In Blaine's dream, Kurt was making eggnog in the kitchen of their apartment. Blaine looked furtively down the hall to the guest room – ahem, his room. He gingerly pulled a long, wide box from the paper bag and stepping into “his” closet, he deftly slid it into the middle of the tower of boxes on the shelf, where it blended in perfectly with the myriad of other boxes Kurt kept stored there. Darling, we are not going to just shove our summer clothes on the shelves here. That's what boxes are made for...
He'd have to wrap Kurt's Christmas present later – maybe when Kurt snuck out to Rachel's apartment, where he was hiding Blaine's presents.
The dream shifted – they were on the beach near their house, running and laughing, trying to tackle each other into the water. Kurt maybe be taller, but Blaine had determination – he took a running leap at his lover, catching Kurt in the stomach with his shoulder. They both crashed into the shallow water, spluttering and coughing as they surfaced.
“Oh, you are in trouble, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt warned. “You are in deep, deep trouble.”
Blaine grinned mischieviously, daring Kurt. Kurt grinned back.
They splashed each other wildly, laughing and shouting in the bright sunshine – swimming out away from shore. Blaine dove under the water, swimming close to Kurt's legs, reaching out to grab them, making Kurt shout.
Blaine grabbed the bottom hem of Kurt's swimtrunks and pulled, earning another loud shout. Kurt slapped at Blaine's shoulders as he came up out of the water, spluttering and victorious. He raised one eyebrow, challenging, then calmly stepped out of his trunks, kicking them up towards the surface so he could grab them in his hand.
“Just don't forget to hold on to them this time,” Blaine warned, before he ducked back under the water.
When they emerged from the water a while later, after the shocking heat of mouths and bodies on ocean-chilled bodies and clambered, wobbly-legged and satiated up the deserted beach, there was no one to notice they'd accidentally swapped swimsuits.
They'd only noticed themselves when they'd reached their back porch. Kurt sat behind Blaine on the chaise lounge, his legs wrapped around Blaine's hips, gently toweling his hair – no one could keep the curls in Blaine's hair like Kurt. Blaine had leaned back, Kurt had wrapped his arms around Blaine's shoulders, and they lay there and let the sun dry them the rest of the way.
It was a good dream.
*****
“I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss Andrews,” Kurt stammers, sitting in a quiet booth after the Gwen Andrews Singers show was over.
“It's quite simple, Mr. Hummel. My lead tenor – and duet partner – Tex has flown the coop,” Gwen paused to sip her highball – vodka, rocks with a twist – and swallowed. “Good riddance. But now I find myself in need of a tenor and I have been provided with one.”
With a negligent flick of her fingers, she waves away one of her entourage on their way to their table. She doesn't want to be distracted from this – is unsure why she feels so compelled to sing with Kurt – but this is her gut reaction, and as always, she's going with it. It hasn't steered her wrong yet.
Well, not really wrong, yet.
“I'm prepared to make it worth your while. You'd be lead tenor, sing a few duets with me. Maybe sing one or two songs on your own, after we see how you do on the road. My people will contact your people to draw up a contract.”
Kurt finally feels like he's got his feet beneath him. He was nearly knocked flat when he was summoned backstage by someone named Jimmy – now he knew, Gwen's manager/flunkie – and had this bombshell opportunity dropped in his lap.
Kurt takes a steadying breath and a sip of his own vodka before replying.
“I don't have an agent,” he doesn't react to Gwen's start of surprise. His eyes never waver from hers.
“No agent? Well, we'll get you one.”
They continue to eye each other.
“Anything else?” Gwen asks with one eyebrow raised.
Kurt purses his lips, considering.
“Could be. I'm a homosexual.”
“Not the set of pipes I'm interested in,” she looked at him steadily.
He nearly choked on his drink.
“To be honest, it might be a refreshing change. I'm tired of having my ass fondled whenever the boys think I'm not paying attention.”
“Yes, I think we can guarantee that I will happily leave your ass alone, Miss Andrews.”
“Gwen, please.”
“Kurt.” He held out his hand, and they shook.
“Very well, then. Welcome aboard, Kurt.” Gwen's smile was suddenly warm and friendly. “Now, how about another drink?”

*****
The next leg of the tour was both sleepy little towns – to sell war bonds, and larger cities where they did larger benieft concerts before heading to the nearest hopsital to perform for recently-returned soldiers in recovery.
Gwen was snappish, even brusque with nearly everyone – everyone except Kurt, for whatever reason – but with the soldiers, she was sweet and mischievious and flirtatious. At publicity stops, she complained about her feet hurting after barely 5 minutes. With the soldiers, she never complained. She held their hands. She kissed their cheeks. She made them forget where they were, just for a little while.
A young man, with so many injuries Kurt couldn't even tally them up, lay on his back, staring dully out the window next to his bed. He was in a cast from his mid-thigh to his mid-chest – his bare torso and bare legs poking out at either end. His right hand had been amputated just below the elbow.
“And how are you?” Gwen said brightly as she walked through the ward, stopping next to his bed. He didn't turn his head to look at her.
She considered him for a minute, then crawled into bed next to him. His head spun toward her in shock – and she smiled impishly at him.
“Hi there, soldier,” she purred at him. “My name's Gwen. What's yours?”
“J....John,” he stammered.
“Well, hello, John. It's so lovely to meet you.”
He stammered again.
“Listen, honey, you just do what those doctors and nurses tell you and you get yourself healed up fast,” she looked up at him through her eyelashes.
She ran her hand over his bare chest, “-- and when you get that cast off those hips of yours, you come and see me, sugar.”
With a last caress and an audacious wink, she slid seductively off the bed. As she walked away, her hips seductively swinging, Kurt looked back to see John's face, flabbergasted and yet somehow hopeful, watching her walk.

*****

Another hospital, another day. Gwen, with Kurt and the rest of her entourage tailing behind, made her way through the rehabilitation ward, watching wounded soldiers relearn skills for their daily lives, without arms, without legs.
A young freckle faced soldier with a brandnew artificial leg was sitting in a wheelchair, staring doubtfull at the set of parallel bars in front of him.
“It's all about motivating this one,” a nurse whispered to Gwen. “Physically, he's ready to walk. But he believes he can't.”
“What's his name?” Gwen asked.
“Billy.” Gwen nodded, then sauntered over to him.
“Billy-boy, could you help a girl out?” Kurt swore she was batting her eyelashes. “These nurses have been dragging me all over creation this morning, and my feet are worn out.”
Kurt wasn't sure how talking about her feet hurting to a man who only had one left was going to motivate him.
“Do you see anywhere I could sit down?” She smiled demurely at the dumbstruck young man.
He looked frantically around for a chair – but there wasn't one.
“Uh-oh,” Gwen pouted. “I guess I'll just have to share yours.” She plopped herself in his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulder to keep from sliding off.
Kurt couldn't hear what their whispered conversation was about – Gwen seemed to be teasing, and Billy was bashful, but eager to keep talking to her.
“Vicki, honey, do we have any of those photos from the Monte Carlo shoot?” Gwen called.
A moment of Vicki rustling in her satchel, and a stack of photos emerged. Gwen stood up, and began thumbing through them, “No, no peeking, Billy-boy.”
She finally selected one, and folded it 3/4 of the way up. She turned it around so Billy could see that only her smiling head – and her tantalizing bare shoulders were visible – the rest of her was hidden beneath the fold.
She walked to the parallel bars, pinning the photo up on the wall at the end.
“Now, sugar. If you want to see what I'm wearing in that picture – or what I'm not wearing – you're gonna have to walk on over here and get it yourself.”
The rest of the soldiers let up a whoop of encouragement. Billy looked flustered, but determined.
“Vicki, you leave the rest of that stack with the nurses – Ladies, whenever you feel inspiration is lagging, you change the picture – you see how to fold it? And the rest of you soldiers – I don't want ANY of you spoiling the surprise, you got it?” She pointed fingers at the men, smiling broadly.
“Now, Billy, honey, I have to go. You be a good boy now, for me?” She kissed his cheek soundly and walked away with her signature saunter.

*****
Gwen and Kurt were sitting on an empty stage, running through some new songs to add to the show. Gwen was an accomplished pianist, though she never played in public. They were trying to working on finding what keys worked for which songs – to keep them in both her range, and in Kurt's. He was finding he had to work in his lower register, which was difficult, but not unpleasant for him.
“.......He's telling her to “shoo” for crissakes. He's going off to war, and telling her to “shoo.” Jackass. You should sound lazy. Confident. Indolent.....yet supremely sexy. You know, like those guys who are just ---- assholes, but you can't help but want to fuck 'em.”
“Yeah. I sure do,” Kurt sighed. Gwen snorted.
“Yeah, I bet you do, Hummel.”
They both giggled.
“Do you....Is there a......do you have a regular....”she looked around furtively, to make they were alone. “Is your.......boy.....Is he ever like that?”
“Blaine.” Kurt supplied. “His name is Blaine. And no. He's not usually like that.”
“Not usually. So he is...sometimes.”
Kurt laughed, shortly. “Yes, on occasion.”
“And what happened then?” Her eyes were bright and curious.
It had been a lazy Saturday afternoon spent speculating on the sex lives of certain matinee idols. Blaine had Kurt in stitches with his mimickry, Kurt suggesting more and more stars for Blaine to try.
It had been Blaine's spot-on impersonation of Gable's Rhett Butler rumbling “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn” that had caused a burning in Kurt's metaphorical Atlanta. A few moments of ferocious grappling and moaning and then the Yankees were coming, indeed.
After Blaine had pulled out of Kurt, his eyes gleaming wickedly, infuriatingly gorgeous as he watched his lover gasp and writhe on the bed below him.
“Say, thanks, baby,” Blaine growled in his best Humphrey Bogart, slapping Kurt's bare hip.“Now, go get me a sandwich, would you?”

“Oh my god,” Gwen giggled. “And what did you do to him?”
“I went to the kitchen and made him a sandwich. Then I brought it back to bed,” Kurt said matter-of-factly, “where I jerked him hard again. Then I wouldn't let him come or eat the sandwich until he'd sucked me off.”
“Oh my god,” Gwen choked on her drink and coughed until her eyes water.
“Well, ask a rude question, get a rude answer. I figure if you're going to fantasize about two men fucking each other, I might as well give you some good material.”
“God, you're a bitch today.”
“You, too, sweetheart. Now, can we work on the song.
Gwen turned back to the piano. Kurt closed his eyes and remember the appealing arrogance, the confident swagger, the brash sex appeal of Blaine. The song went flawlessly.

*****
Three days later, Gwen burst into Kurt's hotel room. “Pack your bags, Hummel. We leave at the end of the week – The USO's come through. We're headed to Europe.”