“You put them in the attic?” Kurt demands. He yanks his apron strings loose and tosses the apron over the back of a dining chair.

“Well…” his Dad explains from the kitchen, but Kurt isn’t listening. There’s no good reason, and Blaine is well on his way. This afternoon is the first time Blaine will be coming over since they started kissing each other. Which Kurt thinks makes them boyfriends, but they haven’t called each other that yet, so he’s not completely sure. He wants to be sure, and it’s just… He wanted today to be perfect.

“You can’t store VHS tapes in the attic, Dad.” Kurt sighs and heads up the stairs before he gets scolded for his attitude. He’s going to end up covered in dust, and he won’t have time to shower and change. Blaine will arrive looking perfectly adorable, rosy cheeked and smiling, and Kurt will have cobwebs in his hair and grunge on his knees.

The attic ladder unfolds with a horrendous creak, and Kurt blinks up at the black rectangle above him. At least it’s been winter, and his old collection of Disney films hasn’t been up there long. It’s strange in the new house, not knowing where things are. He’s been at Dalton so much, this house doesn’t feel like home yet.

Kurt places a hand on the unfinished wood of a step. He hates the dry, vaguely gritty texture of it beneath his fingers, shudders, and starts to hoist himself up. The dangling cord of the light swings suddenly against his cheek, making him flinch and recoil. He chases the elusive thing with his hand. Once caught, he gives a jerk, and the bare bulb blazes bright.

The happy flutter that’s been in his belly all morning is at risk of turning queasy. Kurt grits his teeth and crawls up into the space. He’s careful not to plant a hand—or knee—off the edge of the rafters and into the fusty layers of cotton-candy fiberglass. He blinks, peering past the halo of light into the gloomier recesses of the attic. He spots the faded red crates of Christmas decorations, some old tattered cardboard boxes he knows hold mementos of his mother, and at last, a cluster of newer boxes from the recent move. They’re all labeled in fat black ink.

His Dad has laid sheets of rough plywood as a makeshift floor, so Kurt makes his way toward the boxes slowly, trying very hard not to snag the knees of his pants against the splintery timber. From his pocket, his phone buzzes. Kurt glances warily up at the low angle of the roof truss as he maneuvers back onto folded legs to check it. It’s a text.

From Blaine: “At the supermarket, anything you need?”

That’ll be the supermarket on the corner, which means Blaine is about five minutes away—barring time spent shopping. He’s probably picking up drinks of some sort. Kurt could text back with something hard to find to buy more time for himself, except—attic adventures aside—he’s excited to have Blaine here, wants to spend as much time as possible with him, but, knowing Blaine, he’d be likely to go traipsing off to every other market in the county to find a thing, and then he’ll never arrive. So Kurt compromises. They are short on jam for the scones after all.

To Blaine: “Could you get some raspberry jam please?” He follows with another text: “Good stuff w/actual fruit, not crappy pink jelly.” Kurt bites his lip and sends a third: “I’ll pay you back.”

He fidgets with the phone, scrolling up and down his text timeline with Blaine while he waits for a reply. The heat from the bulb behind is hot on his neck. He goes over his mental checklist again: he’s got finger sandwiches, scones he made this morning, Blaine’s favorite biscotti, and some fancy little orange cakes from the bakery downtown; both loose leaf English tea and coffee; and—if Blaine is not enchanted by the Saturday High Tea—Kurt’s also got ice cream, cookies, popcorn, potato chips, and there’s a pack of Twinkies he can ‘borrow’ from Finn.

His phone buzzes again. From Blaine: “St. Dalfour OK?”

Kurt smiles, for that’s his favorite. Blaine is actually the best, and Kurt’s definitely going to ask him about the boyfriend thing today.

To Blaine: “Perfect, thank you.”

From Blaine: “No problem! See you soon. :)”

So Kurt scrambles. He finds the box marked ‘Kurt’s old videos books’, wrestles the packing tape off the flap, and digs in to the contents. The books are on top—they probably shouldn’t be in the attic either—and it’s hard not to linger with them. His touch is tender upon the old familiar covers—of Winnie the Pooh, Alice in Wonderland, the beautifully illustrated Sinbad the Sailor, the embossed covers of his complete collection of Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books (an extravagant eighth birthday gift from Aunt Mildred), and more—as he lifts them out, one at a time, to set them down beside himself as gently as if they were newborn kittens. He finds his old Piglet doll stuffed randomly in a gap; Kurt tugs him free and massages the plush toy back into shape. But Piglet’s seen better days; his once velvety fur is pilled and clumpy, and his pink face is permanently squashed into asymmetry from being lain upon for too many years. Kurt sets him in his lap with a pat on the head and then turns his attention to the videos.

They appear fine. Kurt pulls out the top case—Sleeping Beauty—and opens it for inspection. He’s not sure how to tell if the tape is okay, but it appears the same as always. He can’t remember which Blaine said were his favorites (Kurt worries, does this make him a bad boyfriend already?), so he decides to take them all downstairs. Which will be easiest in the box, so he carefully places all the books back in, tucks Piglet under his arm, and works the box in a noisy stuttering drag, backward toward the ladder.

It’s a complex and precarious coordination to balance the heavy box while stretching down blindly, one foot at a time, for each step. After several breathless minutes, he’s at the bottom of the ladder, out of breath, beginning to sweat, and with scuffed knees. He and the box are safe on the floor.

And that’s when the doorbell rings. Kurt’s heart trips over its next beat, and he’s flying down the stairs before he can even think to check himself in a mirror.

the end