Of course Blaine loved when Kurt’s house was empty. When he’d hastily pull his car in after Kurt’s, often crooked, the beleaguered engine still whirring and clicking as Kurt would fumble his key in the lock and chastize-but-not-really Blaine who couldn’t seem to help but press his body all along Kurt’s from behind and mouth along his neck. The house would be so quiet that the slamming of the front door behind them echoed and reverberated on the walls around them, and their ragged breaths and gasps and moans became a symphony of noise. The world narrowed down to grasping hands, reddened lips and heavy-lidded eyes. The steady staccato tattoo of pounding hearts and fluttering pulses. They were the only thing that mattered. The two of them all that existed. Needs altered and compressed; Kurt was his shelter, his sustenance, his oxygen. 

But Blaine had been surprised to find that being alone with Kurt just barely edged out the times he would pull his Volvo snug behind the sleek black Navigator on the curb- always clean and waxed and throwing off glints of sunlight- just past Finn’s mud-caked and dented pick-up truck parked up the hill, the wheels conscientiously  turned sharply to the right. 

In the driveway Carole’s sensible sedan was always tucked in next to Burt’s old beater of a VW- a veritable Frankenstein’s monster of parts and paint colors and random tangles of wires. Burt liked to point out that his car was older than Kurt and gave him far less trouble, to which Kurt would reply that at least he didn’t blow a gasket on the way to Cedar Point and leave them stranded on the highway in a plume of sickly sweet smoke. Oh you blew a gasket all right...

Blaine rang the bell and smoothed out his shirt, straightened his bow tie, and grinned as he remembered how Kurt managed to look outraged and embarrassed and annoyed with a simple tilt of his eyebrows and a flush high on his cheeks. It was adorable.

Blaine hastened to follow the shouted command to come on in! and was inundated with the smell of garlic and basil and caramelized onions. The murmuring of one deep voice and one high, then a squeal and a Burt! and then laughter coming from the kitchen. 

“Hi, sweetheart!” Carole called over her shoulder as she stirred a bubbling pot, Burt watching mischievously with a wooden spoon twirling in his fingers. Burt nodded and grunted out a greeting, then returned to browning meat in a wide cast-iron pan; ground turkey, Blaine assumed. As long as Blaine had known Kurt he’d never seen red meat darken their doorstep. 

“Rachel’s not coming tonight?” Blaine asked politely. Usually Kurt took the helm in the kitchen on those Friday nights that Rachel attended. Both and Carole and Burt begged off and claimed to be too intimidated by the prospect of preparing a vegan meal. Blaine wondered if they really just want to keep an eagle-eye on Finn and Rachel. He supposed it was flattering that they trusted him and Kurt enough to mostly let them be.

“No. Some sort of family talent show sing-off karaoke thing? You know Finn and details...” Carole explained, reaching up to a high shelf for five plates. Blaine crossed the kitchen to help her, even though he really wasn’t much taller than she was.

“That sounds fun,” He said, handing Carole the last plate. He hadn’t seen these before- white with vining blue flowers delicately lacing the edges. Was Crate and Barrel having another sale? Blaine could only begin to imagine the exquisite wedding china Kurt would be sure to pick out for them. Blaine’s throat tightened a bit, and then he felt silly for getting all sappy over dinner plates. These were the things loving Kurt reduced him to anymore.

“Uh-huh...” Burt said skeptically, “Don’t tell Kurt that or he’ll be dragging us all to family talent show night and making us sing Von Trapp songs. Or that one about the crazy stage mother...”

Blaine’s grin turned from sappy to all out ridiculous at that. His own father regarded Blaine’s love of musicals with an indulgent eye roll or put-upon sigh. And maybe Burt wasn’t a fan of them either, but Blaine would put money on the fact that, if pressed, Burt would still know every word to every song from Gypsy. 

“I always forget how much longer whole-wheat pasta takes,” Carole muttered, chewing thoughtfully on a strand of spaghetti that was apparently not quite al dente. “Do you mind telling Kurt it will be a little while still? He’s in the living room.”

Blaine left behind the din in the kitchen for the more subdued atmosphere of the living room. Two lamps each nestled on handsome oak end tables gave off a gentle glow, and Kurt sat perched at the right corner of the over-stuffed sofa, one leg crossed over the other, magazine in his lap, and humming softly under his breath. He had seen him at school of course, just a few hours earlier really, but Blaine’s heart still stuttered over how effortlessly gorgeous Kurt was, like a swan or a gazelle or-

“You aren’t mentally comparing me to woodland creatures again are you?” Kurt said, without looking up from the glossy spread he was so focused on.

“I think gazelles are more grassland creatures...”

Kurt rolled his eyes, but smiled and patted the sofa cushion next to him. Blaine was only too happy to oblige. He pushed his right thigh into Kurt’s left and hooked his chin over Kurt’s broad shoulder. He loved Kurt’s shoulders.

“Whatcha readin’ about?” Blaine drawled, quickly becoming overwhelmed by the soft hints of Kurt’s cologne, his hair products, his usual Kurt smell; pulling him down like an undertow, making him dizzy and unfocused.

“I’m trying to discern if you’re only after me for my bod.” Blaine’s eyes snapped open and he managed to pull himself from the hazy cloud of adoration and arousal clogging his brain.

“You know I love Vogue as much as the next guy but I really have to draw a line at Cosmo,” Blaine said, plucking it from Kurt’s hands with his thumb and pointer finger, like it was toxic or offensive, which, really... “Besides, you can stop trying to figure it out. I definitely am.”

Kurt gave a mock gasp. “I knew it!” Blaine grinned and Kurt leaned over to kiss the smirk off his lips. “Actually...” he said, pulling away just a hair, his mouth brushing lightly over Blaine’s as he spoke; sending tingles up and down Blaine’s spine.  “According to the quiz you value me for my mind and personality and are genuinely interested in who I am and what I want. Pity.” Kurt practically purred and leaned closer into Blaine’s space and Blaine had to work very hard to remember that there were parents just in the other room making spaghetti and garlic bread and this was really not the time...

“The Weird Way You Could Be Hurting Your Hoo-ha...really?” Kurt flumped back against the crocheted afghan slung on the back of the couch and sighed. An effective mood-killer, then. 

“Ok, it’s not all helpful,” Kurt conceded sheepishly. Blaine furrowed his brows and flipped the pages rapidly, shaking his head in amazement.

“Oh, so you didn’t find 50 Great Things To Do With Your Breasts enlightening, then?” Kurt glared and snatched the magazine away from a chuckling Blaine, then whacked him on the arm with it.

“If you want to make fun, then fine, I’ll just forget about all those not-helpful blow-job tips that I seem to remember you rather enjoying.” Blaine’s laughter died in his throat.

“Wait, seriously?” He choked out, his voice cracking and going embarrassingly high on the last syllable. Kurt tipped his head and raised his chin defiantly, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his awful, sinful, perfect mouth. Blaine was just about to throw himself to Kurt’s feet and beg when there came a thundering of movement from the stairs and then a lumbering figure shuffled down the hall.

“Did I hear something about breasts?” Finn called breathlessly from the doorway. He sniffed the air like a bloodhound and rubbed his stomach. “And do I smell dinner?” 

Kurt stood in one graceful movement and pulled Blaine up with him, who stumbled a bit and ended up with his nose smushed into Kurt’s shoulder in a decidedly non-gazelle-like move.

“Your two favorite subjects: food and boobs.” Blaine snorted into Kurt’s pale blue henley. Kurt’s eyes looked particularly amazing when he wore that color. “Knock yourself out.”

Kurt handed the magazine over to Finn as he clasped Blaine’s hand in his and tugged him from the room. Down the hall Burt was carrying plates laden with food and thick glass tumblers of water with moisture beading on the frosted outsides. As Carole followed out with an oversized bowl of salad in both hands and bottles of dressing tucked under one arm, Burt gave her a loud smacking kiss on the cheek and declared That’s a spicy meat-a-ball!  in a terrible Italian accent. Just like he always did when they had spaghetti or lasagna or, once, pizza- which had, of course, led to a discussion on the true origin of pizza and how the slop they serve at Pizza Hut is not at all the same delicacy one would find in Milan or served up in the hidden gems in Campania. 

“Can’t we listen to something a little more cultured?” Kurt called out, dropping Blaine’s hand and gliding down the hall and into the kitchen where an old Casio boom-box had been set on the counter.

“Springsteen is culture! American culture!”

“Cultured, dad. High-class. Sophisticated. Erudite.”

“Oh, you mean that creepy opera show you’ve been listening to that makes me want to throw myself off a building in misery-”

“That show has been on Broadway for twenty-five years!”

Blaine grinned and turned his attention away from the ensuing argument over appropriate dinner music (they never had dinner music in his house. A shame, as it would help to fill the awkward silence) and back to Finn who was still looking bewildered by the door way.

“Is this magazine, like, for real?” Finn asked. Blaine swears that Finn’s completely earnest bumbling innocence is his only saving grace. 

“Afraid so,” Blaine replied. And then, just because he’s a nice guy and Finn really is sweet and kind when he gets out of his own way he adds, “But if you plan on sharing those tips with Rachel, I’d avoid the popsicle-blow-job combo they recommend.” Finn nodded dumbly, either fixated on Rachel and blow-jobs or diligently trying not to think about Blaine and blow-jobs. “That is, if you like having your testicles where they are now and not embedded in your abdomen.”

Finn made a choking sound and violently tossed the magazine to the floor, then glared at it like it had personally offended him.

“Honey, come help us decide on the music!” Kurt called and Blaine floated away to the kitchen on the sound of the casual endearment- as he always did. Then suggested the Beatles, as always. When in doubt: Beatles, always Beatles. The conversation would be loud and raucous, as it always was, teasing and laughing and talking over one another; chaotic and unrefined and topsy-turvy and everything Blaine didn’t have now and wanted with his own family one day. His own family with Kurt.

He snuck a hand under the table and squeezed Kurt’s knee. Kurt slid him one of those soft smiles he seemed to save up only for him and Blaine took a bite of pasta- cooked to the perfect texture, he told Carole- to stop the ludicrous clenching of his heart over something as silly as spaghetti dinner on a Friday night. Because Blaine was crazy about those moments when it was just him and Kurt, the shared current buzzing along their bare skin in a closed circuit, when he felt more cherished and loved and whole than he ever thought possible. But more than that, he decided, he loved these moments, when he felt included and accepted and loved because he was just Blaine and didn’t have to be anything else- he could shuck off the masks and push down the walls, and they all wanted him there anyway. 

Here; scooted in next to Kurt with Finn across from him talking with his mouth full and gesturing wildly with a piece of garlic bread dripping butter. Carole at one end trying to discreetly remove it from his hand while laughing and Burt at the other gruffly detailing all the ways the Buckeyes had gone wrong in their recent showdown against Kansas. Blaine knew that if there was anywhere he belonged more than in the safety and strength of Kurt’s arms, it was here.