can't leave it at that. They wouldn't be KurtandSantana if he did. The future of their relationship depends on one or both of them acting like a bitch. “But I'm warning you - mess with my love life again, and your shoe collection is going to meet with an accident.”

“If that's how you feel, Hummel, fine,” she says, putting her hands up in surrender, but with a satisfied and smug expression on her face. “But if I'm right about this - and you and I both know I'm always right - I'll never have to mess with your love life again.”

Kurt nods. He sincerely hopes not.

“Good,” he says. “Now that we have that settled, get out of here before you wake him up, you banshee.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” she says, shouldering her purse and grabbing the handle to her suitcase. “Go, feed your man, have lots of sex, send us vids when you make ‘em…”

“Santana,” Kurt says, shooing his roommate out the door. “Good-bye.”

“Oh, and Kurt…” Santana turns in the hallway, Kurt figures, for one last X-rated dig.

“What?” he asks, putting a hand on his hip, waiting to get this over with.

“I'm happy for you.” She reaches up to pat his cheek, then turns and takes off down the hallway.

For a second, Kurt is stunned. He doesn't know when it happened, when exactly he and Santana became friends. They weren't really friends when they moved in together – or when she showed up on his doorstep one day, walked in, took over the room he had planned to make his sewing room, and then never left. They just kind of tolerated one another, and as long as they didn't have to spend copious amounts of time around each other, that arrangement suited him fine.

She hasn't told him yet, but Kurt knows that she's talking with Brittany about moving in together. Every day, more and more of Santana's things walk out of their apartment and don't return.

But only now does he start to think he might miss her when she's gone.

His stomach growls, reminding him that he's standing in the open doorway of his apartment, staring at an empty hallway. It's already mid-morning, and he's wide awake. He could make himself some breakfast and wait for Blaine to get up on his own, but he doesn't want to be alone. Not after that conversation with Santana. He throws together another tray of fruit and cheese. He adds some cold potato pancakes, a glass of orange cubes, a small bowl of nuts – finger foods they might be able to feed one another if they decide to go for round six.

He carries the tray into his bedroom and finds Blaine awake, but only by seconds, sitting up in bed with his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He looks as handsome as ever, even with the addition of his mop of curls creating a wild, frizzy halo on top of his head.

“Hey, sleepy head,” Kurt says, carrying the tray over to the bed.

“Hey,” Blaine says with a smile, until he sees that Kurt's already dressed. “Are you…do you need to go somewhere? Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Kurt says, setting the tray down. “No, I…I heard a noise, and I thought there was a burglar.”

Blaine looks at Kurt's wrinkled clothes and his brow draws together.

“So…you got dressed and went out there?”

“Well…yeah,” Kurt says sheepishly. “I'll admit it wasn't one of my wiser decisions. But it wasn't a burglar. It was just my roommate.”

Blaine sits up a bit more.

“Santana?”

“Yup,” Kurt says, sitting on the bed and picking out a blueberry to eat.

“So, she's here?” Blaine asks, disappointed that he might not get Kurt to himself.

“No, she just came back to get a few things,” Kurt says, picking out a blueberry to feed to Blaine. “Apparently she's going to be gone for the weekend. You know…to give us some time alone.”

Blaine stops chewing and swallows.

“That's…well…um…nice of her.”

“It is,” Kurt says. “Proof that miracles do happen. Though to be fair, I think her and Brittany are going apartment hunting. I may find myself with an empty room soon.”

“Oh,” Blaine says. “Will you be looking for another roommate? I mean, is that something you need, or can you handle things on your own?”

Kurt eats a cube of cheese, chewing while he thinks of an answer.

“I can hold down the fort on my own for a while,” he says. “Though, it would be nice to have someone move in, in a couple of months or so. Give me the time to find the right person.”

Kurt's eyes flick Blaine's way for a second, then go back to the tray.

Blaine nods, watching Kurt pull a grape from the bunch, twisting it between his fingers to get it free of the stem.

A couple of months. See where they are in a couple of months.

When Blaine put on that suit last night and showed up at Kurt's door, he never dreamed of any of this.

“So, should we do something to thank her?” he asks, opening his mouth when Kurt offers him the grape.

“Well, a sacrifice of some sort should probably be made.”

“What do you recommend?” Blaine asks after a swallow. “I mean, she's your friend…”

“Friend is kind of a strong word,” Kurt jokes, feeding Blaine another grape before picking a plump one out for himself. “But if this works out between us, we may have to erect a monument, make a public declaration…”

“What kind of public declaration?”

“An ad in a major newspaper would suffice. Or maybe we'll be forced to name a child after her.” Kurt says it offhand, popping the grape into his mouth, his mind occupied elsewhere. But then what he says hits him, and he swallows the un-chewed grape whole. “O-or a pet.”

“A pet?” Blaine says, smiling at Kurt's slip. He's not going to linger on it. He's done the same thing himself once or twice, daydreamed about what life would be like if he got to live it with a special someone.

Lord knows he's done it with daydreams of Kurt.

Kurt shrugs, trying to get as far away from his faux pas as quickly as possible.

“Maybe she'll let us get away with a houseplant.”

“A houseplant.” Blaine lifts up on his elbow and kisses Kurt, enjoying the way the tart flavor of fruit mingles in their mouths, thinking that he wouldn't mind waking up this way every morning. “I can live with that.”