“Damnit, Jermane!” Kurt bellowed as he tumbled over the pair of shoes hidden beneath the steaming pile of filthy laundry in the doorway. “He’s impossible!” Kurt huffed.

“But you’ve got to admit,” Blaine laughed, entering behind Kurt and gingerly extracting a striped cardigan from the pile, “he’s got style.”

“Oh, give me that!” Kurt snatched the sweater from Blaine and threw it unceremoniously back into Jermane’s cesspool of laundry. “I just don’t understand. We were here not five hours ago and it was spotless. How does he do it so fast?”

Actually, by Blaine’s count, they had been gone nearly eight hours, touring the NYU campus and apartment hunting for Blaine who was still vacillating between dorm life and the “mean streets of the city.” The large purple envelope containing his acceptance letter had arrived about a month ago and he had allowed himself a few private, elated tears before picking up the phone and sharing them and the news with Kurt. A few hours later, Kurt had planned this trip and just yesterday Blaine had run from the terminal, bypassed baggage claim, and leapt into Kurt’s waiting arms, kissing him full in the mouth, crowds of bedraggled travelers be damned.

Witnesses to The Great Airport Make Out of 2013 had been a lot more accommodating than Jermane, but, then again, Kurt and Blaine had been fully clothed and Blaine hadn’t been seated, bare assed on their beds with his knuckles tangled in Kurt’s hair as Kurt’s head bobbed up and down in his lap, sucking him into hysterics.

“I think that was Jermane’s question when he walked in yesterday,” Blaine quipped, chuckling at the memory.

“Oh, stop it, you!” Kurt squealed, his cheeks tingeing pink. He gestured around the room as he tiptoed around the abomination blocking the doorway. “Seriously, though, why does he do this?”

“Babe, he walked in on you giving me a blowjob on his bed,” Blaine smiled, “and as much as I loved it—and I did—until we were interrupted, if I were him, I’d probably leave my dirty underwear in the doorway in retaliation as well, if only out of jealousy.”

Kurt sighed. “What can I do? I already apologized?”

“I have a suggestion.”

“Anything.” Kurt slumped his shoulders dramatically, pouting.

“Live in my house,” Blaine sang, taking Kurt’s hands in his, “I’ll be your shelter. Just pay me back with 1,000 kisses. Be my lover. I’ll cover you.”

Kurt was scandalized. “Hey! That’s my part!”

“Fine, then I’ll move in with you,” Blaine rushed, eager not to break the timing of the song. “Open your door. I’ll be your tenant. Don’t got much baggage to lay at your feet. But sweet kisses I’ve got to spare.” He dropped a quick kiss on Kurt’s nose. “I’ll be there and I’ll cover you.” Blaine pulled Kurt to him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and rested his clasped hands at the base of Kurt’s spine. “Sing with me.”

Kurt, needing no excuse, jumped in with perfect, practiced harmony.

I think they meant it when they said you can't buy love
Now, I know you can rent it
A new lease you are my love, on life
Be my life

“Come on, live with me,” Blaine smiled, swaying them into the empty space between the two beds as they observed the phantom musical break.

Kurt laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“What if I am? You know I’d be better than Jermane.”

“You do have a point.”

Just slip me on,
I'll be your blanket
Wherever, whatever, I'll be your coat

“You’ll be my king,” Kurt chimed, pressing their foreheads together, “and I’ll be your castle.”

“No, you’ll be my queen, and I’ll be your moat.” Blaine lifted Kurt’s Prom tiara from around the prominently displayed photo of them dancing in the McKinley gym and placed it on Kurt’s head. They sang together.

I think they meant it when they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it
A new lease you are my love, on life
All my life
I've longed to discover
Something as true as this is

“So, with a thousand sweet kisses,” Blaine bellowed, leaping onto the bed.

“If you’re cold and lonely,” Kurt sang over Blaine as he ascended gracefully onto the bed with the help of Blaine’s outstretched hand. This was their favorite part of the song, both singing declarations of love to the other, pulling adorable faces sappy with affection.

“I’ll cover you, with a thousand sweet kisses—“

“You’ve got one nickel only—”

“I’ll cover you—” Blaine answered.

“With a thousand sweet kisses—“

“When you’re worn out and tired—”

“I’ll cover you with a thousand sweet kisses—“ Kurt cooed.

“When your heart has expired.”

“I’ll cover you.”

Standing on Kurt’s bed, nose to nose, palm to palm, fingers intertwined, they belted the last notes with the natural harmony of two voices, of two people, born to be with one another.

“Oh lover, I’ll cover you.”

High on performance and giggles, they collapsed onto Kurt’s bed, breathless and entangled in each other’s arms.

“Really, Kurt,” Blaine said between breaths, bringing his hand up to smooth the stray hair at Kurt’s temple, “move in with me.”

“Blaine,” Kurt giggled softly, pressing their noses together, “we can’t.”

Blaine pulled back. “Why not?”

Kurt ran a finger along Blaine’s cheek, hoping his touch would un-furrow Blaine’s brow. “Honey, we’re not ready.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’re not ready?’” Blaine’s eyes flinched. “I’m moving to New York, Kurt. It’s happening…I mean…we’ve waited nearly a year for this.”

“I know, Honey. And I’m thrilled. Really,” Kurt implored, locking eyes with Blaine so he could see the truth held within. “It’s just…I know how busy we’re both going to be, and it’s your first year of college and I don’t want to be a distraction.” Kurt cocked an eyebrow on the last word, earning a soft smile from Blaine. “And honestly,” he continued, propping himself on his bicep and supporting his head with his hand as he gazed down at Blaine, “I’ve seen what moving in together, especially too soon, can do. I mean Finn and I fought. It was insane. And that was a year before Sam moved in, and we put on happy faces in public, but every time we made it through the day without taking each other’s lives was an achievement.”

“So, that’s why you were always at my house? And I always thought it was the sex,” Blaine joked, his concern dissipating.

Kurt chuckled. “Well, the sex was certainly 70% of it. But that was just friendship,” Kurt said, returning to the topic at hand. “You’re moving out here. And that’s huge. We’ll see each other all the time. And I’m sure there’ll be plenty of sleepovers,” he winked. “But…one thing at a time okay, Honey?” Kurt breathed, laying back down and placing his head on the pillow, eye to eye with Blaine. “…I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Me either,” Blaine agreed, bringing their lips together briefly before adding, “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Kurt smiled smugly.

“Maybe I’d grow tired of you,” Blaine smirked.

“Oh, you’ll grow and you’ll be tired all right,” Kurt declared, climbing to his knees with shocking speed and attacking Blaine’s sides with his fingertips, tickling him unmercifully.

Blaine tried to fight, but he was outmatched, having been caught completely off guard by Kurt’s sudden onslaught. “I give up! I give up!” Blaine panted, raising his hands in surrender. Kurt relented. Now allies, they lay in the rising silence, Kurt’s head tucked comfortably into the crook of Blaine’s neck and shoulder. Blaine tilted his head and pressed his lips to Kurt’s forehead. “One.”

Kurt’s eyes flitted upward. “One what?”

Blaine kissed the tip of Kurt’s upturned nose. “Two.”

“What are you doing?” Kurt’s face scrunched into a giggle.

“Three.” Blaine pressed his smile to Kurt’s. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting ahead on rent.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Kurt replied with a coy smile.

“Never. You’re the main attraction. Now where was I?”

Kurt pushed aside his collar and placed a fingertip to the spot just above his collarbone where Blaine’s touch never failed to make him tremble. “Here.”

“Ahh yes, how could I have forgotten?” Blaine nuzzled beneath the fabric of Kurt’s shirt and tasted the cream of his flesh. “Mmm, four.”

They made it to 1,000…three times. Once on Jermane’s bed: payback for the dirty laundry.

“Come on, Blaine! We’re gonna be late!” They had been looking forward to this night since nearly two years ago when Rachel let slip that she had heard from a cast mate, who heard from a stage manager, who heard from “somebody who would know,” that RENT was going to have a 20 Year Anniversary Revival at the Nederlander Theater. Kurt and Blaine had to be there. RENT was one of their favorite musicals for obvious reasons: growing up gay in Ohio, they weren’t afforded many opportunities to see themselves reflected in the media, there was only the theater – particularly, musical theater. But, RENT also carried sentimental weight. Early in their friendship, Greg Evigan had starred in RENT at the local Community Playhouse and Blaine had gotten them tickets. Kurt had blushed when, years later, cuddled in each other’s arms enjoying a Sappy Couple Q&A (the type that always begins with “What are you thinking about?” and inevitably includes “Why do you love me?”) he admitted he always thought of that as their first date.

“Second,” Blaine had responded, earning an inquisitive look from Kurt. “I took you to lunch after that day on the steps, remember?”

“Yes, but we split the check. Plus, you asked under emotional distress. It doesn’t count.”

“Fine…I wanted it to be though…a date.” Kurt had kissed Blaine quiet, ending the question and answer portion of the evening and beginning the feature presentation.

But, now, if Blaine didn’t hurry up, they would miss the beginning of the show and that was just unacceptable.

“Give me just a second,” Blaine called, “I’m putting the finishing touches on my outfit.”

“Oh my god,” Kurt hissed, storming into his bathroom where Blaine was still getting ready. “You’re worse than m—“ Kurt was cut off by his own gasp, his mouth hanging open, wide eyes trained on Blaine’s neck. “You…you…you’re wearing…”

“Your bowtie,” Blaine nodded, smiling proudly, tweaking the Kurt Hummel creation between his thumb and forefinger.

“But…but…how? They’re under lock and key at the studio.”

“Tiffany may have let me in to see what you’ve been working on,” Blaine explained. Kurt’s eyebrows began to rise and Blaine hurried to head him off at the pass. “Please don’t be mad at her, Babe. It’s just, you’ve been working so hard recently, and you’re always at the studio, and I know it’s because you’re graduating in a few weeks, but I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“And…what did you think?” Kurt bowed his head in nervousness.

“I loved it, of course!” Blaine assured. Seeing Kurt’s shy glance, Blaine crooked his forefinger tenderly beneath Kurt’s chin and lifted. “Hey, I’m serious. Everything you’ve created is incredible. It took me nearly an hour just to decide which bowtie I wanted to wear. Tiffany was pissed.”

Kurt huffed. He wrapped himself defensively in his arms and stared down at his shuffling feet. “Good, it’s what she deserves.”

“Hey, now,” Blaine chided, pulling Kurt into his arms. “You can’t be mad at Tiffany for taking pity on a man who was desperate to see what his amazingly talented boyfriend has been sneaking off to create for months now.”

“I’m not really mad,” Kurt confessed.

“Good,” Blaine gave back, nuzzling their noses. “Then, what’s all this?” Blaine squeezed Kurt’s waist with his elbows as though Kurt was a container of truth and a little gentle pressure would send the desired contents up and out of the mouth of the bottle…or bottler in this case.

“I’m just…scared. I mean…this is it. I’m graduating and I’m going to have to make this work and…I like it, and Tiffany seems to—“

“And I love it,” Blaine interrupted.

“That’s because you love me, but…I’m afraid the world won’t.” Kurt’s eyes disappeared beneath his lashes and Blaine remembered—remembered what the strong, firm line of Kurt’s upturned chin often allowed him to forget. This boy. This beautiful, talented, perfect boy, cloaked in confidence, always giving off the air of superiority, deep down, beneath the layers, in a place to which only Blaine and maybe one other had been granted entry, hid the real Kurt—fragile, insecure, but determined to convince the world, but mainly himself, that he was worthy, deserving of all he dared to dream. On rare occasions such as these, Kurt would call to him from that hidden place with the faint, wavering voice of uncertainty and Blaine would answer, calling Kurt forth from the depths of doubt with a voice of validation.

“Kurt, the world is going to love you. I’m sure of it. Do you know how I know?” Blaine gazed fondly at Kurt. “First, I have impeccable taste. Second, what you’ve created really is wonderful. I wouldn’t wear it if it weren’t—don’t look at me like that—I’d obviously be supportive, but I’d gently encourage you to try something different.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Blaine confirmed, erasing the remnants of space between them and kissing a smile to Kurt’s lips.

Kurt slowly turned his head out of the kiss, allowing his tongue to drag across Blaine’s lips. “Why tonight?”

“Mmm, what?”

“Why tonight? Why are you wearing it tonight?” Kurt said it twice for Blaine who was clearly lost in the haze of the aftermath of the kiss.

“Oh. Well, if anyone is going to want a one of a kind Kurt Hummel bowtie, they’ll be in the audience of a RENT revival,” Blaine teased. “Plus, if we’re going to get your boutique opened—“

“We don’t have money for that,” Kurt interrupted.

“And we never will if we don’t start selling some of these bowties,” Blaine joked, brushing aside Kurt’s pessimism, which he had learned long ago was Kurt’s self-defense mechanism used to shield himself against what he believed to be certain disappointment. “Free advertising, Kurt!” Finally, Kurt smiled. “But really, Kurt. I’m just so proud of you. I want the world to see what you’re capable of.”

Kurt dropped his head and touched his forehead to Blaine’s. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Blaine breathed. “Speaking of which, we should go or we’re definitely going to be late.”

They almost were. By the time they arrived, the house lights were already down and the usher gave them a very stern look as she led them briskly to their seats, fifth row center. The overture began and Kurt tried to quickly yet gracefully climb over the other patrons but failed horribly, tripping over a woman he swore was Idina Menzel before settling, shaking, in his seat just as the cast ran out onto the stage. Blaine gave Kurt’s hand a calming pat, and the show began.

Blaine was enrapt: RENT was the only musical he had seen more times than Kurt and he was having trouble not mouthing the dialogue. Thankfully, the people around him seemed to be just as enthused as he was and didn’t seem to mind when he hummed along to Light My Candle or let slip a few audible sniffles during Will I. Kurt, though certainly possessing a flair for the dramatic, had never been one for in-theater displays unless, of course, he was on the stage. Instead, Kurt preferred to sit stoically, almost reverent, as the show washed over him, only allowing himself, at most, a few gasps or a silent tear.

So when Kurt’s countertenor mingled with Angel’s voice and tickled Blaine’s ears, it took a few seconds for his shock to wear off and even longer for him to realize that Kurt wasn’t just singing—Kurt was singing to him.

“Live in my house, I’ll be your shelter. Just pay me back with 1,000 kisses. Be my lover. I’ll cover you.”

“Kurt?” Blaine turned, gaping at Kurt, who was smiling at him.

“Open your door. I’ll be your tenant.” Yep, Kurt was definitely singing, soft, ethereal, and angelic. “Don’t got much baggage to lay at your feet. But sweet kisses I’ve got to spare. I’ll be there, and I’ll cover you.”

“That’s my part,” Blaine whispered, scandalized.

“Then sing,” Kurt offered, his voice hushed.

“What?” Blaine’s eyes were comically wide as they darted around, afraid they were creating a disturbance. “What’s gotten into you? We can’t sing in here!” Blaine hissed with panic.

Kurt, however, was a picture of calm, as he intertwined his fingers with Blaine’s, leaned in, and whispered, “Then we’ll just have to sing it in our apartment.”

“Kurt, you’re scaring me. What are you talking about? Jermane will surely be ba—“

“No,” Kurt cut in gently, shaking his head and giving Blaine’s hand a firm squeeze. “We’ll sing it in our apartment.”

“What do you mean our apartment? I don’t…ooh.” Finally interpreting the look on Kurt’s face, understanding dawned and Blaine’s face broke into a wide grin, the smile he only wore for Kurt.

Kurt covered their intertwined fingers with his other hand and in a voice only Blaine could hear, asked, “Live in my house?”

Blaine cupped Kurt’s face in his hand, stared into his eyes, and answered, “I’ll be your tenant.”

“You’ll be my king, and I’ll be your castle,” Kurt sang, slipping seamlessly back into the song, as if he were simply turning up the volume on what had previously been background music.

“No, you’ll be my queen, and I’ll be your moat,” Blaine sang back, before quieting them both with a kiss—chaste, sweet, and the first of many more than a thousand.

Between his internship at Sony Music—unfortunately unpaid, decidedly thankless, but an unavoidable and necessary step up the ladder of his chosen career path—and the hours he had spent sequestered with Eddie at the dungeon that masqueraded as the studio they rented in order to create and workshop music without driving Kurt and the neighbors to homicide, it had been a long day. A very long day.

Thankfully, Blaine had a rare Friday night off from his stint waiting tables at the cocktail bar around the corner, which, if truth be told, he really needed the hours, and especially the tips, but he pushed the thoughts of the looming rent check he and Kurt would have to pen and focused instead on the weekend he had been looking forward to for over six months--his whole life, really—he was coming to realize.

Blaine was practically giddy with anticipation of some quality time cuddled up with Kurt on their shabby couch that Kurt had expertly salvaged with a classy slip cover that matched the second hand rug and managed to bring the tiny room together in a way that gave it the fa�ade of adulthood. This weekend, Blaine planned on taking another step toward adulthood.

He fumbled with the key, turned the knob, and pushed open the door to the 600 square feet they called home. Tucking his satchel into the corner, Blaine simultaneously toed off his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, and hung it and his keys from the plastic hooks Kurt had adhered to the wall and designated for this purpose. Blaine clapped his hands and rubbed them together as if about to warm them in front of a fire, when in fact he was warming them for Kurt’s skin. “Babe, I’m home. Cuddle time!”

Kurt was seated on the couch. Blaine could see him—the line of his hair crisp and soft on his neck, his back straight and erect, his shoulders tight, stiff. Kurt had not turned toward Blaine’s voice, but Blaine did not need to see Kurt’s face; Blaine could read Kurt’s posture. Worry took hold in the pit of Blaine’s stomach. Nearly a year ago he had come home to find Kurt like this—seated but somehow still seeming to occupy all the vertical space of his stature, staring blankly at the television screen that should have been broadcasting whatever hilariously trashy reality show they had planned to watch that night but instead was black, silent, and reflecting the tight lips, stony eyes, and upturned chin of a Kurt Hummel who had something on his mind. That something turned out to be Blaine’s trust fund.

Thursday, June 29, 2017 (11 months previous)

Kurt was seated on the couch. He had not turned when Blaine entered, had not returned his greeting. “Your father called.” The ice on Kurt’s words sucked all the warmth from the room.

Blaine inched timidly toward the couch. “My father?” His voice wavered. “What did he want?”

Kurt’s head snapped in Blaine’s direction and the sight of Kurt’s eyes—puffy, red, and angry—froze him where he stood. “You know what he wanted, Blaine! He wants his money.”

“It’s not his money.”

“He seems to think so.” Kurt was on his feet now.

“Please don’t do this, Kurt. Don’t take his side.”

Kurt crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t know there were sides to take, Blaine.”

“You knew the money came from somewhere. They don’t lease store fronts to broke college grads. I did this for you. I did this for us.”

“I know that, but he didn’t. And you gave me no warning, Blaine. I didn’t know he didn’t know. And he called, and he never calls, especially not to talk to me! And I was nervous, and he seemed willing to talk to me even though you weren’t here and I wanted to try—try to make him like me—and he was asking questions, like he cared.” Grief broke Kurt’s voice. “…and he asked how we were doing financially and I told him about opening up the boutique and how it was a big investment but we were hoping it would pay off and he started yelling, an—“

“He yelled at you?” Blaine cut in, incredulous.

“He says if you don’t return the money, he’s cutting you off. I can’t let you do this, Blaine.”

“No, Kurt. It’s done. We don’t need him.”

“But—“

“It’s my trust fund. I checked with our lawyer. Once I graduated, it was all mine, he has no claim to it. It’s my money and there’s plenty left.”

“But, Blaine, he’s your dad, and we…we need money, for rent, for your loans.”

Blaine shook his head, determined. “We’ll be fine. There’s money left. I’ll get another job. You’ll work at the boutique. We’ll make this work.”

Blaine called his father and told him just that while Kurt looked on, crying silently as Blaine severed the thin, fragile ties to his father, pushing off from the dock of childhood, into the choppy waters of uncertainty, securing himself firmly to Kurt and the makeshift raft of a life they were still trying to build together.

Blaine and his father would not speak again for over four years.

Blaine’s voice was timid. “Kurt?” Blaine did not expect Kurt to turn, knowing from experience he would not. But nothing could have prepared Blaine for what happened next.

Kurt crumpled, folding into himself, shoulders slumping, his head falling into his upturned palms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Blaine took a few steps toward Kurt’s trembling frame. “Kurt what’s wro—“ He stopped. The question was pointless, for he could now see clearly what was wrong. Sitting on the coffee table, on top of a familiar, folded sheet of lined paper, was a small, glistening mahogany box. Blaine’s mouth dropped open, his eyes went wide with shock as the synapses in his brain fired rapidly, searching for a way to salvage this, to make this the moment he had planned. Smiling indulgently at Kurt, Blaine said, “Honey, it’s okay. “Umm,” he chuckled, “how…how did you…?”

Kurt whispered into his hands. “I was organizing the closet…trying to make space for some new things I picked up from the thrift store and…and one of your shoe boxes fell and it just…it just fell out.” His head snapped up and his eyes finally met Blaine’s. “I didn’t read it, I swear.”

Blaine slid onto the couch into the spot beside Kurt and gently placed his hand on the small of Kurt’s back, rubbing relaxing circles into the base of his spine. “It’s okay, Babe. I mean…I would have preferred it go differently, but…I was planning on doing it this weekend anyway.”

“I know.”

“What? How?” Blaine smiled, surprised, but mildly amused.

“Rachel.” Kurt again hid his face in his hands. “I found it and I panicked and called her and she told me.”

“Well, I guess that’s fine…it’s not like this was ever going to be a surprise any—wait…you panicked?”

Kurt nodded.

Blaine’s hand stilled on Kurt’s back. “Kurt. Why did you bring the box out here?”

“I’m sorry, Blaine.” A breath. “We can’t.”

Blaine’s head shook imperceptibly as he collapsed, in slow motion, backward into the couch, thankful he was already seated and the distance from back to couch was mere inches. Kurt’s words settled over him in a thick blanket of confusion and building panic. He was suffocating, his mouth open, eyes wide, as he struggled to comprehend the meaning of Kurt’s words—desperate for a meaning that would mean his life still had one. Blaine ran his palms down his face and sucked in a shallow breath of air through his trembling fingers. “Kurt. What do you mean…‘we can’t?’”

Blaine’s voice was fragile, light, but the fear embedded within transmitted loud and clear, lifting Kurt’s head. Kurt’s hand darted to Blaine’s knee, “I mean we aren’t ready, Honey. We can’t…not right now.”

Blaine was silent, his face expectant. Kurt continued, his soft, explanatory tone rising through the tears. “We’re struggling just to pay the rent and utilities, not to mention our other bills. We can’t get married right now, Blaine.”

“None of that is going to change whether we are married or not. And we’re not that bad off, Kurt. You’re at the boutique all the time and I know things are still slow but it’s steady. We’re already living together, and we’re practically married, Kurt,” Blaine gave an exasperated scoff. “We have been for years.”

“And that’s why we don’t have to rush, Blaine. We can’t afford a wedding. Don’t you want to do this right? I don’t want to marry you at some Justice of the Peace and come back to this tiny apartment and watch you go off to work at that cocktail bar—“

“I seem to remember a time when you were ready to elope in Central Park…” Blaine said it because he was stung and knew it would sting.

“Don’t turn this into something it isn’t. Things were different then…”

“How were they different, Kurt? Because from where I’m sitting the only difference here is that I’m here with a ring but you’re not saying yes.” Blaine was no longer sitting. “And I can’t help but think the real difference is that you thought I’d be something different.” Somewhere inside the folds of his mind Blaine knew this wasn’t true, but he had also been sure Kurt would say yes—had always been sure Kurt would say yes—thought Kurt had already said yes. It was as though reality had been inverted and lies had been made of all of his previous truths. Blaine’s thoughts were swirling, spiraling, blurring and the only clear memories were of Kurt’s disdain at his waiter uniform, and Kurt’s inquiries about when he was going to spend more time in the studio, and Kurt scoffing and turning up his nose when Blaine came home smelling of cigarette smoke and the pungent odor of splattered alcohol and juice. It all led him to one painful, if irrational, conclusion. “You don’t want to marry a waiter, is that it? This isn’t what the fabulous Kurt Hummel signed up for? You don’t want to hitch your rising star to me because I’ll just drag you down?”

“No, Blaine. I don’t want to marry a waiter!” Kurt stood and Blaine’s knees buckled under the force of solidifying fear. “Because that’s not what you are, it’s not what you want, but I’m afraid that’s what you’d be if we got married now.” Kurt reached out and took Blaine by the shoulders, steadying him—steadying them both. “We’ll be too worried about providing for each other to take risks. I don’t want us to be the reason you decide to take another shift instead of spending more time in that studio. I don’t want us to be the reason those songs don’t get written. I’d miss them.” Kurt took Blaine’s face in the palm of his hand. “I’d miss you.”

Blaine shut his eyes, leaned into Kurt’s warm hand, exhaled, and surrendered. “You’re the only reason my songs ever get written.”

Blaine never saw Kurt’s reaction but he felt it as Kurt surged forward, brought his other hand to Blaine’s tear stained cheek, and slammed their lips together. Kurt clung to Blaine’s bottom lip as though it was some long lost treasure, invaluable, thought to be forever lost and now found never again to be let out of his sight. Blaine, grateful for rediscovery, fell into the kiss the way reunited lovers fall into each other’s arms; hungry, hard, and thankful.

Hesitant to separate but desperate to speak, Kurt shifted his lips only the infinitesimal distance required to breathe, “I love you.”

“Then marry me,” Blaine pleaded into Kurt’s mouth.

“I want to.” The words were a burst of air seemingly forced out by the pressure of an honesty, of a want built by the frustration of the acknowledgement of the thirst Kurt would not allow himself to quench for reasons that now escaped his dry, dehydrated body as he teetered on the moist lips of Blaine’s well.

“Then do it.” Blaine pushed.

Kurt’s mind, strengthened by painful practice and ignoring by the needs of the flesh, clung to the edge of sanity and forced his body to say, “No, Blaine. Listen to me.” Kurt, panting slightly, touched his forehead to Blaine’s. “We are forever, you and me. We’re Kurt and Blaine, Blaine and Kurt. We’re it. I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to tell me that.” Kurt gestured pointedly to the objects on the coffee table and half smiled. “Besides, I already have a ring of paper to prove it.”

Blaine huffed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I want it. Badly. But I want it when it’s right, when we’re ready, when we can support ourselves, and yes,” Kurt declared, pulling back an inch to look into Blaine’s sad eyes, “when we can afford to have all our friends and family there in a stunning venue, catered and impeccably decorated. And when I’m not afraid that my ring will get repossessed. I mean, the payments on that thing are going to have us homeless.” Kurt gently shook a smirk into Blaine.

“It’s paid for…trust fund…I wanted what would piss him off the most.” Blaine’s head was still bowed but his smile was spreading.

“Well, in that case, we’ll keep it,” Kurt proclaimed. “For when we’re ready.”

Blaine’s head lifted slightly, “’When’ not ‘if?’”

“It was always ‘when.’” At that, Blaine tugged and Kurt allowed himself to slide over the lips and into Blaine’s well where Blaine was waiting to quench his thirst.

Several minutes later, winded and decidedly hydrated, Blaine rolled onto his back and Kurt followed, resting his head on Blaine’s chest, and draping a leg over Blaine’s thighs, the rest of his body wedged between Blaine’s and the back of the couch. Kurt stroked at the buttons of Blaine’s polo with his thumb, before shifting to rest his chin on his hand. He looked up at Blaine whose eyes were closed. “Why now? Why this weekend?”

A beat. Then honestly, “Your mother.”

“What?”

“Mother’s Day…” Blaine opened his eyes and found Kurt’s. “I know it’s hard for you…especially this year since we can’t make the trip back to Ohio to visit her. I wanted it to be something positive for you—the day we decided to become a family.”

“Wow.”

Blaine tensed. “What?”

“I thought I was supposed to be the silly romantic.”

“I just want to do right by you, Kurt.”

“You do. Every day.”

Blaine released a contented sigh, combed his fingers into Kurt’s hair, and placed a chaste kiss to his temple. “What should we do with that old thing?” He tilted his head in the direction of the box on the coffee table. “Should I toss it back into a shoe box?”

“And have my engagement ring with your smelly shoes? I don’t think so. I know just the place!”

Before Blaine could formulate a verbal response, Kurt extricated himself (elbows and knees into Blaine’s chest) with surprising alacrity, scooped up the tiny ring box and folded scrap of paper, grabbed Blaine’s hand and dragged him bodily from the couch. Socked feet shuffling so fast they could create enough static electricity to power an entire city block, Kurt guided them deftly around shabby furniture and priceless antique store finds into their tiny bedroom.

When Kurt and Blaine began cohabitating, having abandoned the sanctity of dorm life for the pleasures of living in sin, they started fresh on the furniture front (though it wasn’t as if they had accumulated much coming from the shoddy medium density fiberboard structures and bright, white cinderblock walls of college). The boys went thrifting for the big pieces, deciding to splurge on the little touches that would bring the rooms together, make their house (or apartment as it were) a home, finding rare gems in antique and thrift stores off the beaten path. Their little square of New York was eclectic and bright, with an old-school flare reminiscent of the days Blaine seemed to be plucked from and planted into the present. However, the oldest and most cherished piece had not been found in a dusty corner of a New York storefront. Burt, Carole, and Blaine’s mother, Camille, had offered to give the boys a few items of furniture—Blaine had flatly refused while Kurt had requested one and only one item be shipped from his old home to his new one. It was to that piece—the cracked and quaint, oak dresser standing nobly in the corner—that Kurt now led them.

Atop the weathered oak surface sat two leather bound degrees, a collection of dried and preserved carnations from the last bouquet with which Kurt had surprised Blaine, and the framed, yellowing picture of the two at Kurt’s junior prom which had also made the trip from Ohio to New York.

Now, standing in front of the wooden heirloom, Kurt released Blaine’s hand and gently pulled open the top drawer—empty except for the soft scent of sweet magnolia and flowery clean. Kurt’s eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of her as it wrapped around him, his tummy flipping with the faint familiarity of experiences caught just between faded dream and distant memory.

Kurt exhaled. “Hi, Mom.” Cradling the ring and paper in both hands, he flashed Blaine a shy smile. “Blaine wants me to have this…he wants us to be a family. I want it, but I would like you to hold onto it until we’re ready.”

“When, not if,” Blaine added.

“When, not if,” Kurt echoed. He kissed Blaine’s cheek and continued. “I’m pretty sure you were the first person that taught me what love is, and well, Blaine and I have that…love…and I know you would love him, and where ever you are I hope that you do—love him, that is—and know that I love you.” Kurt’s lashes kissed and a solitary tear slipped through and made the silent, solemn journey down his face. “I hope that’s enough of a Mother’s Day gift this year.”

“You’re enough,” Blaine whispered.

Kurt nodded gratefully, his mouth turning up at the corners. Then, he ever so gently placed the glistening, new mahogany box and the little scrap of paper into the confines of the worn, oak drawer–new love enveloped and protected by its oldest and perhaps most prolific form. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”

“Happy Mother’s Day,” Blaine offered.

Kurt beamed tearfully at Blaine, interlaced their fingers, and gave Blaine’s hand a warm, gentle, encouraging squeeze.

“Mom,” Blaine whispered.

They stood like that, silent and still, until the scent of magnolia and clean slipped away along with the feel of her presence—her warmth and their smiles remained. Kurt tugged lightly at Blaine’s hand and led them leisurely back into the living room and onto the couch where Blaine finally got his cuddles.

Seated across from Kurt at the Ikea pinewood table that doubled as their eating space and Kurt’s corner for sketching and sewing patterns, Blaine knew something was up. Not because Kurt had prepared a delicious meal of poached salmon, drizzled in dill sauce, and expertly served over a bed of almond rice and grilled asparagus. It was incredible what Kurt could manage in the box they called a kitchen. Blaine would often return home after a late night in the studio to Kurt lifting the loop of his apron over his neck, brushing his hands together in the motion customary of one who has just successfully completed a task, and turning joy-eyed to Blaine in the doorway and announcing, “Oh good! You’re home. Just in time for dinner. I’m starved!”

The flickering candles and lilting background music were also not out of the ordinary; Kurt, after all, was a romantic at heart, always finding some reason to play “their song” and sway in each other’s arms, reminiscing about the years they’d spent together and making plans for the ones to come. Each day, Blaine could count on some tiny trinket of love, be it sheet music Kurt had found at the local music store to that one song Blaine had mentioned his love for in passing, or a small flower Kurt found during a stroll through Central Park hoping to find inspiration, or a little note of love, apology for peeking, and encouragement to keep going tucked into Blaine’s song book. Kurt’s love was in the details, crafted and displayed in the mundane gestures of affection that added day-to-day made theirs not an everyday kind of love.

They were lucky that way, Kurt and Blaine. Lucky in love. But now, slowly spooning the succulent salmon into his mouth, Blaine could see there was more than love in Kurt’s eyes, something anticipatory, a barely controlled, almost frantic excitement. Kurt’s cheeks were already pinking from the wine, but he reached for the bottle once more to fill his already twice drained glass.

“Uh oh, the wine’s all gone.”

“Looks like it,” Blaine teased.

“Would you mind running into the kitchen and grabbing another bottle. I set one out already.”

“So, it’s going to be that kind of night? I see.” Blaine teasingly wiggled his eyebrows at Kurt’s embarrassed grin and he pushed back from the table/desk and headed toward the kitchen. “You should let me have a little more this time otherwise you—“ The thought died in his mouth as his optic nerves carried signals from his retina to his brain which had no trouble identifying the two ring boxes on either side of the wine bottle which occupied the inch of counter space but was momentarily short circuiting in attempt to interpret the meaning.

“How about October?” Blaine could hear Kurt’s smile. “I’m thinking fall colors. And no, we can’t have a Halloween theme.” His giggle was weightless with joy.

Blaine turned to see Kurt leaned against the door frame, his face wide and alive with the completely uninhibited smile he only wore for Blaine. Blaine’s jaw was slack, eyes comically wide , and he blinked rapidly, probably some autonomic biological response meant to inhibit incoming sensory information so as to allow the brain time to catch up to and reaffirm its grip on reality. Whatever the reason, Blaine had put two and two together.

“Rings?”

Kurt nodded.

“Is this?”

Kurt nodded.

“Are we…?”

“Getting married?” Kurt chuckled. “I hope so. Is this,” he gestured lovingly toward Blaine, “a yes?”

Blaine answered with all of himself, rushing to Kurt, lifting him bodily onto the stove (the only remaining “counter space”) and poured his answer into Kurt’s smile. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

Kurt answered back in kind, his answer a heady moan as they pawed desperately at each other, Kurt’s legs splayed, Blaine rutted up against him, ignoring the discomfort of the jabbing knobs of the stove.

“Mmm, hot.” Kurt whimpered, pushing forward into Blaine.

“So hot.” Blaine echoed mindlessly as he began mouthing at Kurt’s jaw, his fingers playing at the hem of Kurt’s long-sleeved Henley.

“Wait. My ass.” Kurt was keening, his hands slapping desperately at Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine immediately began to obey, slipping his hands around Kurt’s waist toward the destination Kurt demanded.

“No! My ASS! I AM BURNING!”

That’s how Kurt came to be face down, bare ass up, on the couch in the first minutes of their engagement. Blaine had hoped they would end up in this position, just not under these circumstances. It was immediately decided they would need a bigger place, one with ample counter space, and once the stinging lessened enough to allow movement, Blaine settled onto the couch on his back beneath a prone Kurt, so that they were chest to chest, Blaine holding the ice pack to Kurt’s singed bottom.

“I’m sorry, Babe,” Blaine muttered into Kurt’s hair. “You obviously put a lot of planning into this and I go and ruin it with my insatiable desire for you. I didn’t mean to actually, you know, cook you.”

Kurt’s laughter shook them both. “If there are better ways to burn off an ass cheek, I can’t think of one.”

Kurt lifted his head, planted his chin on Blaine’s chest and strained just enough to brush a kiss to Blaine’s chin. Blaine gazed down at him and unable to contain the love in his eyes let it escape his lips. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

They lay content in the silence for what could have been minutes, hours, seconds--love knows not of the banalities of time. Then, Blaine spoke. “Why now?”

“Why now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…it’s Groundhog’s Day.”

Blaine’s chest vibrated with the humor. “Kurt, you’re not making any sense.”

“Well, Groundhog’s Day is significant for two reasons,” Kurt began, his cool breath tickling the underside of Blaine’s chin. “1) It’s Groundhog’s Day, 2020. February 2, 2020.” Blaine showed no sign of dawning understanding. Kurt continued. “Zero-two-zero-two-two-zero-two-zero. See the pattern?” Blaine’s head shifted slightly, up then down. “No matter which way you look at it, forwards or backwards, it’ll always be the two of us together, forever.” Kurt paused to take in Blaine’s spreading grin. “I’m a sap for numbers.”

“I know.”

“You love it.” The corners of Kurt’s eyes crinkled.

“I do.”

“2) Remember about three months ago on our Old Movie Night when we watched the movie with Bill Murray and I cried?”

“Of course.” Blaine remembered all right. He’d spent the thirty minutes after the movie trying to get Kurt to explain why he was crying. Yes, it was a cute love story, if not a bit repetitive, but not worthy of the water works display Kurt usually reserved only for the most emotional of musical reprises.

“Well, it made me realize that…so many people go through life getting it wrong. Messing up. Having to start over again and again, beginning as friends, learning each other’s secrets, becoming lovers, but always inevitably messing up and starting again with someone new. But we were lucky enough to get it right the first time.” Kurt pressed his body into Blaine’s and turned his head to the side, rubbing his cheek on Blaine’s chest. “So, what better day to promise to live this and all other lives with you, deepening our friendship, learning all of your secrets, creating more secrets, making each other better each day we wake up to each other as long as time allows?”

“You win.”

“What?”

“You are the romantic.”

They laughed.

Blaine let the bag of melted ice slip from his hand and onto the floor and he wrapped his arms around Kurt. “Feels so good to finally be here,” he whispered dreamily, Kurt’s weight warm and heavy on his body.

“Where?”

“When.” It wasn’t a question. Kurt understood.

“Welcome to When,” Kurt whispered.

“Welcome to When.”

The fashion show introducing the Legend Line, by all accounts, had been a success. No one fell, the audience ooh-ed and ahh-ed at all the right moments, and Kurt positively shined. Blaine had sat on the front row grinning like a Cheshire cat with Bertie bouncing in his lap and Tori’s legs swinging energetically from the seat between he and Rachel. Blaine couldn’t wait to read through the inevitably glowing reviews in the coming days and share the best blurbs and exaltations with Kurt over breakfast – their post Anderson-Hummel premier tradition. They would only read reviews about the other (They never read their own reviews, “One should never read about oneself,” Kurt advised. Plus, it was the only way to maintain the proper answer to the predictable interview question of what they made of the critics – “Oh, I never read reviews.”). Whenever they came across something negative—some ignorant critic claiming Blaine’s newest single lacked lyrical depth or some blind recluse arguing Kurt’s newest creation lacked inspiration and creativity—they would simply toss it out, unless it had some shred of merit, in which case they would rephrase it and offer it as constructive criticism, believing hard truths were easier to digest when gently fed by the hand of a lover. This time, however, Blaine was certain that anyone who knew enough about fashion to be writing about it would love the Legend Line – it was just so Kurt, and how could anyone not love Kurt?

Now, at the after party, Blaine watched as everyone actively loved Kurt, vied for his attention, clamored for a moment to talk, rub elbows, make an impression. Blaine enjoyed watching Kurt work, watching people fawn over Kurt, see and appreciate the things in Kurt that he saw and adored. At Kurt’s events (just as Kurt did at Blaine’s), Blaine would hang back, Bertie on his hip, Tori’s hand in his, making small talk with the guests, catching Kurt’s eye on occasion, at which point Blaine’s eyes would glow and his face would tilt ever so slightly into the expression of love that had now become a reflex whenever his eyes fell upon Kurt. They always made a point, no matter how hectic the throng of well-wishers and press became, to pivot out of conversations and check in with one another, sort of like coming up for air before re-submerging. But on this night, Kurt did not check in, did not come to the surface, seemingly content to swim laps around the pool, soaking in the accolades, while Blaine, Bertie and Tori stood in the shade.

In fact, the more Blaine stood, the more he mindlessly yet charmingly chatted, flitting in and out of conversation in search of an absent Kurt, the more he waited in the wings sought out by exiting guests including a prancing Rachel (“I must rest my voice for tomorrow’s matinee. Give Kurt my love.”), the more it became clear that Kurt was throwing light on everyone except him. Then, just as Blaine acquiesced to Bertie’s request of “Down, please, Daddy,” another man stepped into Kurt’s spotlight.

He was tall, handsome, and vaguely familiar. Blaine couldn’t place his name, but was sure he had met him before. Then again, these events were always clogged with people he had met before. However, even from this distance, Blaine could tell that Kurt was certainly familiar with the man—something in Kurt’s posture changed and the space between them was too small to be shared by strangers. Kurt and the man’s words were drowned out by the music and the giggles that always erupted from Tori and Bertie during a rendition of their potato dance, but Kurt’s face messaged an unease that settled heavily in Blaine’s chest.

“Hey there, Blaine.”

“Oh, hi, Tiffany,” Blaine gave back, not diverting his eyes from Kurt, relying instead on his ears to accurately identify his newest companion, Kurt’s diligent assistant and long time friend. “How are you?”

“Usually, because these events require optimistic dishonesty, I would say, ‘Great!’ But since it’s you, and you also look like someone pooped on your Pop-tart, I’ll be honest and say ‘relieved.’”

Blaine finally looked at Tiffany, offering a concerned half smile. “No one ‘pooped on my Pop-tart.’ I’m just a little fatigued that’s all.” Blaine’s own brand of optimistic dishonesty. “Have I ever told you how much I love your way with words?”

“Hmm…perhaps, but I could stand some reminding.”

Blaine pivoted toward Tiffany, sure to keep Kurt in his periphery. “Well, I do. Now tell me about this relief you speak of.”

“Oh, I don’t know…it’s just this Line has been particularly hectic and stressful. And trying to manage everyone…” Tiffany sighed. “…and Kurt. I love him but you know how he gets.”

“I know. Workaholic. We’ll be glad to have him back home; he’s been keeping late nights at the office.” Blaine glanced at Kurt who was still locked in conversation with the man whose name escaped him.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s been working late.”

“No he hasn’t…” Tiffany’s voice trailed off and her eyes darted toward Kurt and the man he was still speaking to.

Blaine followed her line of sight. His brow furrowed. “I don’t know what kind of hours you’re used to, Tiffany, but not leaving the office until after ten or eleven qualifies as late. One night he wasn’t home until after midnight.”

“Oh…well…then…” Tiffany’s voice was suddenly layered: tentative, flustered, angry, panicked. If her face showed any emotion, Blaine didn’t see, too busy noticing that the intensity of Kurt’s conversation had obviously increased in the past minute. What were they talking about?

“I always tell Kurt to go home…I guess he hasn’t been listening,” Tiffany offered with a heavy sigh. “It should be over now…thankfully. This whole thing has been more stress than it’s worth.”

Blaine nodded his head in Kurt’s direction. “Seems like it still is. Who is that guy anyway? The guy Kurt’s talking to? I’m sure I’ve met him before, but I can’t think of his name.”

“Don’t worry about him, Blaine.” Tiffany caressed his arm. “He’s nobody, and he’ll be gone soon enough now that this Line is finally over. Speaking of gone,” she lifted onto her tippy toes and kissed Blaine on the cheek. “’Tis late. My cat will wonder where I’ve gone. I must be off.” Tiffany turned to go, but not before ruffling Tori and Bertie’s dancing heads.

Blaine watched her leave, feeling sure the pseudo-stranger’s impending departure was a large part of her relief. What he saw when he turned back to Kurt assured it would do the same for him. He could no longer see the stranger’s face as it was hidden on the other side of Kurt’s, which was now contorted in a way Blaine had never before seen and could not interpret. The man was leaned into Kurt, mere inches between them now, his hand firm on Kurt’s arm. Blaine had taken three steps—deciding to make himself a part of the conversation—when Kurt suddenly turned out of the man’s grip and strode toward Blaine, who met him halfway.

Blaine caught Kurt’s arm. “Kurt?”

Kurt did not stop. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. Are you ready?”

“Yes, umm, is everything okay?” Blaine tried to read Kurt’s face, which had somehow become expressionless.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure? That guy—“

“He’s nobody.” The more Blaine heard this, the less he believed it. He started to press further, but just then, they reached Tori and Bertie. “Hey there, are you all tired of bopping around yet?” Kurt’s strained smile and falsely cheery tone were warning for Blaine but a welcome to the kids.

“Papa! Dance with us!” Tori hitched her elbows in close to her side and wiggled her bottom furiously.

Kurt chuckled and his eyes crinkled in a way that almost seemed genuine. “Maybe later, Sweet Heart. We have a train to catch. It’s already way past your bedtime.”

“Aww, Papa, don’t poop on my Pop-tart,” Tori huffed.

“Tut tut tut, Missy,” Blaine admonished, taking her hand. “You’ve been listening to Auntie Tiffany a little too much. That’s not a nice thing to say, especially to Papa.”

“Sorry, Papa.” She scrunched her face in apology as Kurt tapped her nose endearingly, as he bent down to lift Bertie.

“Apology accepted. I’m just glad you had fun. Did you have fun, Bertie?”

“A lot of fun, Papa!” Bertie bellowed.

“Well, good,” Kurt said, bouncing Bertie on his hip. “Let’s get you two home.”

“I’ll grab our coats and hail us a cab.” Blaine handed off Tori’s hand to Kurt’s and made to go, but not before Kurt called out, “Blaine?”

Blaine turned. There was something sad in Kurt’s eyes. “Thank you…for waiting.”

“Of course.”

Blaine was only made to wait a few hours before Kurt reminded him of the stranger’s name.

“Blaine?”

No response.

“Blaine!”

Blaine blinked and his eyes refocused as he mentally returned to his lawyer’s office. “Sorry…I was just thinking.”

“Understandable.” Colin Wright was an older, dignified gentleman with gray hair, salt and pepper beard, and thick rimmed, serious glasses. He had been a friend and confidant of the Anderson family for many years: a confidant due to his legal skills, and a friend because of his honesty and empathy—rare qualities in general but especially in lawyers.

Blaine lowered his head into his upturned hands, hovering inches above the stack of papers that marked the end of waiting and the beginning of action.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You and Kurt…”

“I’m sure I don’t want to do this.” Blaine’s defeated voice escaped him in whispers. “But it’s no longer up to me. I’ve been waiting for Kurt my whole life and…and…I can’t wait anymore…knowing he may never come.”
Silence.

“Have you talked to him?” Mr. Wright offered.

“I’ve tried but every time he calls it’s like he doesn’t even think anything is wrong. No apology for Bri—for him. No explanation. Just asking for what he needs and expecting me to deliver like nothing’s changed. It’s like…like it doesn’t even matter that I’m gone.”

Mr. Wright allowed Blaine a moment of tearful grief. “I’m so sorry, Blaine.”

“Me too.” Blaine ran his hands down his face, took a deep breath, and then, with all the strength afforded to him by his last shreds of dignity, straightened to his full height. “How long…how long does he have to sign the papers before…?”

“Twenty days.”

“Then what happens?”

“Let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

“When not if…” Blaine muttered, the memory crashing over him once more.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Blaine shook his head. “Twenty days. I…I can wait that long.” He was as unsure as he sounded.

“So, you want me to send the papers?” Mr. Wright’s voice was soft and low.

Blaine nodded. If he had opened his mouth the sob building in his throat over the past months would have escaped. He rose unsteadily to his feet and reflexively shook Mr. Wright’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll let you know when he receives the papers. It should be some time later this week.”

Blaine nodded his thanks and left. Now, he would wait—wait for the end of he and Kurt’s When.