The best thing about the apartment was the windows—nearly floor to ceiling. It was what had sold Blaine on the place. When they had first gotten the apartment, two years ago, he and Kurt had already been living in New York for seven years and Blaine was beginning to think he would never again wake up to natural, unfettered sunlight beaming in through his window. That concrete square in his freshman dorm room at Weinstein Hall had barely counted and his roommate (where was Kyle these days?) had put his bed right up against the “window.” Blaine could not even look out of it without touching Kyle’s bed, so he never did, because Kyle was nasty and there was no telling what was living in his sheets.

When Blaine was a junior, he had moved into Gramercy Green, one of the upperclassmen residence halls, only to room with Jacob, who it turned out had a curtain fetish--thick, blackout curtains. Blaine always felt like he was getting away with something every night Jacob slept at his girlfriend’s and Blaine opened every single curtain in the place. Blaine would prop himself up by a freshly opened window with his notepad in his lap and stare down at the people, lit by the yellow streetlights, looking for inspiration for his next song.

Blaine had not known how good he had had it with Jacob until his senior year, when Kurt had finally agreed that they should move in together. Kurt had just graduated and it seemed more fiscally responsible for Blaine to put his money toward helping Kurt with rent as opposed to handing more of his cash over to NYU. Plus, he would be living with Kurt. Kurt! Blaine would have done it years ago but Kurt had not wanted them to be overly distracted while in school and finding a place conveniently located between Parsons and NYU would have been astronomically expensive. So they waited, only to end up in what Blaine thought was the saddest apartment in all of New York City. The only thing that made it bearable was the tiny window in the bathroom and Kurt. No, Kurt made it perfect. And it had been perfect, for three years until, it became apparent they needed more space.

Their kitchen had not even had countertops, which had led to a particularly painful and short-lived make-out session, and a valuable lesson: Never celebrate your engagement by lifting your new fianc� onto the stove and proceeding to suck his lips numb. Legs and hips turn nobs…and those turn on burners…and those burn.

Kurt had been lying in what could only be described as a compromising position--face down, bare ass up--which would have been fun if Blaine had not been profusely apologizing and holding an ice pack to Kurt’s singed cheeks.

“We need to move,” Kurt mumbled into the pillow.

“What?”

“If we’re getting married, we need counter space. I don’t mind the burn, but stove tops can not be the cause.”

They had started looking the next day. Naturally, atop their list of must-haves for their new apartment were windows and ample kitchen counters.

So, almost three months later, when the real estate agent opened the door into the foyer of the tenth floor apartment on East 65th, Blaine had trouble maintaining the mildly disinterested expression his mother had taught him was necessary when shopping for a home. He glanced quickly over at Kurt, squeezed his hand, and gave a quick, wide-eyed nod toward the windows in the living room, trusting Kurt could hear his brain screaming, “Windows, Kurt! Look at the glorious windows!” Kurt gave him a quick smirk and then glanced in the kitchen to the right. Blaine felt Kurt squeeze his hand back. The kitchen was beautiful and fully equipped with a gas range, stainless steel refrigerator, a window over the sink, and most importantly, ample counter space. They were sold.

It had happened. They had gotten a real apartment, gotten married and become adults. It had been just over two years since but Blaine was still overcome with the sheer wonder of it all every morning he awoke to the sun pouring in on him, lighting Kurt’s perfect features.

Blaine loved it when they lay like this, snuggled in bed on a lazy Saturday afternoon, Kurt’s head on his chest, Blaine’s hand in Kurt’s hair. Kurt had finally stopped complaining about Blaine messing up his perfectly coifed hair and accepted that Blaine could not and would not resist digging his fingers into Kurt’s deceptively thick locks. Besides, Kurt had to admit it felt incredible and was at the same time wonderfully intimate and amazingly innocent.

However, days like this were becoming rare. Blaine had scored his second big hit, proving he was not just a one-hit-wonder, and suddenly top artists everywhere were clamoring for the opportunity to work with him. It had barely been two years since Kurt had really broken into the fashion world and he was in the middle of creating the first full line in the Kurt Hummel Collection. Needless to say, they were busy. But today was Saturday and the only thing they planned to be busy with was each other.

“Mmmm” Kurt murmured, rubbing his cheek on Blaine’s chest so that his hair tickled Blaine’s chin.

“Did you enjoy your nap?” Blaine said and kissed the top of Kurt’s head.

“Mmm hmm.” Kurt stretched his arm into the air, yawned, and then brought it down, wrapping it firmly around Blaine’s chest. “I needed it. You were crazy this morning.”

“Crazy about you. I’m glad you enjoyed.”

“Oh, I certainly did. I’m planning on a second helping later.”

“Oooo. What’s gotten into you?”

“Besides you?” Kurt chuckled coyly, suddenly shifting halfway onto Blaine’s chest and resting his chin on his clasped hands so that Blaine had to tuck his chin down to look into Kurt’s eyes, the telltale wrinkles at the corners giving away his smile. “I just figure we should enjoy this while we still can.”

Blaine cocked an eyebrow. “While we still can?”

“Well, soon, we’ll have to watch Saturday morning cartoons and make chocolate chip cookie pancakes instead of rolling around in our bed drizzling each other in chocolate,” Kurt declared matter-of-factly.

Blaine sat up suddenly and Kurt, unprepared, let out a startled squeak. Blaine just stared at Kurt, not allowing himself to believe. Kurt seeing the question in his face nodded and let a broad smile crinkle his eyes. Blaine’s eyes went wide, “You mean it?”

“Yes.” Kurt was nodding even faster now.

“You’re ready?” Blaine asked, looking deep into Kurt’s eyes so as to be sure he was sure.

“We’re ready.” And Kurt found himself being pulled into Blaine’s arms and back down onto the bed. Kurt could not help but smile into Blaine’s neck, as Blaine held him tightly, his laughter vibrating against Kurt’s chest.

“We’ll have to move,” Kurt said softly after a few blissfully silent minutes.

“Of course.”

“Somewhere in the suburbs,” Kurt specified, only breaking their embrace to look into Blaine’s eyes.

“Of course.” Blaine already had the neighborhood picked out.

“We’ll finally have a large kitchen.”

“And a backyard.”

“No pool.”

“Too dangerous,” Blaine agreed and reached out again and hugged Kurt so tightly it was as though he hoped to communicate his elation through his pores.

“Blaine?” Kurt whispered into Blaine’s chest.

“Mmm hmm?”

“We’re going to be parents.” Blaine’s arms tensed around him and Kurt felt Blaine’s nod in the gentle taps of Blaine’s chin against his temple. Moments later, when Blaine began to tremble, Kurt did not need to see Blaine’s face to know he was crying.

There was so much paper work--too much paper work. Kurt was lost in it, slumped over at the dining room table, hands clutching at his temples, papers strewn about in organized chaos. Blaine, who had foreseen this breakdown about an hour ago, stood behind Kurt with his hands gently working the stress from Kurt’s shoulders.

“It’ll be all right, babe. We knew it would be a lot.”

“I just don’t understand why they need all of this. First it was those damn support group meetings and group orientations as though we couldn’t just Google what we need to know.”

“They were somewhat helpful…and we did meet DJ and Gilbert, remember?” If Blaine could calm him now, perhaps they could avoid a complete melt down.

“And now all this damned paper work!” Kurt complained, throwing a sheet into the air.

“Hey, I thought I was the paper-thrower in this family?” Blaine teased as he picked up the paper from the floor. But Kurt was not to be distracted.

“Health statements and exams! A ‘Child Abuse Clearance Form,’ which I understand the logic of, but really, I need to be fingerprinted and produce a notarized form to prove I haven’t abused children I don’t even have?” Kurt was spiraling. “And income statements, W-4s, paycheck stubs, it’s worse than filling out the FAFSA. Why don’t they just come and look around our new home, and deduce that we don’t need money, we need children to fill this ungodly large house.”

“I know, babe,” Blaine said with another gentle squeeze of Kurt’s shoulder. At this point, Blaine had learned it was best to just let Kurt tire himself out. There was no talking him down.

“And not only do our friends and family have to deal with our adoption induced neuroticism, they also have to fill out ‘references’ and suffer interrogations by a social worker about the deep dark secrets that you and I no doubt left out of our ‘autobiographical statements,’ which conveniently required us to extol the trials and tribulations of our entire upbringing.” Kurt finally took a breath then turned on Blaine. “Are you even finished with yours?”

“Umm…not yet.”

“Blaine!” Kurt threw up his hands in exasperation.

“I’m trying, Kurt. It’s just…” Blaine hesitated and turned away. “Why do they need to know the ‘dynamics of my family relationship?’ Why does it matter how I was raised?” His head was bowed. One hand was on his hip. “They can’t learn anything about the type of father I’m going to be by reading about the type of parent my father was.” Blaine spun to face Kurt, a sudden indignant tone in his voice. “I’m different. I’m not going to…I just…Kurt, what if we screw them up?” And just like that, Blaine was deflating.

“What are you talking about?” Kurt said as he rose and walked toward Blaine.

“I don’t know.” His head was bowed again and his eyes were clinched tight. “What if we aren’t good enough? What if we’re bad parents?”

Kurt reached out, cupped Blaine’s face with his palm, and lifted Blaine’s chin. “Blaine, we’ll be wonderful.”

Blaine’s brow crinkled with concern. “How can you be sure? We had shitty examples—well, I mean, Burt is amazing—but your mom is gone and well…well, my parents were shit.”

“Blaine…”

“No, Kurt. Let’s not sugarcoat it. They were shit.” Blaine said simply. “They were never around and when they were they were yelling—yelling at me, yelling at each other, yelling at each other about me. If it weren’t for Coop…” The last was more of an aside to himself, his eyes darting off to the side, remembering. Blaine took a breath and caught Kurt’s eyes once more. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You’ll know,” Kurt assured.

“How do you know?”

“I know, because you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here.” Kurt took Blaine’s hand and led him back to their dining room table. They sat and Kurt plucked a clean sheet of paper from the pile on the table, and with pen in hand, said, “Tell me the type of father you’ll be.”

“Kurt?” Blaine asked, clearly confused as to what Kurt was doing.

“I’m making a list.” Kurt said it as though it was the most normal thing in the world. “Now, tell me the type of father you’ll be.”

“Well…I never want to fight or yell in front of them.” Kurt should have known this would be first on the list. He would never forget the look on Blaine’s face the first time he had yelled at him in that parking lot so many years ago.

“Okay, ‘1. We’ll never fight or yell in front of them,’” Kurt spoke out loud as he scribbled on the page. “Check. What else?”

“Umm…I always wanted Mom and Dad to come see me perform…just once, so…” Blaine adjusted his posture, sat up straight, and declared, “I will go to every game, performance, recital, field trip—“

“Blaine, honey, slow down,” Kurt giggled. “I’m trying to write. Plus, I want to go to these things too. And if we’re going to make promises, we should be realistic about them.”

“Promises?”

“Promises. See the title?” Blaine leaned over and read Kurt’s loopy handwriting atop the page: Our Parental Promises. “Do you like the alliteration?”

“I love it,” Blaine smiled. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” Kurt returned, placing a quick peck on Blaine’s lips before returning to their list. “So, where were we? Ahh, yes, ‘2. We’ll go to every game, performance, field trip, etc. One of us will always be there.’”

Kurt and Blaine went back and forth like that for nearly an hour. In the end, they settled on a list of ten. Their promises ranged. There were practical self-reminders born from scary reality TV shows they had seen, like number seven: “We’ll guide and not push. They get to make their own decisions.” Then there was the promise that came from a deeper, more personal, painful place. The promise Blaine knew his father had made and not kept. Ultimately, the same promise Kurt and Blaine knew would be the easiest to keep.

10. We will love them no matter who they are or who they love. They will know it. We will show it.

With the list complete, Kurt had apparently decided that the rest of the paper work could wait. He sat the pen down, grabbed the list in one hand, and grasped Blaine’s hand with his other. They were up the stairs and Kurt was pushing open the double doors of their bedroom before Blaine could form a sentence.

“Kurt, what are we doing? The papers…” Blaine said, gesturing weakly toward the stairs with his free hand.

“We’re practicing,” Kurt said, pushing Blaine onto the bed and nipping at his earlobe.

“Oh!” Blaine moaned. “Not that I’m complaining, but for what exactly are we practicing?”

Kurt climbed playfully atop Blaine and loomed over him. “If we’re going to keep that promise, you’re going to have to learn not to yell when I do this…” And all at once Kurt was palming Blaine through his slacks and sucking fiercely at the meeting of Blaine’s jaw and neck. The noise Blaine emitted made it all too clear that he definitely needed the practice.

It was hours before they limped, love sore, back down the stairs to sort out the mound of paper work that would hopefully make their dream of becoming parents a reality. The most important document, however, was filed away in the decorative, fireproof box on their nightstand. The only other article inside was their marriage license. It was their box of promises. Promises they would keep. Forever.