Two people amongst the crowd are still. The figures sit close to each other on the rim of the fountain, the last rays of the sun dancing on their faces, their eyes closed. Each has a hand dangling loosely into the cool waters, fingers drifting and turning in the ripples. Their other hands have found each other, and are inseparably intertwined, hung above the warm mossy stone between them.

“Do you think it’s possible to stop time?” One murmurs. “To stay and live in this moment forever?”

The other doesn’t respond at once. Instead he sits, allowing the words time to absorb, placing them on top of his collage of the moment. Even if they can’t stop time, he is determined to remember everything about this instant. He breathes deeply, cataloguing the smells of the flowers and the water and the people. This is Central Park.

The figure who’d spoken stretches backwards, over the pool, trailing his free hand through the leaves of the lilies, eyes still closed. His back arches so that his head is held closer to a champagne spout of water, the froth and cold flecks peppering his face like sparks, blown by the breeze. He keeps his eyes closed and keeps hold of the other boy’s hand. From below his hairline, which ripples in the warm air, emerges a thin train of white and pink; puckered tissue overlain with the ghosts of white sutures.

“It’s ironic, don’t you think, Kurt?”

He has to speak up slightly now to hear himself, over the gurgle of the spring. His voice is fresh and open.

“What is?”

Says Kurt, lazily, feeling the movements of the other boy as his hand is dragged slightly backwards over the organic stone. In a single impulse of fluid movement, he slides his hand out and over the surface of the pool, turns and draws his legs up onto the stone, and leans until his head rests, oh so gently, in the other boy’s lap. Their entwined hands rest together on his chest. His other lounges on the hot stone alongside him, drying slowly.

“Being here. Did you see what this fountain is supposed to represent?”

A shadowy arrow of ducks flies across the sun and bounces off their closed eyelids. With quacks and splashes they water-ski onto the lake and ruffle to a stop. The second boy opens his eyes to watch them, and then twists ever so slightly to consider the statue, half hidden behind that warm chest, that floating shirt. But what he can see is old, greening, and powerful. Small cherubs dance around a central column. The impressive Angel stands, watching over them.

“Victory?”

He offers, gazing up at the face he cannot see, framed by the washed out blueness of the sky, with a slight smile of excitement, thinking of the similar statues they’ve walked past on the way to this place, and winged emblems, and stamps.

“You think it’s some sort of sign? A prophesy? No?”

The other boy opens his eyes and considered his view of the underside of the fountain. He could just see a pigeon balancing along the top of one outstretched wing. He understands the confusion after a moment.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that. But it could do, I guess. I mean, of course I hope you win…But, what it really is…well, it’s called Bethesda.”

The single word means nothing to Kurt, lying there, but it sounds suitably beautiful and holy from those perfect lips to describe this moment. The two brown eyes above the pool tilt to look down on him, and then, stretching again, the boy, Blaine, straightens up, taking his hand from the water. But he does not dry his. Instead he reaches out, taking Kurt’s hand in his damp one, letting the water drip over both their fingers, palm to palm. Edging forwards and curling his knee onto the stone, he bends so that their faces are less than a foot apart, eyes meeting.

“The Angel,” His eyes do not move or close as he speaks; he is completely serious and sincere, “is blessing the pool. It’s Jerusalem; the Pool of Bethesda.”

A glistening bead of water falls from their hands.

“She’s giving the water healing powers.”

His listener watches for a moment, then smiles softly. Blaine follows him.

“That’s not ironic.” Says the second boy. “It’s perfect. This whole place is perfect.”

A clock strikes in the distance.

“You’re perfect.”

There is a moment of serenity. Then the boy with the brown eyes closes them, flicking oh-so-dark lashes, and bends forwards, sliding a hand into the dark brown locks which lie across his knees. As both their eyes stare unblinking, he lifts Kurt’s head so gently. They kiss. It is long, deep. Shuddering. Earth shattering. Neither one of them breaks the soft touch, not for minutes, not for hours.

But then the wind blows, tumbling down the terrace, flourishing the leaves on the branches and catching their hair. It blows warm against their faces and their lips, and seems to drive them an inch apart, only for them to open and gaze into each other’s eyes, wordlessly.

Finally,

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

The sun, so valiant in fighting its way through the pillars of the buildings all around them, finally disappears over the top most branches of the park.

The darker haired boy waits for a moment, pressing a finger to his lips delicately in contemplation, and then slowly lowers Kurt’s head. Kurt swears he feels those legs tremble beneath him. Blaine slides his hand further down Kurt’s waiting back, and lifts him, effortlessly, into sitting, one arm still arranged at his shoulders. But then he spins, and stands, reaching a hand back down to his waiting partner.

“Come on. There’s something else I want to show you.”

“Something else? Another surprise?”

Says Kurt. He takes the offered hand and sways on it playfully as they bend through the fading crowds away from the fountain, twirling, dancing. As they pass, he sees people turn to glance, to watch them; but for once he feels no shyness. The city passes no judgement on them; holds no ignorance or prejudice. He wants to jump and shout; at the top of his lungs. But instead he settles for a gasp of pleasure and a ridiculous grin. And the people watching them can see exactly the thoughts of their minds, as the light dissolves into gold.

“Tell me.”

A smile flicks at the corner of Blaine’s mouth as they cross up onto the Terrace and start down the Mall.

"Have I not taught you anything in these past days? I am very good at keeping my secrets."

He swings Kurt by his hand and twirls him into his arms to kiss his neck and soft shoulders as they walk, leaving one hand draped at his waist as if it was simplest unit of adoration in the world.

"You told me last time."

Kurt thrills silently at the pull of those hands against his body. And Blaine smiles, but softly and secretly, and to himself, as if in memory of some perfect moment. A horse and cart pulls gently past them, its old wheels rumbling in the shale. Ahead of them late runners mingle with the homeward bound business men, making happy plans with loved ones as they ramble. Children cross their vision, chasing together to the limitless world of the playground.

“Last time isn’t this time.”

They walk in serene silence, until, like a storm unfolding, they can hear the travel of the roads and the sounds of the city which holds them. They reach the outside world; turn right, towards the hidden sea, and Kurt thinks he can feel the ground melting away beneath his feet. On the pavements that surround them, darkening from silver to pewter, the streetlamps begin to flicker into life, bathing them in a fresh golden light. Kurt feels his hand pressed as they slide through a countless stream of visored residents, rushing for familiarity. A whisper passes his ear.

“And this time, well, it’s not a secret. Not my secret. I just want to share it with you.”

“Share what?”

Kurt whispers back, conscious of some unspoken bond of confidence between them and the crowd. They were the strangers here, blundering the tourist trail; but the crowd had swelled around them and taken them for its own, they were not the outcasts.

“A moment.”
-
Kurt sits alone on a bench, imagining the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean stretching before him. Instead, all he has is the Hudson River, but the dark bars of water lap so gradually, so methodically, that they seem to intuitively have all the gravitas of the ocean ahead of them. Blaine has wandered, distracted for a single moment by something which has caught his eye and his imagination. So Kurt has meandered on alone, captivated by the beauty of the city around him. How can it possibly open so majestically into nature like this? The titanic figures of the ships and cruisers sway in front of him, like living sisters of the buildings reflected in their portholes. The freshness of the ocean, tainted by the perfume of oil and labour, fills his senses and flashes against his face. Rushing from the park, they’ve just managed to arrive in time for the sun to set, and now Kurt understands why Blaine meant it wasn’t a secret. This is a shared peace; shared with all those of this brilliant new city who just happened to glance out of their windows at this moment, to glimpse the scarlet sky. He twists momentarily in his seat, searching the retiring figures for that one perfect outline. Blaine is going to miss it; where has he gone? A breeze ripples the path of walkers, and suddenly Kurt can smell roses, a beautiful fragrance blossoming it seems from within the very city walls. He can see the setting sun reflected a hundredfold in the crystal windows of the buildings and even the echoed light seems warm and comforting.

A hand sits quietly between his shoulder blades, as if supporting him, encouraging him to drink in the view. The smell of the roses grows sweeter.

“Don’t you feel at home?”

Kurt nods towards the buildings; the thousands of homes and lives.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere more perfect. It’s so far from Ohio.”

He feels Blaine slide next to him on the bench, their bodies fitting alongside each other in a harmony that he cannot explain. He hears the sound of rustling paper, and something softer; an ever so soft music of velvet on velvet, of snow landing on snow.

“Kurt?”

He twists in his seat, drawing his legs alongside Blaine’s. He’s about to lean against his shoulder, to close his eyes and drift in the beautiful moment, but suddenly something is before him. Blaine’s hands are filled by a twist of paper, blossoming outwards from his chest, brushing and folding under his chin. A dozen roses, scarlet and satin perfect.

“These are for you.”

For a moment Kurt is speechless. It’s a gesture he would never have thought of. It’s too kind, too beautiful and generous.

“Blaine…”

But Blaine lifts one hand from the bouquet, and silences Kurt with a pale finger. With the other hand he passes the flowers over.

“Shush.”

Blaine places his free hands over Kurt’s and they hold the weight of the blossoms together.

“Let’s just sit; ok? And look. And take in. I can't get over that we’re really here.”

He slides back against the bench, still holding Kurt’s hands. The evening light turns bronze on their faces.

“Thank you, Blaine.”

Kurt whispers to the view.

“Don’t mention it.”
-
Bleep. Bleep.

“Mm goma ‘ill ooever ‘at is…”

Mumbles Kurt, failing to find the strength to break the magnetic pull of Blaine’s scarlet lips. But it is Blaine who raises his free hand from the bed covers and pushes gently at Kurt’s cheeks with both sets of fingers; he runs them back into the ever silky hair, and tangles them in knots of his own making.

“Go.”

He whispers as their mouths break apart. Kurt’s feverishly bright eyes are centimetres from his own. The darkness and intensity of the brown irises shocks him. Have they always been like that? Or is it only the work of the weak light of the bedside lamp and the ethereal gleam of the ever-glowing city drifting through the window? The phone trills once more, resting forgotten somewhere near the door. Kurt passes him a beseeching look through his eyes, so Blaine answers with a playful, teasing nudge at his shoulder.

“Go on. Otherwise they’re only going to keep calling. What if it’s one of the others? What if they’re worried about you?”

Kurt raises his eyebrows, but slides his knees off the bed all the same.

“They know what I’m doing.”

Blaine smirks, a childish grin creeping into his lips and flushing them. It’s his turn to raise his dark, thick, almost triangular brows; did they know that this was what Kurt had planned for the evening? Kurt catches on and smiles himself, blush flaring in his milky skin even in the half light of the dusky hotel room. He stands and takes a step towards the desk, where his bag and jacket, and flowers, lie forgotten.

“Alright…not exactly what I’m doing. But they know I’m with you. They knew we were going to do some exploring.”

Again Blaine can't hide the smile that the words inspire. Kurt’s hand hovers over the handset as he throws another look back at his beautiful boyfriend, curled into the crumpled covers, shirt half unbuttoned.

“Grow up.”

Blaine sweetly slips a hand over his tingling lips, as Kurt laughs and glances at the phone before placing it against his ear.

“Hello, Rachel?”

Blaine can hear a high pitched reply, muffled into senselessness. Kurt glances back at him, triggered by something he’s being asked, so Blaine twists his face into seriousness, playing at covering his glowing, battered chest with the soft blankets. He wonders if Kurt realises he blinks so much when he’s on the phone; he can see himself watching in the same way from behind the windows of the coffee shop, and the rapid fluttering of those dark, dark eyelashes, how they make him look so innocently flustered. Blaine lets go of the rumpled covers, sliding himself back against the meagre pillows, letting them take his weight as he did so often in the past month. But this bed is so, so different. This room, this place. There is energy in the very air, and not only because of the every changing, ever constant stream of music threading through shaded window, of cars and people and buses and signs and life. No. Blaine can feel life vibrating through even the bowed mattress. He reaches up and runs his fingers along the length of that badge of his own half-death; small soft quills of hair are starting to colonise its edges, and now his fingers are brushed by feather curls as they walk the odd numbness. He has never felt more alive. More happy. More thankful. His hand falls back to the sheets, and he resolves to just watch. To drink in and indulge himself in what he has found.

“Uh hu…”

Kurt has turned on his heel, playing with the back of the humble motel chair, ears unsure about what he is hearing. He lets his eyes wander over a generic red landscape print, hanging above the small TV. Bright green trees clash against it and a purple path winds over something like Tuscan hills. Rachel’s voice hums on, fast and excited. She has news for him; they all do. Where is he? When is he coming back to the hotel? He does realise what time it is, doesn’t he? And that they have Nationals in two days? She pauses for breath, and Kurt catches voices in the background, talking quickly, and one elated cheer. He blinks.

“Um…”

She jumps back in again. It doesn’t matter; she’s going to have to tell him now. Kurt has turned to face the square of the window, trying to figure out the time. How lost in all this has he become, how much blissful time has slipped through his careless fingers as his mind has floated? But then he freezes, his gaze fixing on the single lamp which throws shadows around him. And Blaine stiffens too, because he sees too much in Kurt’s silence, too much thrown across his face at the words of the now barely audible speaker. There is a long, long pause in the littleness of the room. Then a breath from Kurt’s unmoving mouth.

“You’re serious? Completely sure?”

Blaine rises up onto his knees, shrugging his shirt back onto his shoulder. He sees a flash of Kurt’s eyes as he moves; they’re shocked, as if he’d forgotten...something. Then they rest on his face, and the two boys are looking at each other, level, blinking. Kurt’s lips flicker together and apart, his rose tongue brushing along their lengths.

“Okay. Okay…wow.”

His voice is soft and stilted. Blaine edges forwards once more, but is stopped by another blinding flash from Kurt. But then his eyes drop from Blaine’s to the carpeted floor, faltering and unclear.

“When?”

A pause for a reply.

“And…and it’s over?”

Blaine stumbles over the relief in Kurt’s words; his voice is choked with it. Kurt’s head swings to look at him; they’re only an arm’s length apart now, in a room which seems to have grown infinitely darker and smaller. And Kurt knows he has tears in his eyes once more, but they glisten, daring to tumble down his cheeks for freedom. And as they do, his cheeks blossom in a gasp of laughter.

“Yeah…yeah…”

He swallows, forcing at the unyielding fibres of his throat.

“Of course I’ll tell him.”

He smiles once more, fully, blinking at the bright silver pearls in his eyes.

“Okay. And…and, Rachel? Say…say…give him a hug from me?”

His hand shudders, as if he’s about to hang up, but in the silence Blaine hears that faraway voice once more, now almost audibly close. He catches a few last words; ‘…back…tonight?’ Kurt’s eyes widen and run up and down the figure in front of him. He glances across the room, taking in the desk, the door, the bathroom, the bed. His lips part, but for a second there is no sound. Then they stretch, ever so slowly, into a small smile, serious, sincere, and meant only for the boy in front of him.

“No. No, I won’t. Bye, Rachel.”

The phone slides down in his hand, and he pauses for another second, giving the room another glance. Then he turns and paces to place the phone on the desk, beside his roses. He slides it into mute.

“Kurt?”

Blaine slides his foot off the bed and reaches forward. He’s worried, terrified even, by the twin tracks of tears on Kurt’s skin. What had happened? What had Rachel said?

“Kurt, what is it?”

His other foot follows after. Kurt is still facing away from him, those slight shoulders sliding ever so gently up and down. Blaine takes another step forwards.

“Kurt? Are they ok? Is…is it your dad?”

He sees Kurt’s head twitch slightly at the words; but inches before his hands can cradle those arms, he spins, leaning back against the desk. There are more tears on his cheeks, but his eyes are bright, fiercely bright. They meet Blaine’s, level and longing.

“It’s over, Blaine.”

“What?”

Kurt takes a breath, and then slides fluidly onto the end of the bed, collapsing with a sigh. Blaine follows him, stretching an arm around his back. It’s hot and trembles at the touch.

“Kurt, what’s over?”

“Everything. All these last weeks.”

Blaine’s breath quickens; what has happened? He reaches up to stroke at Kurt’s forehead. Is it hot, or is that just his own hand? Kurt watches the hand as Blaine takes hold of one of his and presses it. He presses back. His mind is so clear; everything so simple and easy. He sees Blaine looking at him, fear in his eyes, his creased brow melting into that garish pleat. But there’s no more reason to be afraid. Blaine’s hand at his back begins to rub circles.

“Kurt, baby, what is it? Tell me; it’ll be all right. I’ll make it all right. Just tell me.”

“Blaine…”

That hand, those fingers. They’ve found their way back into his hair now, tumbling down his neck. Ripples of happiness, stronger than anything he’s ever been able to express, run through Kurt, dashing inside his heart, rebounding.

“He’s gone. Him.”

“Who?”

Kurt shudders from shear release. But the name still hurts his mouth.

“Him…Noah’s dad.”

It’s Blaine’s turn to falter. He forgets his gentle rhythm of pressing Kurt’s palm. Instead his fingers just hold on; shuddering.

“What?”

Kurt turns, sliding himself into Blaine’s shoulder, slipping around him, knotting them into one. Blaine lets his arms follow, but his chest is rigid. Suddenly breathing is not so easy. What is Kurt saying? The voice rises up to his set ears from out of his collar.

“Rachel said…Puck got a phone call this evening, a really long one, from his mom. The…the judge threw out their madness argument…said something like his lack of remorse meant that even if he was ill, he deserved to be removed from society…so they had no other defence…”

Both boys stiffen into each other. Something of Kurt’s release begins to seep into Blaine’s fingers. Kurt glances up, and rises from his embrace to kiss at Blaine’s fixed jaw line. Those deep, deep eyes glance down on his.

“Blaine…Blaine…it only took the jury an hour…an hour to find him guilty…and he’s gone…away…for as long as good.”

“Gone?”

The simple word fills Blaine’s mind, and he is still once more as Kurt rises and kisses his open lips and hands.

“Gone, Blaine. Gone. Gone. Gone. It’s over. We won.”

Blaine is swept by weakness. He sways into Kurt’s arms. His head is pounding; fever striking down the length of his scar. The entire body of his head seems too light; floating on his shoulders like it might be knocked away at the slightest movement. Kurt gathers him in, folding around all his fragility. And suddenly Blaine understands what the sensation is; all the pain, the worry, the fear of the last month, Kurt has taken it away in just so many words. He feels himself turn his gasping breathing into a deep coughing laugh, and then tears stream into his eyes, vanishing away into Kurt’s shirt. He feels Kurt’s hands in his hair, weaving and lacing. They stroke his head ever so softly, like a memory. A whisper begins, just behind his ear.

“We did it, Blaine.”

“We did it…”

Blaine repeats, confiding the truth in the softest folds of Kurt’s chest.

“No more pain.”

“No.”

“Only us.”

“Us.”

“And the future.”

“Whatever we want it to be.”

They pause for a second in the cocoon of safety.

“Blaine?”

“Mmm?”

“What do we want it to be?”

Blaine gives out on his tears with a happy sob and a sniff.

“What?”

“Our future?”

He reaches up his own hands and tucks them behind Kurt’s back, feeding one hand under his loose shirt, feeling the heat and beat of his skin. They hold the position. Kurt closes his eyes. His mind is baffled by such happiness; it keeps forgetting and then remembering the reason behind it. Through his closed eyelids, Blaine’s voice floats like a sunset, perfect, understood, eternal.

“New York. Here. This is it, Kurt. We’ve started our future. Is anywhere more perfect?”

Kurt nods into his hair.

“I hoped you’d say that.”

“Even if it’s just this motel room forever.”

“Even if we never find real work.”

“Even if we don’t even get into college.”

“We’ll become famous singing garbage men.”

“Street sweepers.”

“Pigeon chasers.”

“We’ll stand outside of theatres, on hunger strike, until they have to let us in.”

“And then storm the stage and steal the limelight.”

“Walk to LA to see the Tony’s.”

“And the Oscars.”

“And then walk all the way back.”

They both giggle. Blaine allows his free head to float and squares himself on the foot of the bed. Pulling back, he holds Kurt at arms’ length, gazing at him.

“Sounds good to me.”

Kurt smiles.

“It could sound a little better.”

Blaine droops his lips.

“I dunno. It sounds pretty great to me. So free.”

Kurt reaches out and pinches that appled cheek, dappled by the streetlights.

“I wouldn’t mind a little comfort after a while. And maybe a wardrobe.”

Blaine giggles, smoothing invisible creases from Kurt’s trouser knees. Winking, he works his hands up to Kurt’s thin waist. His voice still shudders with emotion. They’ve done it. It’s over.

“Alright. I’ll carry you a wardrobe. And I’ll allow you…three Broadway cameos a year? How does that sound?”

Kurt smiles.

“Better.”

They wait, holding each other in the gathered darkness. Neither has managed to grasp what has happened. Not fully. Snatches of words fly around in Kurt’s head; of the words Rachel had used, the sounds in the background…How had the others taken it? How had Puck taken it? He should really phone his dad, or would the police have done that? Thought after thought tumbles through his mind, none managing to seize his concentration for more than a sweet second. In Blaine’s eyes he sees the same process.

Finally he manages to twist to look at the blinking red clock of the TV. It’s almost eleven; so late so quickly? It’ll be earlier in Ohio, but still, his dad will probably be in bed. And if Finn hadn’t called…well, he didn’t want to get him into trouble. Blaine’s hands tighten gently at his waist.

“What are you thinking about?”

Kurt gives a tiny smile, looking back into those eyes.

“Nothing. Just…just whether my dad will know already.”

“Mmm,” Blaine mumbles. “I should probably call my mom.”

There is silence again, an unbroken understanding that these things can wait. Somewhere within the hotel voices begin, moving along a hallway, laughing and joyful. Blaine thinks again about how particular this city makes him feel, but also how it does the same for every person within it, every visitor. He can see himself living here; see Kurt living here, so easily. It would be like slipping into a costume you have worn each day beneath your clothes, and finally being able to show it to the world.

He tightens his hands again, without looking down at them, and feels the gorgeous pull of Kurt’s body, resisting his fingertips. How adult all this feels. How mature and right. He smiles into Kurt’s dark eyes and leans to kiss him. Elation is bubbling within him for this day; for how perfect this day has been. Invincibility sweeps him. Their life is theirs once more.

Kurt is thinking too; about the last words Rachel spoke to him. About the smell of the roses, drifting between the sterile scent of the room and the wonderful warmth of Blaine’s body as they kiss. Are you coming back to the hotel tonight? He’d said no. No. He would stay here, in the comfort of Blaine’s arms. Forever. But he knows there’s something else behind his answer; some other desire. Kurt can feel it, like a physical particle in his heart of hearts, needing release.

As he thinks, they mumble “I love you” in turn in the darkness, instinctively.

It’s there. And Kurt knows he’s ready for it. And that this moment is as perfect as any. In the city that never sleeps, he does not want to simple sleep over. Not tonight.

In the silence following their kiss, he feels Blaine slide slightly away from him, settling back into the bed. That face smiles, and an urge rushes through Kurt, to kiss it again and again and again until he has no strength left. But no; he stops himself. There’s a bigger prize. Have courage, Kurt. This is the moment; your present to each other.

Kurt’s voice drops. His eyes gloss even darker; his face is sincere as an icon.

“Blaine, I want our future to start now.”

Blaine smiles, not quite reading the look.

“It has started, silly. That’s what we just said.”

Kurt slides his feet up beneath him on the soft bed, sinking slowly into it, but keeping his eyes level. He can feel himself gathering together, like a diver above a tropical waterfall, knowing that in the end the jump is inconsequential in comparison to the beauty of the fall.

“But…”

How to phrase it?

“But…I want a perfect start.”

Blaine’s eyebrows crinkle lovingly.

“Kurt?”

Kurt’s heart has floated into his mouth and his tongue is as thick and heavy as anything. His head feels both too light with heady anticipation and leaden with old half remembered fears. He moves his hands, sliding them onto the backs of Blaine’s outstretched, ghostly fingers, pulling the weight from his waist and pushing them apart. Then for a second he pauses, considering the move; both of them there, palm to palm, in some holy votive scene.

“Blaine, I want…”

It sounds so demanding, so forceful. What if it’s not what he wants? But those eyes…those hands…that body… He must want it too; at some internal level. He knows twice the amount Kurt does, has loved twice as many people; can't he want it at least half as much? But then Kurt understands: the first move is his to make. Blaine has left it to him to decide the time and place. It is his hands hovering over the blank chess pieces of their future. Blaine will follow him this time.

“I want you.”

The three words hold in the silence, expressed, unretractable. Kurt feels a blow of exhilaration ripple through his burning heart. He’s done it; he’s made the leap.

And Blaine is watching him, closely, closer, a pause coming over the dancing flames of his eyes. There is no more misunderstanding.

“Kurt?”

It’s the same word, the same simple name repeated, spoken by those lips for the thousandth time, but suddenly there’s something more behind it; a deep, threatening, bracing vulnerability, shared through their still touching fingertips.

Cold fire courses through Kurt, and he fights the urge to shiver against it. So many new sensations. But his heart is still urging him on, telling him this is the perfection he wants, the perfection they deserve. He leans into their palmers’ hold, and kisses those lips, hanging from them as Blaine reaches forwards, drawn after him.

“Kurt…”

Again the name runs from Blaine’s mouth; no longer a question, now laced with the desire of Kurt’s heart.

“Blaine…”

Kurt has closed his eyes; all he wants is this rainbow raging river of gorgeous emotions. But even inside his darkness he can see Blaine; that image that means everything, that drives the entire current. Their fingers run down inside each other, linking their palms, clasping as they return to each other. All thoughts of what to do, how to act, have scattered from Kurt’s mind; his hand drifts with nature to the side of Blaine’s face, into that perfect hair. Blaine’s freed fingers find their way back to his waist, running along his chest, dangerously close to his heart, leaving a lightning trail. Then, as one, their lips and grazing tongues break apart, reaching for air, but it is only for a second, and they fall back together. Between them, they exchange in turn mumbled, half eaten snatches of each others’ names. Nothing else fills their minds.

“Kurt…”

Blaine moans in the darkness, overcome by the force of his own relief, attacked by happiness and pleasure and excitement.

“Blaine…”

Now Kurt has found the use of his own body, and he frees his other hand, his knees shuffling higher on the bed, his fingers searching out the last remaining buttons of Blaine’s whitest cotton shirt in the twilight.

“Kurt…”

The half-cry comes again, and Kurt takes it as a rallying ratification. He slips his other hand from Blaine’s dusty stubbled cheek to hasten his fumbling fantastic task. Blaine’s firm, hot, bristling chest keeps knocking against the smooth backs of his fingers as he goes, button by button, each touch knocking with the force of a hundred hammers at his being.

“No…Kurt…”

The moan rings again, breaking with a flash of hot breath between their scarlet lips, and a smallest flicker of anxiety ripples through Kurt’s ecstasy. Is he doing it wrong? Badly? Rudely? A mad thought rushes to the front of his mind; Blaine has half pulled back from his mouth, should he try and use his teeth? Could he even manage something that intricate?

“No…”

Kurt’s heart stops, as Blaine’s fumbling hands cling round his own and push him back. Blaine takes a shuddering, limping crawl backwards over the mountainous covers. His face is blood red, apart from the ice white sliver threading from his hairline, black curls scattered right and left. He pants for a second, still holding Kurt’s stiff hands within his own.

“No…Kurt…I…wha…”

He breathes, his grip slowly loosening. He looks down, composes himself as best he can, and then back up into Kurt’s wide, scared eyes.

“Kurt…you’re sure? You’re sure about this?”

Kurt nods; sureness rushes through him.

“More than anything.”

“Right now?”

“Now.”

He watches as Blaine takes another breath. Oh, God, Kurt thinks. He’s not ready. He doesn’t want it. Not right now. There must be something wrong.

But then Blaine glances up once more, releasing Kurt’s hands until they are lying apart in his own. Something flashes through his eyes, a mixture of the same wonder, exhilaration and sweet nervousness that flows in Kurt. Suddenly Kurt remembers that for all the books and pamphlets and internet, this is Blaine’s first time too.

“Ok.”

He seems to sigh, and slides a foot of the bed.

“But if we…if we…We’re going to do this properly.”

He stands up, and Kurt lets his hands fall onto the softened covers, in the warm cove left behind. Blaine moves quickly, turning to a half opened suitcase and pulling out a sweater, dragging it over his head without bothering to refasten the buttons of his billowing shirt, letting the collar bunch and slip underneath the soft wool. Then he half-twists, turning in confusion, searching out his wallet. It’s there; next to Kurt’s bag, and the flowers. He pulls out his room key and a bunch of dollars and thrusts them together down into his pocket.

“Blaine, what…?”

Kurt manages. Blaine has slipped into his shoes, and lays a hand on the door handle. But Kurt’s voice seems to jolt through him. He spins back to face him, recrossing the short space as he talks.

“Protection, Kurt.”

The word collides with Kurt’s ear and throws him. A stream of images from health brochures flash in front of his eyes.

“But, but…”

He flounders; he knows he’s thought about this at some point, worked out the ins and outs. But it’s all flown out the window with a single moment of reality. Blaine has stopped in front of him now, the most cherishing expression gracing his face.

“Kurt, I’m not about to hurt you. I would never let myself do that. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

“But…but we…do we need…?”

Kurt knows he’s thoroughly embarrassing himself now. But he can remember thinking about this; it’s both of their first times, so they can't be carrying anything, right? So they don’t need to use those…things. Those things designed for a different kind of couple, for stopping something that could never happen between them. Blaine takes hold of his shoulders, pressing the side of his face to his chest. Kurt can no longer see his eyes, but his cheek blisters with the thud-thud of Blaine’s thundering heart.

“Well, no, I guess not. But, Kurt, start as you mean to go on, yeah? And it’s not just sexual infections that you can catch…”

Now Kurt is glad Blaine can't see his face. He feels a kiss float against the top of his head.

“I’ll be five minutes. No more.”

There’s a pause; Blaine’s hands don’t leave his back. A voice whispers down to Kurt’s hidden face.

“Thank you.”

Kurt feels himself unwrapped, and hears the door open and close. As soon as the sound of Blaine’s feet reaches the corridor, he hears them step into a run, pounding away down the distant steps.

The normal Kurt would probably have charged into the bathroom to redo his hair or matt out his complexion, but not this time. He might have tried to arrange himself sexily on the bed, torn into his roses and scattered the petals, dishevelled his clothes, maybe taken some off, but not this time. Instead he holds himself perfectly still, and lets the seconds tick past, trying to think of nothing. He watches the shadows on the floor and looks at how they play across the waved ridges of the bed. He’s facing away from the door, and he doesn’t change that. The ticking of some clock that he hadn’t registered before is magnified in the silence, interspersed by random sounds from within the shell of the hotel; the whir of the lifts, the echo of footsteps, the lonely voice of a distant television. And always the never ending lullaby of the city.

Kurt feels, with heightened peace and pleasure, the heat and weight of his own body, preparing for its audition for the adult world, on the adult stage. He feels the pressures of the mattress against his legs, beginning to numb them. He wants to lie down on the bed, to stretch out; but not yet. He knows there is tiredness within him; it’s been a long day, a long gorgeous day to be remembered for good. But he can't be tired yet; not just yet. One more thing to do. One more crowning glory.

He thinks he can hear footsteps reaching back up the distant stairwell. For a few seconds they are ghostly, spectral, mythical; is his mind just playing tricks on him? Or his heart? But then they solidify into hard fact, hard sound. He hears the feet coming running to the very top of the stairs; and there they pause. Then they turn, slowly, measuring out the distance, walking over the space in between. And there is a noise at the door, and it slides slowly open. Kurt is still facing the window; still able to count the bright squares of other lives beyond. He hears a sound on the carpet by the door; maybe Blaine taking off his shoes again. In the corner of his eye he sees the sweater returned onto the lid of the suitcase.

Then there are hands on him once more; hands which entwine around his shoulders, filling in the spaces until soft arms run against the sides of his neck and a hot chest falls against his back. The hands find the base of his shirt, and draw it up over his head, releasing him, holding him in a moment of blackness before he is released once more into the vision of the room. Kurt spins, or is spun; he is no longer sure. And then he’s opening that last button on Blaine’s shirt. They kiss. And crawl backwards, together, over the bed. Kurt is lost; but found. They keep changing places. And kissing. Again and again. It is slow, and perfect, and tantalising. Blaine’s hands slide to the waist of his trousers, but hesitate, asking. And Kurt smiles, and laughs for Blaine. And reaches out and pulls them closer, even more together, guiding their hands. And smiles again. They keep kissing, fumbling at each other’s faces with feather soft lips, as one by one they slip, together, out of the last confines of their clothes. And the light has stopped growing weaker around them.
-
The sun has risen, and is glowing through space between the warm curtains they had forgotten to close when Kurt at last slips from a dream into cloudy reality. He lies, for hours, for minutes, in a cocoon of ignorant bliss, drifting in warmth, in some half remembered peace that he cannot account for. Slowly his eyelids drift apart, and when the flares of sunlight dissipate, he can see Blaine’s face, haloed against the glossy pillow, his hair scattered and tumbling. It feels like the most natural sight in the world; the vision he’s been waiting his whole life to wake inside. There’s no scar to be seen. In sleep they have drifted slightly apart, a foot of space crossed by their arms which still rest across each other, rising and falling with their breath. Kurt does not try to close the gap; he cannot move for fear of breaking the moment. Instead he simply lies, and looks.

Slowly the events of the evening before drift back to him, strengthening with the morning sunlight, like echoing whispers still held by the room. He can see Blaine’s bare chest, half exposed by the fall of the covers, and can feel his own fingers resting on warm, unclothed skin. Beyond his rising shoulder, Kurt can glimpse a corner of Blaine’s jeans, suspended in their fall by catching on the bedside lamp. And inside his head, beyond the echoes of his own name and Blaine’s, beyond the melodies of the night, he finds snippets of Rachel’s voice returning to him. Suddenly he finds himself wondering if Dave knows yet. Surely he must. Kurt hopes it makes him happy.

Blaine snuffles in his sleep, rolling slightly, rocking and sinking his face further into the light pillow, away from the billows of dawn light that lie fully across Kurt’s face. His fingers wander on Kurt’s bare back for a long moment, sensing and surveying in his darkness. Then, simply, they stiffen, curling into his skin. His lips split slowly apart, and he moans ever so softly; an intelligible sound, like a newborn baby. Kurt watches in awe, but then understands as Blaine’s fingers fumble at his side once more. He lifts his bare weight from the mattress and inches closer, sliding his arm over and around the coolness of his one exposed shoulder. He finds himself cooing and soothing, shaping long whistling hushes, until Blaine settles once more on the pillows, a tiny smile glinting along his parted lips.

“Shush, Blaine…I’m here…sleep…”

He chooses a stray curl from near where his hand rests and draws it across his fingers, the darkness of it glowing against his pale skin. Some part of him feels he should be singing instead, a lullaby for the beauty all around him. But for once Kurt can't think of a song. Instead he hums, to himself, any notes that sweep into his head, carried into the room on the cool morning air. And as he hums he lays his face next to Blaine’s, feeling their breath mingling between them on the bright sheets, and slowly, ever so slowly, as the lullaby fills his head, the room begins to darken once more.
-
As he awakes a second time, Kurt is immediately aware that the room is different. His closed eyes are shadowed, with no red glow of sunlight. He lifts his heavy lids, and Blaine’s sweet face is no longer across from his. Instead all he can see is his own hand, lying in a pool of crumpled blanket, in shadows thrown by the freshly drawn curtains. His hand clenches into the sheets, and slowly he twists up from the mattress, onto his elbows. From the clarity of his dream, the room seems overcast. He puts a palm to his face and rubs it across his eyes, willing everything to go back to making sense.

“I was so afraid you’d wake up whilst I was gone.”

His voice is golden and sweet and fortifying, like poured honey. Kurt blinks. And there is Blaine, sitting in the desk chair, at the foot of the bed, dressed again in that same white shirt and indigo jeans, his forearms bare and outstretched, his hair still askew.

“You were mumbling the strangest things.”

A smile lights and dances across his face. Is he holding something in his hands? Kurt has to blink again. Yes. A small brown paper bag. And suddenly Kurt can smell something new and sweet.

“Like what?”

He pushes down through his elbows and shuffles himself back onto the billowing pillows, sinking into them, pulling the covers with him.

“Just, just single words and names and thoughts.”

Blaine’s cheeks dimple in again.

“And then you told me very directly that you would never walk to the Oscars, however poor we were.”

“I did?”

Kurt smiles too, so light and happy, raising his eyebrows, but inwardly pleased with the honesty of his sleeping self. Blaine grins and nods. They look at each other across the room. Kurt is slowly becoming more aware of his own nakedness as Blaine sits there in his comfortable clothes.

“What time is it?”

He eventually manages; using the question as an excuse to stretch to gather his trousers from the floor, pretending to pat them in search of his phone.

“Almost eight.”

Blaine stands, placing the bag neatly in one hand as he reaches to lift Kurt’s slightly creased shirt from the edge of the bed, passing it silently to him. Kurt takes it and slides into it; it feels soft, yielding and tender after its night unfolded and unironed.

“Where did you go?”

He nods to the brown bag as his arms glide into the sleeves.

“To get you some breakfast.”

Kurt glows. It’s like a beautiful movie.

“Just me?”

Blaine walks round and slides back onto the bed, refilling his old impression, stretching his legs on top of the blankets.

“Well…I thought you might be open to sharing.”

He passes the bag over, and Kurt can smell fresh coffee and pastries. Then he laughs; there are two of everything, two tumblers, two croissants, two bagels.

“Obviously you weren’t sure?”

Blaine chuckles as Kurt begins spreading the mini picnic on top of napkins between them.

“Well, it was only when I got down there I realised I’ve never had breakfast with you. And I don’t know what you like, or how hungry you’d be…”

Kurt crumbles a bagel in his fingers and feeds it into Blaine’s babbling lips.

“Shush. It’s lovely; amazing. I love you. Thank you.”

Blaine smiles and chews as Kurt passes him one of the two coffees. They sip quietly. The coffee is the perfect temperature, with steam still trickling from the lid, rising in puffs onto their cheeks as they drink. Eventually Blaine, reaching for half a croissant, breaks the reverie.

“What time do you have to be back?”

Kurt picks up the other half, brushing at the flakes of butter pastry which tumble into his lap.

“In an hour or two, I guess. You’re coming too? It’s only a practice, and there’ll be free time later. We could have lunch?”

Blaine smiles at the flushed happiness in Kurt’s shimmering voice, but when he speaks he makes sure he sounds firm enough.

“Kurt, you have Nationals the day after tomorrow. Your friends need your concentration right now.”

Kurt stutters, taken slightly aback.

“But…but I thought…”

“There’ll be plenty of time for us, but after you make me the proudest boyfriend alive by performing on that stage. I’ll come, and be there for you in any way you need, but this is about you and your friends now. Imagine how happy they are as well. You’re not going to miss out on any part of this because of me.”

Kurt stops and considers the words; Blaine is right, of course.

“Okay; but still, I want you there.”

Blaine smiles. He leans over and kisses Kurt with full crummy lips.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Then suddenly he stands up, shuffling the napkins together, catching hold of the scraps in one hand and seizing his coffee.

“Come on; we’ve got two hours in New York. We are not going to waste them sitting around here.”

He throws the litter into the bin as Kurt slides out from under the covers and finishes dressing himself. Then he turns back, but pauses. They’re facing each other, across the bed, just as they had been eight hours ago.

“Blaine…”

Kurt starts, faltering but feeling the words rising in him inexorably.

“…last night…was…”

Blaine is smiling at him, moving to pick up his bag and keys. His hair in still scattered everywhere, but Kurt likes it without the gel, free and falling.

“Perfect?”

Blaine offers, stretching out one hand to Kurt and opening the door with the other. Kurt smiles back. He takes the hand, picking up his phone, bag, jacket and flowers. The scent of the roses is still strong, and embraces him as his phone slips into his pocket, holding all the words that have set them so free. They’ve come so far, from lying on that locker room floor, to that hospital bed, and lying together last night, and now the future has started. Perfectly.

“Yeah.”