When the phone rings at 7am on the dot it’s not unexpected, even if it is a good couple of hours earlier than usual. Blaine has called him every Sunday morning since Cooper moved out of their parents’ house at eighteen. The cellphone number never changes, even if where he is when he answers it does.

He doesn’t have to look at the caller ID to know that it’s Blaine; he knows it’s him by the ringtone. And the fact that no one else would dare call him this early, not unless it’s a dire emergency.

“Christ, Blainers,” he groans into the receiver. “What gives?”

“Oh hey, Coop. You’re up!”

Blaine sounds disgustingly awake and chipper for such an early hour and Cooper has half-a-mind to turn the phone off and roll back into his pillows for a few more hours. If it were anyone but Blaine he would have.

“Of course I’m up – I’ve got fucking Roxy Music blasting in my ear.”

“You love it and you know it.”

“I do not.” Cooper rolls over and rubs his palms against his eyes. They feel gritty and he regrets his late night out with his friends. He wouldn’t have had that final round if he’d known his brother would wake him up at ass o’clock the next morning.

“What’s up man? You never call this early.”

“Is it early?” Blaine asks, and Cooper can hear in his voice that he knows exactly what time it is. “I was, uhm, up. I guess I didn’t, uh, realize what time is was, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was kind of a long week, you know? Had a history test. I’m sure I did fine though. Lots of Warbler stuff going on. Getting ready for Regionals. We’re, uhm, we’re going to switch things up, a little. Kind of. I mean, uh, we’re going to try something a little different.”

Cooper wonders if that something different means six-part harmony instead of eight.

“Isn’t it a little close to the competition to be messing with things now?”

“Is it? It’s just, uh, Kurt was saying that the New Directions are going to be writing their own songs and I just think we really need to step up if we want to win. We can’t not change, you know? The Warblers have to grow and develop and adapt and Kurt kind of pointed out that maybe I’m, uh, taking too much of the focus. Maybe.”

Cooper realizes that this is going to turn into one of their longer calls and starts thinking about rolling out of bed to make coffee.

“What did he say?” He asks.

“That, uh, my solos are numerous.” Even through the phone Blaine sounds ashamed and chastened, embarrassed. Cooper can just picture Blaine looking down at his feet, scuffing the toe of his shoe across the floor. His little ears are probably bright red.

Cooper grins and stifles the laugh that bubbles up. Of course it was Kurt, with his laser-sharp wit and no holds honesty, who was the one to tell Blaine that yes, maybe he was taking over the Warblers. Cooper knows just how talented Blaine is, knows how much he loves performing, but he also knows that the Warblers work best as a cohesive group, a seamless blending of voices, and that a standout star can have an adverse effect.

“So I uh, I called a council meeting, and I suggested, well I said, that is, I proposed, uhm, a duet. For Regionals. For one of the numbers.”

“And how’d that go?”

“Fine. Fine. I, uh, told them I wanted to do the duet with Kurt.”

Cooper bites his lip against all the things he wants to say. He also kind of wants to smack Blaine. His brother is so fucking dense sometimes. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s just, you know, he’s got such an amazing voice. And earlier this week Pavarotti died and Kurt was pretty, uhm, shaken up about it. He really liked that bird, you know? And he came and sang Blackbird and it was, God, he was, uhm, he looked. I mean,”

Cooper can tell by the distracted, breathless tone of his voice, the way he’s saying uhm and you know like they’re new words to him and he wants to use them as often as possible that he’s got something underneath this entire drawn out story he really wants to say and just can’t get it out.

“Ok, Jesus spit it out, Warbler.”

“I kissed him. We kissed. There was kissing.”

Cooper can’t stop that smile that breaks out across his face. Finally.

“Blainers,” he singsongs and can feel the heat of Blaine’s blush through the phone.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m getting up, I’m putting my shoes on, and I’m coming to get you. We’re going out for breakfast and you’re going to tell me everything.” He shuts off the phone before Blaine can protest and lies there for a long moment.

So Blainers finally pulled his head out of his ass and opened his eyes. Cooper laughs fondly to himself and gets out of bed.

Forty-five minutes later finds Blaine sliding into the passenger seat of Cooper’s car. He looks a little flushed and his clothing is far more casual than Cooper has seen it in a long time. He’s got jeans on, and a white t-shirt with a Dalton Fencing Team hoodie zipped up over it. He’s carrying a coat in his hand and for once his hair is free of all that ridiculous gel.

When he buckles his seatbelt, Cooper hears a soft clink of metal and sees a flash of silver at his belt – their grandfather’s pocket watch is tucked safely in Blaine’s pocket. The sight of it makes Cooper grin.

There’s a homey little diner not too far from Dalton that Cooper spent far too much time at during his own school days. He hopes the food is as good as he remembers.

Blaine is silent during the short drive to restaurant, but restless – twisting his hands, tugging at his cuffs. Cooper want to reach out and grab those hands to still them.

The diner is exactly as he remembers it, and Cooper is pretty sure the waitress who seats them in a booth by a window is the same one who gave him a free hamburger after he won his fencing championship his senior year.

“What can I get you boys?” The waitress, Lauren by her nametag, asks them.

“Coffee, a lot of coffee,” Cooper says, and he catches the little smile that flickers across Blaine’s mouth.

“What?”

Blaine shakes his head a little. “He knows my coffee order,” he says, voice soft and full of cautious wonder. His smile is bordering on adoring.

Cooper leans an elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. “Oh my god you’ve got it so bad.”

Blaine flushes to the very roots of his hair and sinks a little in the booth and Cooper grins even harder. There is little in the world as gleefully schadenfreude as teenage embarrassment. Especially with a sibling.

“Coop, shut up.”

“When are you two getting married?”

“Cooper.”

“What are you going to name your babies?”

Cooper yelps when Blaine’s foot connects solidly with his shin. Blaine’s face is bright red, but he’s laughing.

“You’re the worst. The worst,” Blaine says and he runs his hand through his hair. It’s just as black, just as thick as Cooper’s, but far curlier. Cooper remembers when Blaine first starting gelling it down, after his first week at Dalton. After the Sadie Hawkins dance.

He shakes himself from the memory. This is not the day for that.

Cooper settles forward on both elbows now and smiles right at Blaine, all teeth and crinkled eyes. His baby brother finally made a move on the boy he’s been dancing around for months and he’s going to extract every detail he can. It’s what big brothers are for.

“Ok, tell me everything. Tell me exactly how it happened. What did you say?”

Blaine takes a long sip of his coffee before he starts to talk.