"And besides, tearing off all of your clothes is sort of a tall order," Blaine says, squinting his eyes like he sometimes does when he's teasing Kurt, trying to make him smile with a silly joke.

"Because of the layers?" Kurt asks softly.

"Because of the layers," Blaine repeats, taking Kurt's head in his hands and leaning in to press a quick and wet kiss on his lips, making an audible mm-wah! sound as he smacks their lips together. Kurt can feel Blaine smiling into the kiss, the gentleness of his hands on his cheeks, and when Blaine leans back with a goofy grin, jumping off the bed and making ridiculous dance movements to the beat of the music, the words jump to Kurt's mind, almost rushing out of his mouth before he stops them:

You take my breath away. You silly, gorgeous boy who I still can't believe is mine for real – you take my breath away.

It still surprises him sometimes when Blaine teases him about his obsession for fashion – always good-naturedly, always so fondly, knowing full well that his own fixation with bowties and polo shirts isn't exactly a secret to anyone. It's also still a bit astonishing when Blaine compliments his clothes, genuinely appreciating the ensembles Kurt puts together; how Blaine willingly and enthusiastically talks about Vogue covers with him and joins him when they watch award shows on television and criticize the outfits. How Blaine sees his scarf collection for the first time and his only reaction is honest amazement. How Blaine never asks why he wears so many clothes even when the weather is warm, even when the halls of McKinley High are sweltering and stuffy.

(Well, Blaine did ask once, when it was their first summer together and the Ohio sun was burning down on them, making Blaine look even tanner than usual and Kurt apply more and more sunscreen every thirty minutes. They were lying under a parasol on the Andersons' backyard with magazines and cold soda cans, an old portable radio playing summer hits between them, and Blaine had wondered out loud how Kurt could still have two shirts and a pair of fitting jeans on when Blaine himself felt like melting in his thin tank top and capris.

Kurt had opened his mouth and then closed it, flipping a page of the magazine he was reading for a moment's distraction.

"I just can," he had answered after a second, shrugging like it was nothing. "I don't feel that warm."

It was true. He didn't feel like melting, the heat didn't affect him that way, but it wasn't the whole truth.

Blaine had tilted his head back, looking at Kurt from where he was lying on the patio, squinting his eyes in the sunlight and with his lips quirked up in a lazy smile. His hair had been a bit curly for once, free from too much hair gel, because even Blaine had agreed that scorching sunshine and the normal amount of gel he uses are not a good combination. Kurt had called that a small victory.

"That's so unfair. I miss my sweater vests," Blaine had whined, dropping his head back down. "Do you want more sunscreen?" he had continued after a moment, and that had been the end of that conversation.)

Kurt leans back against the headboard of Blaine's bed, straightening his cardigan and watching with a small smile as Blaine jumps around his room, continuing his excited speech about Bryan Ferry and making exaggerated hand gestures as he sways his hips to the beat. It's true that heat doesn't really affect Kurt like it obviously affects Blaine; he actually feels a bit cold most of the time, always has, ever since he was a child. That's why it's practical to wear lots of layers, to have an undershirt, a long-sleeved shirt and a thick cardigan over his upper body, keeping him warm. That's why he leans against Blaine when they go to the movies, his body automatically trying to get closer to the warmth of another human-being (one of the very few he's comfortable enough to do that with).

He likes combining different articles of clothing, likes seeing which color works with what, and to get most of that he dresses in layers. That's another reason, another practical reason – anyone can put together a t-shirt and a pair of pants, but not everyone can put together a whole outfit, with matching shoes and clothes and accessories, layers upon layers of pieces that fit together. It doesn't matter if only a few people appreciate them (Blaine, always; Mercedes, most of the time; Rachel, if she's having a good day and is not wearing one of those animal sweaters that make Kurt want to scream because he does not want to hear compliments about his clothes from Rachel when she's wearing a sweater that should be burned immediately) – it doesn't matter, because Kurt himself appreciates the clothes. He doesn't wear them for other people; he wears them for himself, because they are a part of him and they define him.

The song changes from Roxy Music to Pink, and Kurt watches in amusement how Blaine's face lights up. He will never get tired of watching the way Blaine's lips turn up into a smile, the way his eyes suddenly glow with excitement, and he can't help but laugh as Blaine starts singing along, extending his hands to Kurt and wiggling his fingers.

"Come on, dance with me," Blaine sing-songs over the lyrics, shimmying his shoulders the same way Kurt always does, and Kurt shakes his head before he takes Blaine's hands and lets him pull him off the bed, layers and all.

Yes, there are practical reasons, several of them, to why Kurt wears so many layers, why tearing off all of them would be such a tall order. But they're not the whole truth. They're a partial reason, the honest answers he can give if someone asks him about his clothes, the support for the real reason, the one he never tells anybody, the one that's so ingrained in him that he barely even realizes it sometimes when he's putting on his ensemble for the day.

(The layers are a comforting weight on him, a shield in front of his body, an anchor that keeps him grounded in case he feels like the world is going to keep pushing him around for yet another day, trying to make him float away from everything. They're a reminder – he's still here, he's still present, he's still standing and walking in the hallways of his high school; his body is still intact, he's not floating or disappearing from view. He's here.

He's here.)

—

Kurt is nine years old when the thought first crosses his mind. He's running from the two boys that keep calling him names, ugly and horrible names that he didn't at first even know the meaning of – but he knows what they mean now, knows because he hears them everyday, has to listen to them when he walks through the school hallways, hears them whispered behind his back.

He's running, the light shirt he's wearing floating around his body as the wind sneaks underneath it, and even though he can't hear the boys' voices anymore he keeps running, blinking his eyes against the tears and trying to keep the stupid sobs that threaten to come out of his mouth inside his throat.

He's not going to cry. Not today. He's not going to give his bullies the pleasure of making him cry.

There's a small crack on the road, and somehow his foot catches on it without him noticing, the toe of his shoe slipping in the crack, and before Kurt knows it he's flying through the air – a brief moment of the ground rising up to meet him, a second of a rushing sound in his ears – and then he stumbles, his knees hit the pavement, and suddenly he's lying on his stomach on the ground.

Kurt blinks his eyes. His knees, elbows and palms hurt, his whole body feels jostled, and for a moment he just lies there, catching his breath and listening to make sure no one's following him anymore. The only thing he can hear is his own heavy breathing and the distant hum of cars behind him, probably from the school parking lot.

He pushes himself off the ground, sitting up slowly. The knees of his pants are scraped and he can see some blood seeping into them, but they still look better than his palms and elbows. The scratches on his elbows sting when he moves his arms, and Kurt winces, dropping his hands in his lap with a defeated sigh.

He really wishes his dad was here right now.

Kurt leans his head back, looking up to the sky and blinking his eyes against the tears that threaten to fall once again. Stupid Tommy and stupid Carl that were bullying him and forced him to run; stupid pavement that made him fall; stupid tears, stupid scrapes, stupid clothes that didn't protect him from the harsh ground, stupid stupid stupid –

Maybe the fall wouldn't have hurt so much if he had been wearing more clothes. Maybe then his elbows wouldn't sting and his pants wouldn't be ruined. Maybe the clothes would have protected him from the fall or given him more weight, prevented him from flying through the air like that, given him an anchor around his body.

Kurt laughs a little hysterically at that – clothes as an anchor – but when he looks down at his bloody palms the laughter dies in his throat. The wind flutters the thin fabric of his shirt, and Kurt suddenly feels cold, all alone at the side of the road, invisible and the skin of his body broken by the harsh world.

Maybe some layers could help after all.

—

In high school Kurt realizes once and for all that his clothing choices make him a target, like all of his shirts and jackets and cardigans have a bull's-eye on their back with the words, "Oh, sure, throw some insults or slushies this way, go ahead, I've deserved it!" written on it.

He tries to change himself once, tries to make himself more acceptable. He asks Brittany to be his girlfriend, listens to Mellencamp and flattens his hair with an awful trucker cap, pushes his usual layers at the back of his closet and puts on an old sweatshirt.

It works, for a while. When he walks down the hallways of McKinley High, no one calls him any names or throws things at him. No one notices him, no one pushes him into the lockers, and for a moment Kurt feels a weird sense of joy bubbling inside of him – he did it, he changed himself into someone who won't get bullied, someone who his dad can accept more easily, someone who doesn't attract attention from the idiots he has to go to school with. He did it.

But then he's walking from the choir room to his locker, and... As peaceful and safe as he feels, there's something wrong. The shirt feels itchy against his skin, the cap is like a tight ring around his head, and the baggy jeans hang over his legs, too light and too loose. People walk past him in the hallway, not even turning their heads to notice him, and when Ms. Pillsbury passes him, she doesn't smile at him like she usually does, doesn't even incline her head to indicate that she's recognized him.

He's invisible. Just like he wanted to be. And it feels horrible.

It feels like he's going to disappear, like he could float away or vanish and no one would notice it. When he opens his locker and looks into the small mirror he keeps on the door he doesn't see himself in the reflection – he doesn't see Kurt Hummel, fashionista extraordinaire, doesn't see layers upon layers, both literal and figurative, doesn't see the ensembles he plots during the weekends, making sure everything matches and looks fabulous.

He only sees a boy in a trucker cap. An invisible, fragile boy who can disappear into the mass of people walking by his locker, a boy that no one will notice. A boy who's just like the others, who has no depth, nothing to call his own, nothing unique or personal.

A boy who's not here.

A day or two later, after he's had a good talk with his dad and thrown the trucker caps away for good, he stands in front of his closet and looks at the clothes, organized neatly on the shelves and hangers. He extends his hand and runs his fingers down the fabrics, smooth and familiar underneath his fingertips, and just the touch of all those clothes is enough to make him feel grounded and like himself again. They're a part of him, just like his sexuality and his voice are, and he's never going to leave them behind again.

They keep him strong.

The next day he puts on another amazing ensemble, designer clothes and hairspray and perfectly matching accessories, everything Kurt Hummel is. He feels vibrant and alive under the layers, strong and confident and present. Mercedes gives him a smile when she sees him, and Ms. Pillsbury waves at him when he walks past her office, her eyes widening like she hasn't seen him for a while. And well, perhaps she hasn't.

Kurt stands tall, keeps his back straight and smiles at the world. This is his way of showing the Neanderthals in this high school in the middle of Ohio that whatever they do, he's still here. He's not invisible, and as much as the bullying hurts, he doesn't want to be like the others, doesn't want to be invisible or float away.

The heavy boots he's wearing that day keep his feet firmly on the ground when one of the jocks pushes him into a locker, and when Karofsky throws a slushie to his face, the only thing damaged by the sticky substance is the outer layer, and even that can be cleaned.

Even though they can scratch his surface, paint his outer layer with slushies and dirt from the dumpster tosses – there are still more layers, untouched and undamaged underneath it all. And they will never reach those ones. They can never hurt him too badly through all of his layers.

—

Kurt is sitting on Blaine's bed, his hands twitching nervously in his lap. He watches as Blaine takes off his long-sleeved shirt, revealing the thin undershirt he's wearing underneath, and Kurt hands move forward on their own accord, trying to reach out and touch now that he knows he can – but something stops him. Something he didn't feel when he was standing on that stage with Blaine and telling him that he wanted to go to his place, the words he wasn't saying out loud probably clear in his gaze and in the tone of voice. Something that feels a lot like his nerves.

Blaine drops his shirt on the floor (and Kurt almost berates him for treating his clothes so carelessly, almost) and moves to sit next to Kurt on the bed. He looks nervous, a shy blush on his cheeks as he leans in slowly and kisses Kurt. Kurt closes his eyes, breathing in the calming scent of Blaine all around him, and he has never felt more safe, more loved than he does right now, in this room with this beautifully flawed boy who tries so hard to make things right.

He reaches out his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing against Blaine's chest, and Blaine shivers at the touch, gasping into the kiss.

"Kurt," he whispers, leaning back. "Are you... Are you sure? We don't have to..."

Kurt blinks his eyes open and splays his palm against Blaine's chest, feeling the faint flutter of his heartbeat under his hand. "I am. I want this. I want... you."

Blaine smiles, tender and loving, and then reaches out his own hand, letting it hover nervously between their bodies. He takes a deep breath and then moves forward, nudging the buttons of Kurt's vest with his fingers, and now it's Kurt turn to shiver, the touch shaking his whole body.

"Can I...?" Blaine gestures, his smile turning shy.

It's the biggest question Blaine has asked so far, probably the biggest question he will ask all evening, but Kurt doesn't even hesitate when he nods and whispers a breathless yes.

Blaine's hands are shaking when he undresses Kurt, but his fingers are warm and familiar, definitely worth the trust Kurt has given them. Kurt helps him with the buttons and gets to undress Blaine with his own shaky fingers, both of them laughing a little at their nerves. Piece by piece Kurt lets Blaine see all of him, see beneath his layers and beneath the things that have kept him together for years. Lets him see the very core of him, the fragile and feather-light parts he hasn't let anyone else see.

Blaine is so gentle the whole time, so tender and slow that Kurt almost feels like crying all of a sudden, and as he watches how carefully Blaine peels off all of his clothes and then folds them, treating them with more care than his own, worshiping the layers like no one ever has before, Kurt's breath catches in his throat with a tiny gasp.

Blaine looks up, meeting Kurt's eyes, and the way he looks at Kurt, the way he puts Kurt's clothes on the floor and takes his hand in his own make Kurt surge forward and press his lips against Blaine's in a demanding kiss. Blaine sways backwards from the force of it, but then he leans closer, wrapping his arms around Kurt's bare skin and guiding him to lie down on the bed.

When they finally break the kiss that turned into several kisses, Blaine is hovering over Kurt, their breathing heavy, and there is so much skin on display that Kurt suddenly doesn't know which part of Blaine he wants to touch first. It's all so beautiful, so glowing and real and here, and finally he settles on cupping Blaine's cheek in his hand, needing the familiar gesture in the middle of all the overwhelming sensations.

Blaine leans into the touch and smiles. "Kurt..."

"Yes?" Kurt says.

"I love you," Blaine breathes out.

Kurt can hear the whole meaning behind the words (I love you I love your everything I love everything you are) and he whispers, "I love you too", before slowly pressing their bodies together, skin against skin.

He has never felt less invisible. He has never felt stronger.

—

Afterwards Blaine is a sleepy weight next to him, his head resting on Kurt's chest and his lips kissing Kurt's sweaty skin every now and then, the touches light and fleeting. Kurt strokes his hand down Blaine's back and then up again, stopping to play with the few curls that have broken free from the gel before moving his fingers back down. He feels tired and pliant, the comforter they had thrown over themselves a warming pressure over his body, Blaine's arms wrapped around his waist keeping him grounded.

Blaine shifts closer to him on the bed, trying to mold himself to the curves and angles of Kurt's body. Kurt looks down at him, down at the peaceful expression on his face and the way his eyelashes are fanned over his cheeks. They're both still naked, and it feels weirdly natural.

"Do you know why I wear so many layers?" Kurt asks suddenly.

Blaine clears his throat and blinks his eyes open. "You get cold easily," he mumbles. "And you like putting outfits together. You've told me, and I've noticed."

Kurt turns to stare at the ceiling, suddenly nervous. "I do get cold. But that's not the... It's not the full reason."

Blaine shifts again, turning to lie on his stomach and propping his chin up on Kurt's chest. "The full reason?" he asks, his voice gentle and curious.

"I..." Kurt starts. He stops, swallows, and starts again. "I wear so many layers because they make me feel... They make me feel strong. Like nothing can touch me as long as I have several layers of clothes on." He pauses, tightening his hold on Blaine. "And they make me feel visible. The ensembles I've put together myself, all the matching layers – they're like a visual sign of me still being here. I'm not invisible when I'm wearing all those clothes. I'm here. I haven't... I haven't disappeared or turned into someone else."

He looks down at Blaine, not really knowing what he's expecting his reaction to be. Blaine is staring at him as well, attentive and his whole face void of judgement, silently prompting him to go on if he needs to. Kurt swallows again and forces his lips to turn into a self-deprecating smile.

"The layers keep me grounded. They give me more... weight, as silly as that sounds," he says, giving out a small laugh.

"It's not silly," Blaine says in a low voice. "It's never silly if that's how you feel, Kurt."

Kurt blinks his eyes. "So you don't think it's pathetic or weird?"

Blaine laughs, nuzzling his nose against Kurt's chest. "No, of course not. I think it's... understandable. And I think I had an inkling of all that already."

Kurt relaxes, the smile on his lips turning into a genuine one, and he starts moving his hand down Blaine's back again, noticing how Blaine seems to arch up into the touch. He doesn't even know why he was so nervous about telling this detail of himself to Blaine.

"Good. Because I like my layers, and I would never stop wearing them," he says, jutting out his chin in defiance.

"I like your layers as well," Blaine mumbles. He lifts his head again and looks into Kurt's eyes. "And I take it back."

"Take what back?" Kurt asks absent-mindedly.

"What I said about your layers the other day. Tearing off all of your clothes is not a tall order." Blaine smiles slowly up at him, the special smile that Kurt is realizing is meant just for him, the quirk of Blaine's lips and the look in his eyes that basically have the same meaning as the words 'I love you'.

"It's not?" Kurt says, grinning back at Blaine.

"No." Blaine shakes his head and presses another kiss on Kurt's collarbone. "It's a privilege."

This time Kurt lets the tears fall. (He knows that Blaine is going to kiss or wipe them away anyway.)