Kurt 4:30pm
The imbeciles I let organize this
weekend’s show have ruined my brilliant
vision. I’ll be home late tonight.

Kurt 4:32pm
I’m sorry.

Hubby 4:33pm
Don’t worry about it, Kurt. I’ll leave some
of T & B’s creation in the oven for you.
They’re excited about cooking tonight.

Hubby 4:34pm
I’m afraid of what will happen
without you…

Kurt 4:41pm
Oh, I forgot it’s their night…wait

Hubby 4:43pm
If you need to stay, you need to stay.
New line, new show. We understand.
We’ll miss you.

Kurt 4:47pm
Miss you too.

The Legend Line was Kurt’s new baby. It was edgy, chic and over the top. It was Kurt. He would never admit it to anyone (he did not have to admit it to Blaine because Blaine already knew) but he had been holding back. When he had first opened his little boutique he had wanted to follow his heart but knew he needed to tame it so that it would sell. He and Blaine literally could not afford for Kurt’s boutique not to work out. Blaine had put a large amount of his trust fund into Kurt’s dream and as a result his father had cut him off. The fight had been epic.

Kurt still remembered when he had sold his line of bow ties to Lord & Taylor. His big break. Now, 11 years later, seated in his spacious office in a New York high-rise surrounded by windows revealing the majestic New York skyline, he could not believe it was happening. Still, deep down there was still that nagging doubt – would the public accept him, the real him? Unbridled Hummel was a lot to handle.

“Mr. Hummel?” His assistant’s voice broke his trance. “Your team is assembled in the conference room. We’re ready when you are.”
“Thank you, Tiffany. Let them know I’ll be there shortly.”

The conference table was expansive and the new members of his team, the people selected to bring his vision to life, were seated around it.

Shalaine McNally, Head Assistant Fashion Designer, sat at the table flanked by her assistants, Sheila, Billy and Lionel, a.k.a. The Gaggle of Gays, who were already animatedly flitting through sketches. Opposite them was Timothy Brewer, whose brilliant business mind had made him the obvious choice for Fashion Merchandiser. To his left was the lovely Janet Lane—an expert pattern maker. If you wanted to try something different, something difficult, you went to Lane. If she could not make it work, it could not be done. Next to her was Phoenix Song, and with a name like that it was obvious she was the artsy one. Her fingers were always stained with some sort of paint or charcoal—remnants of her last illustration of Kurt’s latest creation. If Kurt had the vision, Phoenix made it come alive on the page.

Lastly, at the head of the table, opposite Kurt, stood Brimley Johnson, Product Development Manager. This was the man ultimately responsible for making sure Kurt’s vision became a reality. It was Brimley’s job to oversee everyone else. He was the link between conceptualization, design, construction and the selling of the Legend Line. If Brimley did his job, Kurt could go home and sleep at night. Although Kurt never got much sleep, Brimley certainly did his job.

At 29, Brimley was something of a prodigy in the fashion world. Young, undeniably attractive, charming, and ambitious, he had been entrusted with the production of Dior’s newest line at the age of 25 and had pulled it off seamlessly. There had been whispers concerning how he had landed the gig, but all were silenced when the line debuted and the first model strutted confidently onto the runway. Brimley was the best in the business, and most importantly, he was able to handle Kurt’s obsessive micromanaging.

Finally seated in his prized spot at the head of the table, which, like everything else in the room, had been hand selected by him, Kurt crossed his legs, gave a nod, and Brimley began the presentation. Kurt was a man of details and Brimley spared none. For nearly two hours, Brimley laid out in pain-staking detail what the next six months would entail, calling on each member of the team in turn to expound upon her or his role.

Walking back to his office, Kurt felt the meeting had been long but productive. He was glad he had opted for style and comfort in choosing the chairs. Aching tailbones did nothing for concentration. Although still understandably anxious, Kurt felt confident as he leaned back in his chair, propping his feet, impeccably clad in knee-high lace-up boots, up on his desk as he flipped through his scribbles from the meeting. What had Brimley said about the timeline on importing those rhinestones?

Kurt swung his legs dramatically from the desk, slammed his papers down, and jabbed the call button on his desk phone.

“Tiffany. Get Brimley in here.”

“But sir, you just left the meet—”

“Yes,” he sighed heavily. “I’m well aware of this Tiffany. With all your questioning, perhaps you’d be better suited to be a TV game show host. Your availability for such a position can be quickly arranged.”

“Sorry, Mr. Hummel. I’ll get him.”

Brimley was seated across from Kurt two minutes later, patiently rehashing details from the production timeline to the transport used to import the silk. Forty-three minutes later, Kurt’s newest and most inane question yet was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Tiffany! I swear!”

“Forgive me. Tiffany wasn’t at her desk, so I just came on in,” came a warm voice that was certainly not Tiffany’s. A gelled head emerged from the crack. “Hi there,” Blaine said with a smile. Then, noticing the suit in the room, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“Hey you,” Kurt grinned, his perfected annoyed tone gone at the sight of his husband. “Not a problem. Blaine, this is Brimley. He’s producing the Legend Line and dealing with my insanity.”

“Welcome to my world, Brimley.” Blaine said, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” replied Brimley with a polite nod.

“I’ll be done shortly. Then dinner?” Kurt asked.

“Then dinner. I’ll just go bother the worker bees.”

“They’ll love that.” Kurt smiled.

“Good to meet you, Brimley,” Blaine offered again before exiting.

“And you.” Alone again, Brimley turned his attention back to Kurt. “Was that the lucky Mr. Hummel?”

“Anderson-Hummel,” Kurt corrected. He loved their joint name—a sign of their connection, their commitment. “Yes.”

“He’s cute.”

“I know.”

“You’re cuter.” Brimley smiled.

“Umm…” Kurt’s confused expression was tinted pink with embarrassment. “Thank you,” he managed. “Well…so…what were we talking about?”

“The brand of thread we’re using for inseams, sir.”

Brimley Johnston 9:43pm
Why are you still in your office?

The Boss 9:46pm
The same reason you are. Working.

Brimley Johnston 9:47pm
Clearly, I’m not doing my job.

The Boss 9:49pm
What do you mean? You’re doing a
wonderful job.

Brimley Johnston 9:50pm
If I were, you wouldn’t be here.

The Boss 9:53pm
I’m over anal

Brimley Johnston 9:54pm
Hmmm. I could help with that.

The Boss 9:54pm
Analyzing! Over analyzing. Fucking
autocorrect.

Brimley Johnston 9:55pm
The former is more interesting.

The Boss 10:17pm
Goodnight, Brimley.

Brimley Johnston 10:18pm
Goodnight, Mr. Hummel.

The Boss 10:19pm
Anderson-Hummel.

Brimley Johnston 10:23pm
Of course.

Kurt was frantically scurrying around his office, packing up his things. Tori and Bertie were making dinner that night (Well, he and Blaine were making dinner and allowing Tori to help while Bertie acted as spectator from his highchair) and he was running late. He and Blaine usually met up at Penn Station and commuted together via the LIRR back to their home in Manhasset together. However, a last second meeting had delayed Kurt and forced Blaine to go without him so as to retrieve Bertie from daycare and pick up Tori from her afterschool dance lessons.

This had been on their list of promises. If they were going to have children, they were going to be parents. When they had finally decided, two years into their marriage and nine years into their relationship, that they were ready for children, they had put their lush New York apartment up for lease and bought a home in the suburbs. Blaine insisted on a large backyard to rough house and play with their children and pets. Kurt demanded a top-of-the-line kitchen, hardwood floors, and more rooms than he could decorate. They had admitted that with their schedules, daycare was a necessary evil. However, no matter how hectic their schedules became, they promised to always be the ones to pick up their children from daycare, school and the many extracurricular activities in which they were sure their little prodigies would be involved.

Blaine’s career as a composer and music producer allowed him more flexibility in his schedule, especially since they built the recording studio in the basement. So when Tori or Bertie were sick, he was most often the one to stay home and care for them. Kurt’s micromanaging and the level of detail involved in producing high-class fashion made his presence at his offices a necessity. And currently, as Kurt shoved the last sketches into his briefcase, he cursed his micromanaging and obsessive attention to detail for making him late.

The knock on the door startled Kurt and he momentarily lost his grip on his briefcase. “Come in!” When Brimley’s thin yet muscular frame entered, Kurt wished he had not let Tiffany go home early. If she had been at her desk he would have at least been warned about this. It had been 20 hours since the texting catastrophe and Brimley’s horribly inappropriate yet strangely flattering response.

Kurt had done his best to avoid Brimley all day, which was particularly difficult considering he had so many questions and worries that Brimley could have easily answered and quelled. Instead Kurt had to rely on Tiffany to corral key players for individual meetings. Kurt had demanded to see Shalaine three separate times, and when Shalaine took a long lunch (most likely to rid herself of Kurt), he had sequestered the Gaggle of Gays for a full 45 minutes. The Gaggle proved themselves useful, but the information they gave him only created more questions. Unfortunately, he had only allowed himself to meet with Phoenix Song once because she kept leaving smudges of charcoal on his expensive office upholstery and it just was not worth it.

Janet came in while he was attacking the guest chair with fabric cleaner. She looked over the drawings Phoenix Song had left and tentatively green-lit them before heading off to attempt to construct Kurt’s latest alteration to the Legend Line. That was how the day had gone: random, frantic meeting after random, frantic meeting. Kurt had been just about ready to pack up and rush off to meet Blaine when his overactive brain suddenly required knowledge only contained within one Timothy Brewer. Kurt had been picking his brain when his phone buzzed with a text from a worried Blaine.

Hubby 4:15pm
Where are you? If we don’t make the next train, we’ll be late.

Kurt 4:17pm
Shit! Last minute meeting a85; Go
on without me. You can’t be late.
I’ll see you all at home.

Hubby 4:18pm
Okay. Don’t be too long. They’re
cooking tonight a86;

Kurt 4:19pm
Leaving soon. Wouldn’t miss it
for the world! xoxo

“The family?” asked Timothy as Kurt sat down his phone.

“Yes. Let’s end this so we can both go tend to our families.”

“Sounds good. Are you sure you don’t have anymore questions?”

“Of course I do, but they can wait. Now get out!” Kurt teased playfully. “And tell that lovely wife of yours I need that recipe. Blaine’s been raving about that dip for weeks.”

“Will do, Kurt. See ya Monday.”

If only he had had one less meeting, or spent one less minute being an anal retentive perfectionist, maybe he would not be standing here now being made to feel decidedly uncomfortable under the gaze of Brimley’s green eyes.

“Kurt?”

“Yes, Brimley? I’m busy,” Kurt responded brusquely, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“I’m sorry for last night,” Brimley whispered sincerely. Kurt’s hands stilled and a silence rippled between them.

“Good,” Kurt finally commented. Then, because he wanted to make the next point crystal clear, Kurt looked directly into Brimley’s eyes. “It was inappropriate.”

“I know. It won’t happen again. Let me make it up to you.”

“That won’t be necessary, Brimley. Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Really, Kurt. Let me take you to dinner.” The look on Kurt’s face clearly messaged his outrage because, really, a dinner invitation? Brimley had understood nothing.

“Brimley! What don’t you underst—“

“No, not like that,” Brimley tried to explain, accurately reading Kurt’s expression and tone. “It would be purely professional. We can start over and you can ask all the nitpicky questions you’d like.”

“Fine, Brimley. Fine. We’ll have dinner,” Kurt rushed with a flippant wave of his hand. Kurt was not sure why he had agreed. Maybe it was his haste to get rid of Brimley so he could get home. Maybe it was the lure of unlimited questions and guaranteed answers. Maybe it was his desire to make this business relationship work—Brimley was the best in the business after all. Regardless, Kurt felt uneasy.

“Great. Where to?” Brimley’s cocky half-grin was back.

“Not tonight, Brimley. I’m clearly busy. I’m already going to be late for dinner with my family.” Kurt stole another glance at Brimley; hopeful he had caught the intentional emphasis on Kurt’s last word.

Kurt’s bag was finally packed and he was pulling on his jacket—a gorgeous turquoise piece he had dreamt up two years ago while draped on top of Blaine, who was spread out, face down on the couch as Kurt’s fingertip gently sketched out designs on Blaine’s bare back.

“I see…another time then?” Brimley said, a mix of regret and defeat audible in his voice.

“Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Kurt said moving toward the door, “my family is waiting for me.”

“Of course, sir,” Brimley said, stepping out of Kurt’s way. “Have a good night.”

“I will,” Kurt said with finality as he strutted past Brimley and out of the door.

When Kurt finally pushed open the front door, the sounds emanating from the kitchen made him fear the scene he would find. He walked from the foyer, and through the dining room. When he reached the entryway to the kitchen, he saw his fears had been justified.

Tori was atop the kitchen island, her socks sliding along the granite as she shook her hips and arms in time to Pink’s “Perfect” blasting from the speakers. When they had put in the basement studio, Blaine installed an intercom system and speakers throughout the house so that he could play his newest creations for Kurt without making him trek down to the basement. Instant communication. Kurt should have known that Blaine would also use it as an excuse to blast ancient pop songs. Blaine had never quite gotten over his love for female pop singers which, while certainly adorably annoying, had also paid off considering he was now writing songs for female pop singers resulting in the conspicuous Grammys strategically placed throughout the house.

Kurt’s eyes moved from Tori to Bertie, who was dancing along in his highchair and banging out the beat with a spoon that had clearly been used to mix some sort of sauce, which was now, to Kurt’s horror, being splattered all over Bertie, his high chair, and the walls with each swish of the spoon.

Blaine clearly saw nothing wrong with this as he was currently decked out in his “Kiss Me I’m Irish” apron, swiveling his hips in sync with the wooden spoon he was using to stir the concoction on the stove. He took a break from stirring to belt out a note into the spoon, shimmying over to Bertie and joining in the drumming.

If Kurt remembered correctly, the rap verse was about to begin. This needed to be stopped. Kurt was just about to intervene in the madness when Tori, completely enrapt in her potato dance, twirled on the smooth granite countertop and caught sight of her father.

“Papa!” Tori yelled, her little arms flying into the air as though she had just scored a winning goal at one her soccer matches. “You’re home!”

“Indeed,” Kurt intoned, framed by the archway from dining room to kitchen, his arms crossed and a superior smirk on his face as he locked eyes with a surprised Blaine.

“Kurt,” Blaine chuckled, his voice high pitched and guilty, as he shrugged his shoulders and bit his bottom lip. His hands raised and his face scrunched, clearly saying I don’t know what I’m doing. Please don’t kill me.

Kurt reached for the intercom panel on the wall, turned down the volume and walked into the disaster area that was their kitchen. “You’re in the kitchen without me, for what...oh, 20 minutes,” Kurt began, reaching up and swinging Tori down from the countertop, “and it turns into a performance by the Blue Man group?”

“Sorry, Papa. You know Daddy can’t help it,” Tori grinned and hugged Kurt’s leg.

“Mmm hmm. I certainly do,” Kurt giggled and patted Tori’s curly head. Blaine, still standing beside Bertie’s high chair, quickly grabbed the dirty spoon from the bouncing boy and whispered into his ear, “Sorry, buddy. We’ve been caught.”

“That you have,” Kurt chuckled. He placed Tori on a barstool and walked over to Blaine, kissed him gently on the cheek as he slipped the dirty spoon from Blaine’s hand, and ruffled Bertie’s dirty blonde locks with his empty hand. Then, he turned and deposited the stained spoon in the sink before continuing on to the pantry.

“We didn’t hear you come in,” Blaine said as he grabbed a napkin and started dabbing sauce from Bertie’s chubby cheeks.

“Of course not. You wouldn’t hear the onset of a zombie apocalypse in our front yard, what with you three putting on a Pink revival concert in here.” Kurt emerged from the pantry in his own designer apron. “So, what’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti!” Tori cheered, bounding from her stool toward her fathers.

“Mmm,” Kurt crouched down and smiled at his daughter. “And have we added the oregano to the sauce yet?” Tori’s face scrunched with thought. She tilted her head up toward Blaine, questioning. Blaine shook his head slightly in answer and Tori turned back to Kurt and declared, “Not yet, Papa.”

“Well then,” Kurt said, rising, “it looks like we have work to do.”

With the kids well fed and in bed, Kurt and Blaine snuggled on the couch in the dark, the room lit only by the TV, on which a rerun of Oprah (that was all they ever showed on OWN these days) played silently in the background. They were in their customary position: Blaine prone on his stomach, his arms wrapped around the throw pillow beneath his head, and Kurt on his side, wedged between Blaine’s body and the back of the couch, one arm propping his head up and a leg draped over Blaine’s lower body.

“Tori has a soccer game tomorrow,” Blaine breathed, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Rachel wanted to come visit tomorrow. She’ll love that,” Kurt said, resting his head on Blaine’s shoulder, his breath tickling the back of Blaine’s neck.

“Mmm hmm, it should be fun.” Blaine smiled, his eyes closed. Kurt shifted, gently rubbing himself against Blaine’s hip.

“You know what else would be fun?” Kurt whispered into Blaine’s ear. Blaine hummed again, indicating his approval, and Kurt responded by propping up his upper body slightly and ghosting kisses over the nape of Blaine’s neck. Blaine gave a low chuckle in response. Kurt lifted his leg and began dragging his thigh up and down the back of Blaine’s thighs and caressing Blaine’s calf with his foot, all the while grinding himself against Blaine’s hip. Blaine was moaning lightly and Kurt had just begun to inch Blaine’s shirt from his pants when Kurt’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

“Ugh, who would be trying to contact you so late?” Blaine asked, his voice dripping with frustration of a sexual nature.

“I don’t know,” Kurt said, slightly intrigued. Blaine, eyes still closed, reached out blindly for the coffee table, and palmed it as though he were looking for a light switch in a dark, unfamiliar room. Finally grasping the phone, he passed it behind his head to Kurt. Phone in hand, Kurt stared at the new text message.

Brimley 10:34pm
Dinner? Monday after work. Purely
professional.

Kurt looked down at Blaine beneath him, sighed deeply, thumbed out his response, and tossed the phone lightly back onto the coffee table.

“Who was that?” Blaine asked.

“No one.” Kurt paused, “Just Tiffany letting me know I have a late meeting on Monday. Looks like I’ll have to miss dinner.”

“No problem, babe. Would you like us to keep dinner warm for you?” Blaine asked, nuzzling his face into the throw pillow.

“No. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Tiffany will have something delivered.”

“Okay. We’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Kurt whispered, laying his head back atop Blaine’s shoulder.

“Mmm. Now where were we?” Blaine whispered groggily, shifting his hip against Kurt.

Kurt gave a satisfied groan and reached again for Blaine’s shirt. “I think…” he breathed, “we were…” he freed Blaine’s shirt from his pants, “right here.” Kurt slid his hand under Blaine’s shirt and across his warm skin as he placed the first of many kisses on his husband’s neck.

The Boss 4:16pm
Drinks tonight?

Brimley Johnson 4:18pm
Purely professional?

The Boss 4:22pm
No…

Brimley Johnson 4:23pm
What time?

The Boss 4:26pm
7pm