“Kurt, what’s this?” Blaine asked, holding a leather moleskin notebook. Kurt lunged at him, reaching to snatch it out of his hands. Blaine jumped on Kurt’s bed and held it in the air, trying to avoid Kurt’s flailing hand.

“That’s private. That’s what it is,” Kurt said, hopping up and hitting Blaine in the stomach ineffectively with one hand. His other stretched above his head and managed to grasp the spine of the notebook, before Blaine brought it down to his chest quickly and spun so his back faced Kurt.

Blaine riffled through the moleskin quickly before stopping on a page. “Kurt… is this poetry?”

“It’s private. P-R-I-V-A-T-E,” Kurt sing-songed. “No Blaines allowed.”

“You know, this is good. Really good, actually,” Blaine smiled at him appreciatively. “I didn’t know you wrote.”

“PRIVATE!” Kurt yelled. “What part of that do you not understand? I almost wish Carole had gotten me a sparkly pink one with a lock.”

“All the keys for those are the same, you know,” Blaine smirked. “I could have taken it home and stolen my sister’s diary.”

Kurt raised his eyebrow. “You wouldn’t,” he snarled. Blaine simply flipped open to the page he’d marked with his finger and continued reading. He mouthed out the words silently, feeling how they moved across his lips, until the book was snatched from his hands.

“Kurt, really… they’re good.”

He sighed in exasperation. “That’s not the point, Blaine. The point is they’re private. As in, I don’t want you reading them.”

“Why?” Blaine asked, throwing his hands up. “Why can’t you share something like that with me? I want to know what’s going on in your head.”

Kurt blushed, looking down at the moleskin and rubbing his finger down the side. “Well,” he said sheepishly. “I don’t want you reading them because they’re… they’re about you.”

Blaine smiled at him fondly, “What if I want to read them?”

“You’re not going to. I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote them. I should have done a collection of poems on kites or Alexander McQueen. Something less embarrassing.” He continued, muttering to himself about English projects.

“Writing a collection of poems about a fashion designer is less embarrassing than poems about your boyfriend?”

Kurt glanced away, sheepish. “You weren’t my boyfriend yet… And they’re awkward. I’m not good at that kind of stuff.”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispered gently as he touched Kurt’s cheek with his palm. “If you felt it, it was real. You shouldn’t be embarrassed because of your feelings – they’re what make you a person. That’s why I love you; you’re so passionate about everything you do. Whether it’s singing, or fashion, or trying to prevent me from reading your poems.”

Kurt sniffled a little, before relenting. “Fine. But we get to skip over some.”

Blaine grinned, leaning in to press his lips to Kurt’s cheek. “Whatever you say. Let’s start at the beginning.” After a little bit of searching, Blaine found the first poem of the set. It was decorated in small insignias vaguely reminiscent of Dalton’s crest and small canaries.

A rueful smile spread across Kurt’s face. “See? Embarrassing.”

“Shut up and read to me,” Blaine said as he elbowed Kurt in the side.

Stairs and rushing people
Rushing through, along
I stop one
Green and brown dance in his eyes
Shuts a pocket watch
And says:
Blaine
As I stutter over my own
And says:
Warblers
My eyebrow ticks up
Cool? Glee?
As I think of the slushie that iced its way down my shirt
Just the other day
Staining it purple and red
Sticky on my chest
The shame colder than the ice
And says:
Rockstars
Before flashing a smile
Grabbing my hand, then
Time stuck like honey
Viscous and slow
Unlike my heart
Beating five times for every footstep through mahogany halls
Blazers
Everywhere
I stop a blush in its tracks
And says:
Don’t forget your jacket
Before singing
He’s not
Can’t
Me?
Before singing:
Let you put your hands on me in my skintight jeans be your teenage dream tonight

Kurt closed the book with a snap. “This is worse than I remembered. No more poetry for you.”

“Come on,” Blaine said, resting his chin on Kurt’s shoulder. “I like when you read them to me.”

“If you really want me to read you poetry, grab Leaves of Grass off of my bookshelf or something. At least Walt Whitman can write.”

“I think it’s adorable,” Blaine whispered in his ear. “I think you’re adorable.”

Kurt blushed, remembering when Blaine had said those very words seconds before they’d sung a duet together. “Look, Blaine, I-“

He was cut off by Blaine’s mouth on his own, pressed there in a brief kiss.

“Please? A few more?”

Kurt rolled his eyes and gave in. “Fine. She marked off on that one, said she wanted more figurative language or something”

“Shh, just read.”

“What if I said no?”

“I don’t think you want to know what I’d do. It involves a Good Will bag and your closet.”

Kurt glared at him, and opened the moleskin to the next poem. “You’re evil, you know that, right?”

Blaine nodded, grinning slightly. “I’ve been told.”

Something spilled out
Something more intimate than color or song or touch
Something that shines
From our heart of hearts
Told before
Not shared

And he shared
In glances
Triangle lifts
Shrugs

He broke my walls
With a few words
And a latte

“Did you really call my eyebrows triangles?” Blaine asked, forehead wrinkling as the triangles in question lifted in disbelief.

Kurt stared at him. “Have you seen your eyebrows? Anyway, it’s a metaphor.”

“Only when I look in the mirror, and a metaphor for what?” Blaine nuzzled closer to Kurt slightly.

He sighed. “I don’t even know, Blaine. Your facial expressions? I am a young and na�ve poet, whose subject has eyebrows that deserve math problems. What do you want me to do?”

Blaine laughed, his breath hitting the crease of Kurt’s neck. “Let’s read more.”

“I’m going to fight you on this the whole way… It was just an English assignment.”

“But it’s an English assignment about me! That automatically makes it special and worth sharing with the world.” Kurt glared at him pointedly. “I only want everyone to know how much you love me,” Blaine said. He rolled backwards onto the bed, pulling Kurt on top of him.

“This next one’s short, can we stop after this one?”

Blaine pouted at him, inches from Kurt’s face. “No,” he said, but flinched under Kurt’s glare. “Fine, six more.”

“One.”

“Four.”

“None.”

“Three?”

“Negative twenty.”

“Three. And that’s as low as I’ll go.” Blaine chuckled, as he flipped to his stomach, laying the notebook across Kurt’s pillow and reading from it.

Courage
Shines from him
Maybe one day
It will shine from me
When I hold his hand

Blaine nudged Kurt with his foot. “Did you really think that much of me?” he asked.

Kurt smiled softly at him. “Still do.”

“That’s sweet. To be honest, I really had no idea what the hell I was doing.”

A laugh escaped Kurt’s lips, quick and breathy. “Really? I mean, your plan worked so flawlessly.”

He got a kick in the calf for that one, but Blaine turned to him smiling. “It got us here. Together,” he said. “Isn’t that worth something?”

Kurt smiled back, leaning in and slipping his mouth over Blaine’s. They stayed there for a moment, before Blaine’s tongue slid into Kurt’s mouth and he leaned in, deepening the kiss. Kurt rolled onto his side more, pulling Blaine closer to him. Their legs intertwined and Blaine reached over to tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of Kurt’s neck, before pulling away.

“Nice distraction, Kurt. You’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

Kurt frowned slightly, licking his reddened lips. “It was a good attempt though, you have to admit.” He glanced over at the moleskin, half falling off of the pillow. He sighed, “This is the one where you came to McKinley the first time.”

“Let’s get down to business then,” Blaine said, humming softly to himself as he pulled the book closer.

He stands
A candle flame
Tall
Bright
Pure
Standing on my column of white wax
Making me shine

With a breath
Puff of air
Or more
He’s
Extinguished
Smoke curling in lazy tendrils
Before they dip in my wax

Burning they pull
Away
The flame lights
Stronger than ever

Blaine looked over at Kurt fondly again. “I still can’t believe you had all that faith in me.”

“What you shouldn’t believe is that I still have it after this fiasco.”

“It’s called opening up, Kurt,” Blaine said, rolling onto his back and spreading his arms wide. “Don’t you feel free?”

Kurt pushed Blaine’s arm away from his head and linked their hands together. “Does feeling free feel awfully similar to wanting to smack your boyfriend upside the head?”
“No. I think it feels like flying. Or singing,” Blaine said before he started singing, “And I’m free! Duhn duhn duhn, free falling!”

Kurt nudged him softly with his shoulder. “Shut it, Blaine Warbler, or you won’t get your last poem.”

Instantly, Blaine turned on his hurt puppy look, turning his pout on full blast. “You’d give it to me anyway.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t. And I would take my notebook, go to the bonfire Puck’s having this weekend, and burn the damn thing.”

Blaine grabbed it, cuddling it to my chest. “Okay, we’re done. This is my new boyfriend. You couldn’t kill something I loved.”

“I have though,” Kurt said, his voice lowering dangerously.

Blaine looked nervous, glancing from side to side. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Kurt smiled, satisfied with himself. “That’ll do. Onward then, I guess.”

“You guess correctly,” Blaine said, relinquishing the moleskin to Kurt.

Smile
Can he not stand to see me smile?
I smile
He slams
Slams the smile off my face
Gone
It slipped to the floor
Broken

Where is my courage?
Why can’t I shine?

“You did shine, Kurt,” Blaine said, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You always have.”

Kurt blushed. “Well, I didn’t feel like it. It’s hard to when everything starts to go right and then turns back on you.”

“Don’t worry,” Blaine assured him. “I’ll always be here to help you shine.”