It's Christmas Eve, and Kurt is alone. He's kept busy all day, delivering presents to his nearby friends. With the snowstorm, he'd made sure to be home early – the bumpers on their Packard had been sacrificed to the scrap metal drive, the tires worn nearly bald though they wouldn't be getting new ones – not when Our Boys Over There needed every shred of rubber for the war effort.

Kurt always capitalized Our Boys Over There in his head, whenever he said it, whenever he heard it. It really translated into “Blaine.” Everything he did, every drive he participated in, every War Bond he bought, every vegetable he planted, every hour of every extra shift he picked up at the factory, every extra thing he could do despite the trick knee that barred him from enlisting himself – was for Blaine. To help Blaine. To help Blaine so much that they wouldn't need him any more and send him home, to help the war effort so greatly that it'd be over tomorrow and Blaine would be here, safe in his arms, the next time he woke up.

He woke from those dreams, sobbing into the night, reaching out for him – those dreams when Blaine arrived unannounced on their doorstep, dreams of meeting his train at the station and running through the mist to meet him, being surprised at one of their friends' backyard parties by Blaine casually swinging around the corner of the house.

He stepped into their kitchen – so small, so efficient, so modern – and pulled a fresh jar of preserves from the pantry – strawberries, made from the berries in the patch he'd carefully tended in the victory garden that had been their backyard. He'd plowed up the entire thing – the lawn that Blaine had always hated to mow anyway – and planted vegetables, potatoes, carrots, beans – anything to help augment his own pantry, so he could donate more to the war effort. He'd left the small patch of strawberries hiding in the corner – Blaine would often slip out on summer mornings, barefoot into the dew, to pick a handful of strawberries to share with Kurt over breakfast – and he'd left the rosebushes that had been planted by the previous owners. They tangled over and through the fence in the defiant, determined way that roses have – they manage to survive, even thrive, once their roots have taken hold, no matter what happens to them. Just like the love that Kurt had for Blaine and Blaine had for Kurt – deeply rooted, defiant and determined and beautiful.

Plus, they gave rose hips, which Kurt had found so many uses for in the kitchen that he didn't feel guilty at all for his romantic notions.

The strawberry preserves went on some toasted bread, two or three cookies saved from the batches he'd made for Finn and his father and Carole – using up his entire month's sugar ration, but if you're not going to use up your entire sugar ration at Christmas time, when are you? A cup of tea – Earl Grey, but there was no lemon to slice in it – and Kurt went back to his chair in the living room. He set his plate and cup with its saucer on the small spindly table next to it. The table next to Blaine's chair was decidedly more stable, more solid – Blaine had a habit of knocking things over during exciting moments in the radio programs they listened to.

The decorations this year were understated, to say the least. Just the tree, with it's glass balls, a few of Kurt's mother's angel figurines on the mantel, with some evergreen garland and some candles, still waiting to be lit. The fire in the fireplace, Kurt had started a bit ago. It was now a lovely little fire, popping and crackling. A sprig of misteltoe Kurt hung cheekily from the reading lamp – it always made Blaine smile.

Kurt plumped the pillows in his own chair, but had always left Blaine's crushed just the way he'd left them the afternoon he'd shipped out. When Blaine came home, he could sit in his chair and wouldn't have to fuss at all.

He reached to turn the dial – the Armed Forces Radio Network was broadcasting a special Christmas Eve program from locations all around the world – most of them secret and undisclosed – so solders – Our Boys Over There – could hear sounds from home, and their families – praying, hoping wishing, patiently and steadfastly waiting for them – could hear sounds from them.

A big band broadcasting from what could only be New York City, a short comedy skit from Kurt thought must be from Hollywood, a tiny band broadcasting from somewhere secret – from the accent of the singer, Kurt guessed Scotland – and then a scratchy reading of a poem from “somewhere in Europe”. Kurt had heard rumors that official coded messages were sometimes being sent and received in these broadcasts – for the first few weeks had even tried to figure them out. When he realized he couldn't even guess what was a code and what was really a song, he gave up.

A short pause, then the announcer came on again.

“And now, coming to you from a secret location, pre-recorded earlier today, The Armed Forces Radio Network is proud to present one of our brave young men, United States Army Air Force Captain Blaine Anderson, performing a special song from all our troops here to all of you folks back home.”

Kurt gasped in astonishment when he heard Blaine's name, stood and rushed to the radioset to turn the volume up.

Kurt heard Blaine clear his throat, closed his eyes and could picture Blaine standing in front of the microphone in his freshly pressed uniform, khaki – the colour of his eyes when he laughed. Standing surefooted and strong – performing never made Blaine nervous, even singing for millions of people over the radio wouldn't be a problem for him. Blaine's eyes would be closed, a slight smile on his face, his hands either gently folded behind his back, or holding the microphone stand – if there was one.

I'll be home for Christmas

You can count on me

Please have snow

And mistletoe

And presents on the tree

The honey sound of Blaine's voice – that voice Kurt hadn't heard in two years – poured from the radio, simple and unaccompanied. Kurt sank to his knees in front of the set, turning the volume even louder. He reached out with one finger to caress the wood – the wood stain Blaine insisted on getting because he swore it was the same colour as Kurt's hair in the summer. The set reverberated under his fingers with the music. Kurt put his entire hand on the set, feeling the vibrations of Blaine's voice through the wood in almost the same way as he felt Blaine's voice through his chest – when Blaine would sing him to sleep, Blaine's naked chest under Kurt's palm, their legs tangled and bodies satiated.

Christmas Eve will find me

Where the love light gleams

I'll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams.

Kurt didn't feel the tears streaming down his face, couldn't feel the pain in his knee as he knelt there – he only felt Blaine. Blaine's happiness and joy in the world, Blaine's kindness and generosity, Blaine's caring and love – Kurt was enveloped in them. For that short song – which he knew Blaine had picked as a secret code just between the two of them – he and Blaine were together. Just as they'd be together again. Someday soon.

In the space after the song ended, Kurt heard Blaine whisper,

“I love you, baby. Merry Christmas.”

“I love you too” Kurt whispered back. “Be safe, darling. Come home soon.”

It takes several songs for Kurt's sobs to wane. When he finally crawls back to his chair, his whole body aches with it. He drinks the tea, eats the toast and cookies without tasting them – but he can't waste it. He numbly dresses himself for bed, crawls under the quilts into the crisp sheets below. He brings back the memory of the song, of Blaine's sweet voice singing just for him, feels the warmth of it – the warmth he knows was in Blaine's eyes while he sang it, the warmth in Blaine's smile, the warmth of his touch, the warmth of his body, the warmth---

Kurt is asleep.

***********************

The next morning, Christmas Morning, Kurt opens his eyes when the quilts snuggled around him shift, letting in a gust of cold air. In the early morning light, he sees Blaine, grinning at him from the pillow next to his. Kurt slowly studies him, carefully noting the new lines around Blaine's eyes, the flecks of grey in the hair at his temples.

“Hi baby,” Kurt voice is rough, his eyes still blinking sleepily. He reaches out to trace Blaine's lips with his fingertip. “I love you. You're so beautiful. I love you. I have so many things I want to tell you, baby, but I can't remember them all while I'm sleeping. This is such a good dream, baby, I don't want it to end. You look so real. You feel so real. I don't want this dream to end. Can you stay longer this time, baby?”

“I'll stay forever.” Blaine surged forward, pressing his lips feverishly against Kurt's. “But it's not a dream, baby. It's not. I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going away again. I'm home.”

“You always say that. In these dreams,” Kurt's eyes are blinking closed again. “I always believe you. But you always say that, and then I wake up and I'm alone again.”

“Then I'll stay until you wake up again. But, first, darling, roll over. I want to hold you.”

Kurt rolls to his other side, facing away from Blaine, already nearly asleep again. He feels Blaine's arm under his neck, feels Blaine's other arm wrap around his waist and grabs his hand so he can twine his fingers with his. Blaine presses their clasped hands against Kurt's heart.

“This is all I've been wanting. All I've been needing,” Blaine whispers in Kurt's ear. “Just you.”

“S'good dream.” Kurt mumbles. “So real. You're so real. So beautiful. So warm. Your body. So warm. Always so warm, except your feet. Never understand why your feet are so cold”

Kurt's eyes snap open in surprise and he shrieks as Blaine's cold toes find Kurt's warm calves, “OH MY GOD YOUR TOES ARE SO FUCKING COLD WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME WHY ARE YOUR TOES SO COLD THIS IS NOT HOW THIS DREAM GOES YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO START KISSING THE BACK OF MY NECK AND THEN WE HAVE SEX. NOT FREEZE MY FUCKING LEGS OFF WITH YOUR FUCKING ICICLE TOES.”

Blaine is convulsed with laughter behind Kurt, his arms tightening around his lover – his, ahem, roommate – so tight that Kurt can't turn his body, only his head as he turns to see – really see – Blaine. His eyes fill with tears. At the sight, Blaine's follow.

“Oh my god. It's not a dream. It's really you. You're really here.”

“I'm really here, baby. I'm home.”

Blaine relaxes his arms, just enough for Kurt to turn over, both of them reaching out to touch the face of the other – over and over and over again – wiping away tears and tracing the features in adoration.

“My shoulder's been refusing to stay in the socket, after that last hard landing we did. And the Air Force won't let you fly a bomber without both arms fully functioning. They discharged me. I wanted to surprise you, so I didn't write or send a telegram.”

Kurt's mouth worked soundlessly. The tears started again, for both of them.

Blaine reached down, pressed a fervent kiss to his love's lips. “I'm home, Kurt, and I'm never leaving you again.”