Kurt loves Blaine’s hair. He loves it gelled, when Blaine is dressing up for a job interview and just a few curls fluff up along his hairline (and no, Kurt has definitely not had fantasies involving Blaine in glasses and a tie and teacher’s desk, nope, never); he loves it loose and outrageously curly so Kurt can grab fistfuls of it as Blaine drags his teeth down Kurt’s collarbone, pulling hard enough that Blaine whines and all-but plasters himself to Kurt, eyes blown wide and almost desperate. Kurt loves Blaine and his unpredictable, adorable hair (but not the gelmet – Kurt trained Blaine in the ways of hair care products long ago; he refused to let Blaine move in with him otherwise).

            That doesn’t mean that static electricity loves it, too.

            It’s a cold, steely morning in New York City, which means bundling up toasty for their morning stroll in Central Park (it’s a silly tradition of theirs that Kurt insists on, even when it’s freezing cold, because he just really loves walking through the city of his dreams with the man of his dreams on his arm, and Blaine of course is happy to oblige). Blaine is a puffy little marshmallow in his winter coat and Kurt giggles as he tucks Blaine’s curls into a gray beanie that brings out the green of Blaine’s eyes and they start the morning out with a kiss that keeps them both warm as they venture out into the brittle cold.

            By the time they get back, however, Kurt is shivering, cursing himself for not thinking to bring mittens, and Blaine’s nose is a bright red cherry in the middle of his face. Kurt snickers a little through the chattering of his teeth, unwinding his scarf and throwing it around Blaine’s neck, reeling him into press his cheek against Blaine’s ice pop of a nose.

            “I feel like we should put these walks of ours on hold until the temperature’s above fifteen degrees,” Blaine mumbles into Kurt’s neck, shoving his hands under Kurt’s jacket, sweater, and undershirt (Kurt Hummel has never stopped using layers, much to his advantage and less so to Blaine’s) and Kurt shrieks as Blaine’s icy hands come in contact with the bare skin of his stomach.

            “Blaine, your hands are not allowed there!”

            Blaine quirks one impressive eyebrow (that’s just another thing Kurt loves about Blaine – his fucking eyebrows) and pulls on Kurt’s sweater, yanking him flush up against Blaine’s body.

            “What about here?” he says nonchalantly, sliding his hands around Kurt’s waist, down the small of his back to grab his ass, and Kurt huffs a little, nosing against Blaine’s cheek.

            “Your hands are cold,” he protests lamely, and Blaine scoffs into Kurt’s ear, breath hot, sufficiently raising Kurt’s temperature.

            “Warm me up?” Blaine proposes slyly, and Kurt just rolls his eyes, tilting Blaine’s chin up to kiss him, their lips positively burning in comparison to the rest of their bodies (and Kurt also loves how absolutely, ridiculously dorky his boyfriend can be) and Blaine hums in approval, looping both arms around Kurt’s waist and nearly lifting him right off the ground.

            Scarves and jackets hit the floor, tangling around boots that are unsnapped and unlaced to expose cold toes that dance in their socks across the chilly floorboards, and Kurt’s sweater is dragged roughly over his head, taking his knit hat with it, and Blaine immediately attaches his lips to Kurt’s shoulder, sucking out a rapid bruise, and Kurt lets his head fall back, a breathy sigh escaping his lips. His hands catch at Blaine’s hips, pushing under his sweatervest and button-up to press against Blaine’s flaming skin and Blaine’s gasp punches through a groan.

            “Not so pleasant, is it?” Kurt whispers teasingly before Blaine fairly growls and yanks Kurt into a kiss that’s immediately all tongues and teeth, bitten lips and shocked, breathy whines. Kurt scrambles for Blaine’s belt as Blaine walks them backwards towards their bedroom, limbs and half-removed clothing twisting together but neither of them take their hands off each other long enough to do anything about it. The temperature is well past 15 degrees now, pooling heat into Kurt’s cheeks and spreading in a pleasant stain over Blaine’s neck and throat, and the cool air is now a blessing on Kurt’s bare torso.

           Blaine flops backwards on the bed, arms still locked around Kurt’s waist, so Kurt has no choice but to follow, nearly knocking foreheads with Blaine as he catches himself on the mattress.

            “Hi there,” Blaine says, grinning at him, and Kurt wiggles out of Blaine’s grip so he can straddle him properly, easing Blaine’s vest over his head and getting to work on the buttons.

            “Up,” Blaine says, sliding Kurt’s jeans down his thighs, and Kurt obliges, arching his body so he can kick the skintight things the rest of the way off.

            “Your beanie’s still on,” he murmurs, pushing Blaine’s blue button-up halfway off his shoulders and pressing a kiss to Blaine’s chest. “How is that even possible?”

            “It’s probably electrically fused to my hair or something,” Blaine says breathlessly, grabbing Kurt’s ass through his briefs and using his grip to pull Kurt closer. Kurt lets out a soft moan and buries his face in Blaine’s neck for a moment, reaching up to snatch the beanie off Blaine’s head because they are not having sex while Blaine is wearing a winter hat, that is just not a thing that will be happening.

            Kurt doesn’t mean to laugh. Really, he doesn’t. It’s just…Blaine’s hair, usually grand in size, now fueled by the flames of static electricity, has become an afro.

            “Oh my –” he blurts before he can stop himself, a shocked giggle bursting through his lips, and Blaine frowns, dropping his hold on Kurt’s ass to pat at his own hair. His eyes quickly take on the size and shape of a dinner plate.

            “Oh my god,” he chokes, fisting at the mass of baby-fine curls with a look of horror on his face. And then of course, Kurt’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

            “I’m sorry!” he wheezes from his fetal position on the bed as Blaine scowls, looking more and more like a scolded puppy by the second. “I’m so sorry, but oh my god, Blaine, I think it defies the laws of physics!”

            “Kurt, you promised you wouldn’t make fun of my hair!” Blaine says petulantly, crossing his arms and pouting, and yep, puppy.

            “Oh, please,” Kurt snickers, rolling onto his knees and shuffling across the mattress to kneel in front of Blaine. “You know I love you, in broccoli head and in health.”

           Blaine frowns up at him from under a cloud of curls and Kurt smothers another giggle behind his hand. “If you substitute that for our vows you’re not getting a honeymoon.”

            “I will always get a honeymoon, Blaine,” Kurt warns, tangling his fingers in Blaine’s afro and tackling him flat onto the bed, and the hair woes are instantly forgotten.

            That is, until the next day, (after Blaine’s hair has been sufficiently tamed, of course) when Kurt just can’t help himself and prepares a snack for their Molly Ringwald marathon, setting down the tray on their coffee table.

            Blaine stares down at it. The smiley face made of broccoli stares back.

            “Kurt.”

            Kurt is laughing too hard to reply.