They had gone to the recruitment office separately. First, Kurt, before lunch, then Blaine, after lunch. They didn't want to raise any eyebrows.
No one in New York city raised their eyebrows, or even batted their eyelashes at two bachelors sharing an apartment. The steady stream of women over to visit – including one Rachel Berry, who – gasp – frequently stayed the night, according to the neighbors. The lady in 31A was sure Rachel was Kurt's girlfriend; the man in 31C was sure she was Blaine's, and the ladies in 31D didn't care to speculate, least it provoke inquiries into their own living arrangement.
Kurt and Blaine meticulously kept up the appearance – decorating both bedrooms, though “Blaine's room” was clearly the repository for anything that was too sentimental to throw away, but didn't match the d�cor of the rest of their bachelor pad. “Blaine's room” is where anyone who visited them slept.
Blaine's grandmother left him a sizeable trust when she died. When he came into it, he'd bought them a small bungalow outside the city, near the ocean. Their house where they spent weekends and summers and holidays – with their friends for joyous occasions, just the two of them for quiet nights stretched out in front of the fire.

They were to meet back at the apartment to share their news. Blaine burst through the door promptly at 6 to the smell of Kurt cooking.
Blaine grabbed his love from behind, wrapping his arms tightly around Kurt's waist. The difference in their heights meant Blaine's chin barely fit over Kurt's shoulder – but he hooked it over anyway, peering down at the pots Kurt was busily stirring.
“Hello, Handsome,” he purred in Kurt's ear.
“Hello, you,” Kurt pressed the side of his head against Blaine's. “Dinner's just about ready. Would you get the plates ready?”
Blaine grabbed the plates and silverware from the sideboard and twisted fresh napkins into their monogrammed napkin rings. He poured them both a sizeable measure of whiskey into a cut-glass highball, splashed in some water, and met Kurt, coming in from the kitchen laden with serving dishes.
After they had dropped their napkins in their laps, Blaine picked up his whiskey and raised it in a toast.
“Here's to new adventures. I report for training in two weeks! And you?” he smiled expectantly.
Kurt, his own glass raised, faltered. “I.....They.....They said my knee is not strong enough. I....I didn't get in.”
It had been Blaine who'd originally had the idea of enlisting in the first place – Blaine who believed in kindness and decency and freedom and wholesomeness. Kurt was more cynical, inclined to wait – Blaine, they won't want us anyway.
But the strength of Blaine's convictions began to work on him.
Kurt had finally decided to enlist as well, simply because he couldn't bear the thought of staying behind while Blaine marched into danger. He knew there was little to no chance of them being stationed together, he knew it. But he had a romantic notion of finding each other in an Officer's Club somewhere in Europe, or jumping into a trench and there he'd be.
Kurt wasn't sure how he was going to live through being left behind – to stand and watch Blaine board a train and not know when – or if, oh god or if – he'd see him again. Was he strong enough to make it? Could he bear not having Blaine near him?
Dinner was quiet. They didn't speak of the war, or the news on the radio or leaving – just the every day mundane details of their life together – Kurt's father's health, the recent visit of Blaine's brother, a new project at Kurt's work.
Yet, later, when Kurt turned to him later in their bed, and fiercely and silently made love to him, Blaine understood. Kurt would always be right here waiting for him, no matter what the cost.