“We could have gone to the beach,” Kurt laments as he dodges a man and three kids zooming by, each child (ages 4, 6, and 8) dressed in startlingly authentic Avengers costumes.

“Yup,” Blaine says with a giddy laugh, dragging Kurt along by one limp arm, “we could have. San Diego does have some of the finest beaches in the country. But we can go to the beach anywhere, Kurt.”

“How about the zoo?” Kurt offers as a suggestion. He cringes as a woman dressed in the tight, revealing costume of character he doesn't recognize bends over, her breasts nearly toppling out of her bodice.

“But you don't like zoos,” Blaine counters, pointing with excitement to a nearly seven-foot-tall person dressed as Chewbacca the Wookie, lugging a backpack stuffed full of replica C3PO parts. “You said they're always over-crowded and they smell like depression and b.o.”

“And yet you brought me here,” Kurt mumbles with an incredulous shake of his head. “We could have gone to a museum,” Kurt says, veering to the left and narrowly avoiding the business end of a humongous and frighteningly realistic-looking cosplay scythe. “Balboa Park – world famous Balboa Park – has a bunch of them. Art, science, and…uh…art…”

“That's true, too,” Blaine agrees, pausing politely as the man in front of them blocks the flow of traffic to have his photograph taken with Deadpool, “but the same rationale applies. Museums are a dime a dozen. But this, Kurt - this only happens once a year, and it only happens here!”

“It doesn't only happen here,” Kurt argues. “Didn't Cooper text you pictures from that comic convention he attended in Los Angeles after he did that horrible creature feature? What was it called again?”

“The Beast with Seven Hands,” Blaine fills in helpfully. He stops short at a pair of glass double doors, giving Kurt barely enough time to stop without running his husband over. Blaine shows the pass on his lanyard to the security guard, reaching behind him and yanking the pass on Kurt's lanyard into view. The unenthused man in the blue uniform waves them through, and Blaine goes back to dragging Kurt into the lobby. “Well, okay,” Blaine continues, “it doesn't only happen here, but this isn't just any comic convention, Kurt. This is Comic Con International. It's the best of the best, and we're here, Kurt! Just enjoy yourself.” Blaine halts for a moment to get a good look at their surroundings. He takes a deep breath and sighs happily. Then he starts off again, grabbing a schedule from a nearby magazine stand, not breaking his stride.

“Enjoy myself,” Kurt mutters out of Blaine's earshot, feeling distinctly claustrophobic as they enter the thick of costumed comic enthusiasts. “Here? How did we even get married? This man doesn't know me at all.”

The further in they walk, the louder it gets, until everything around them becomes a mélange of talking-laughter-music-loud speaker announcements, with little in the way of a break in between.

 “Was the Superman t-shirt really necessary?” Kurt asks in a raised voice. He looks down in dismay at the brand new shirt he's wearing – a charcoal grey, distressed style tee, a size too big, with a bright red letter ‘S' front and center - covering up one of his favorite short-sleeve button downs. Blaine's sporting an equally overpriced Spiderman t-shirt that they got off a vendor down the street.

“Most people dress up for this, and we didn't have time to plan. God, I wish I'd thought to bring myNightbird costume with us, just in case,” Blaine remarks, staring wide-eyed at the array of people decked out in incredibly intricate outfits. “If we didn't have to change our hotel reservation last minute, I could have had it overnighted.”

“When did you get tickets for this anyway?” Kurt asks as they walk onto the convention floor. Kurt groans internally. They've gotten this far. There's no backing out of it now. “Doesn't tickets for this thing sell out in seconds or something? You would have had to buy them literally the day after the last one ended.”

“That information is strictly classified,” Blaine says with a wink, and Kurt knows exactly what that means. That's Blaine-speak for Sam got them for him.

“Alright,” Kurt says, speeding up a step to walk beside his excited nine-year-old of a husband, “what are we doing first?”

Blaine lets go of Kurt's hand and opens his schedule. “Well, there's a panel called Avatar the Last Airbender: Legend and Legacy,” Blaine reads aloud while beside him Kurt slowly and dramatically rolls his eyes. “Oh, you might like this. There's a presentation called Cosplay Makeup 101.”

“That…actually sounds interesting,” Kurt says, stopping his epic eye roll to peek over Blaine's shoulder. “The Last Man on Earth,” Kurt reads, skipping the makeup paragraph to see what else had been planned. “What would you do if you were the last person on Earth?” Kurt laughs. “I know exactly what I'd do, so, pass.”

“Dance naked on the graves of your enemies?” Blaine says as he turns the page.

Kurt kisses Blaine's temple. “You know me so well.”

“Yes, I do, because I found the perfect panel.” Blaine folds the page back and holds the schedule up for Kurt to see, his index finger tapping one entry in specific. Kurt reads it, and his eyes go as wide as Blaine's had before.

“Once Upon a Time?” he says, grabbing the schedule out of Blaine's hand. “Okay, we've got to go. We've got to be there now. Right now. Where is it?”

“It's in…Ballroom 20,” Blaine says, peeking at the schedule over Kurt's strong grip, “but we've got about an hour, which is good, because I have to use the restroom, and I'm pretty sure the line's going to be out a mile.”

“Why do you think that?” Kurt asks, only half listening as he looks over the crowd in search of Ballroom 20.

“I take it you've never had to put on a superhero costume before,” Blaine laughs, leading Kurt toward a restroom as close to Ballroom 20 as he can find.

***

Kurt checks his watch for the fifteenth time and stares at the restroom door, hoping this will be the moment when his husband finally emerges, but when the door swings open to a symphony of flushing toilets, another man dressed as Iron Man steps out.

Christ, Kurt thinks. If every man in there is dressed as Iron Man, Blaine's never going to see a toilet.

Ballroom 20 turned out to be upstairs one level, so Kurt chose to wait for Blaine in a spot overlooking the main convention lobby, where he could keep an eye out for Blaine without everyone and their brother asking him if he was waiting in line for the bathroom. Kurt had considered hopping in line after twenty minutes, figuring that by the time Blaine actually got out of the bathroom, he might need to pee as well.

Kurt decides not to, and passes the time people watching. He still thinks that cosplay is kind of silly, but he has to admit that most of these costumes are amazing in their design, detail, and construction. He curses himself for not carrying a sketch book with him, struck suddenly by a bolt of inspiration when a group of women dressed as fairies with large, iridescent butterfly wings walks by. But it's the little kids, dressed up as their favorite superheroes (or villains) that strikes a chord with Kurt. He's been thinking for a while about the subject of children. He and Blaine bring it up from time to time, toss back and forth the plans they have for an eventual AnderHummel brood. But it's moments like this when Kurt starts to really feel it – that pull toward having kids that most people equate only with women. Kurt has plans. He has dreams. And he wants to see them to fruition before he and Blaine add any other heads to their family.

They've even put getting a cat on hold.

But having a little boy or girl, with his impeccable style sense and Blaine's gift of rhythm, someone Kurt can teach to shear an egg, and make clothes and costumes for…that's also part of the dream.

Kurt catches sight of a miniature Black Widow, tossing her head of flaming red hair over her shoulder as she points a pint-sized grappling gun up towards the rafters, posing so her dad can take a picture, and he smiles. That could be his daughter someday, and they could come back here as a family, relive this road trip with her.

Kurt takes out his phone to add it to his bucket list – “AnderHummel Family Roadtrip” - but pops his head up when he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening again. Not Iron Man this time, but not Blaine either. This man, flanked by a small entourage, doesn't look his way, but Kurt sure as hell notices him. His mouth drops at the sight of familiar green eyes and an upsweep of coffee colored hair. Except, if this is the man Kurt thinks it is, well, he's definitely grown into his giant horse teeth – and how.

Just enough to be remarkable - not enough to make Kurt change his overall opinion of him.

Kurt's eyes track the man as he heads for the stairs and instaneously Kurt finds himself surrounded by an onslaught of men and women, some leaning over the edge of the railing to dangerous extents, waving and yelling to get the man's attention.

“Barry!” a woman not too far from Kurt yells, and the man looks up. “Barry! I love you!”

“It's Grant!” the man calls back, laughing and running a hand through his hair, mussing up the swoop. His eyes glance Kurt's way, and Kurt swears he sees a hint of recognition in them. “Hey! Cool Superman shirt!” The man points to his own shirt – an almost identical Superman shirt - then gives Kurt a thumbs up, and Kurt, feeling like he's passed temporarily into some bizarre fourth dimension, raises his hand to wave. Kurt hears voices nearby say, “Lucky! Grant pointed him out!” “Geez, I wish I'd worn a Superman shirt. Grant loves Superman!” “Hey, weren't they selling those outside?”

“Grant?” Confused, Kurt turns to two men in costume standing beside him, both waving at the man being ushered away. “Hey…uh…excuse me,” Kurt says, tapping on the shoulder of the man closest, “but who's that?”

“Who's that?” the man asks, a little put out at having his fanboying interrupted by such an asinine question. “That's Grant Gustin.”

Kurt's brow wrinkles at the mention of a name that means nothing to him.

“Grant Gustin?” he repeats. “Who's Grant Gustin?”

“Who's Grant Gustin?” The two men turn their heads dramatically toward each other with expressions that reflect how inane they think Kurt is. “He's only the star of the greatest TV show of all time - The Flash.”

“His name's Grant Gustin,” Kurt says, trying his best to keep all possible sarcasm to a minimum. “Are you sure?”

The man standing immediately in front of him, dressed in a deep red costume with a red hood and a bright yellow lightning bolt in the center, carrying a mounted and signed Flash poster (of a man wearing the exact same costume – a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to Sebastian Smythe, even with only his eyes, nose, and mouth showing), looks Kurt dead in the eye and says, “Yup. Pretty sure.”

“And he's an actor?”

“Yup.” “Uh-huh,” both men answer in synchrony.

“Do you happen to know what else he's been in?” Kurt asks, sure that these guys are wrong, absolutely certain that this man is, in fact, the criminal chipmunk of his and Blaine's past.

“He's done some theater,” the second man - dressed in a forest green costume and hood, carrying a bow in his left hand, with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder - answers. “And he was in a few movies, an episode of CSI:Miami…”

“Yeah, and wasn't he in that TV show?” The first man snaps his fingers, trying to recall the name. “What was it?”

“Ugh. That one I refuse to remember. It was one of those High School Musical rip-off things. But it doesn't matter. I don't think it was very popular. Besides, he's moved up from there.”

“Totally,” the first man agrees.

“So, do you happen to know where he's from?” Kurt presses, even when both men start to look tired of his questions, and frankly, visibly uncomfortable. “Is he from…Ohio, by any chance?”

“No,” the first guy says. “Virginia. Here, since you're obviously a fledgling fan, I'll give you this.” The man pulls out a magazine he's been carrying behind his poster and hands it to Kurt. “They were giving these out free at the Flash panel. It's all about the show, and here…” The man flips one-handed to the center of the magazine. “This article is all about Grant Gustin. Educate yourself.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Kurt says, too stunned to send the men off with a witty retort as they bolt down the stairs, trailing behind the throng of other Flash fans. Kurt examines the face staring back at him from the glossy page – the face of a boy who tormented him for months, who almost blinded Blaine, who blackmailed Rachel and Finn, who eventually turned over a new leaf (according to reliable sources). But this man isn't him. As inconceivable as it seems to Kurt, it isn't him. Reading through the article, noting the shows and movies he's performed in, when he performed in them, this man, who is a dead ringer for Sebastian Smythe, isn't Sebastian Smythe.

“Hey.” Blaine's voice carries over from a direction other than the bathrooms, but Kurt is so flummoxed that he doesn't notice. He also doesn't notice the suspiciously bulky bag in his husband's hands. “Sorry you had to wait long.”

Kurt closes the magazine quickly and folds it in half, not really eager to show Blaine the picture lest he want to go chasing after this Grant guy. “Do you happen to know what Sebastian Smythe's doing with himself lately?”

“Sebastian?” Blaine's face goes momentarily blank. “That's a name I haven't heard in a while. To be honest, I really don't know. Vancouver? New York? France? He had a bunch of plans. We stopped keeping contact a while ago.”

Kurt nods. “He never talked about becoming an actor, did he?”

Blaine gives a little chuckle. “No, not to my knowledge. Why do you ask? Ooo, The Flash,” Blaine says, changing the subject and bringing attention to the magazine in Kurt's hand in an oddly exaggerated way. With the magazine folded over, Blaine doesn't see the photo of the cast on the cover, just the retro Flash logo on the back. “I didn't know you were in to him. He was one of my favorite comic book characters when I was a kid. I think I read in the schedule that the cast is downstairs signing autographs if you want to grab a spot in line. I don't know if it's a movie or…” Blaine reaches for the magazine to check, but Kurt rolls it up in his hands.

“Uh, no,” Kurt says. “I think I've had enough surreal experiences for today.” And without another word of explanation, Kurt steers his husband to Ballroom 20.

***

After hours of walking, sitting in on panel after panel, and accumulating more free comics and magazines than any human being could read in a lifetime (Kurt didn't even want most of it – it was simply thrust at him as he passed by ), they opt to take dinner in their hotel room and avoid the post-Comic Con festivities downtown.

Blaine keeps his mystery purchase a secret the entire time, which is a record for Blaine, who's been known to do most of his Christmas shopping the night before. Otherwise, he explodes. When they get to their hotel room – an upper level suite with a terrace and a bay view - Blaine barely makes it through their wood-fired pizza before he grabs his bag and hustles to the bathroom.

Kurt figures he knows what's coming next, so he changes into his pajamas and starts his moisturizing ritual. Thirty minutes later, Kurt climbs beneath the sheet and starts to read.

At forty-five minutes, he gets concerned.

“Alright,” Kurt calls out to his husband. “Are you going to come out and show me this purchase you've been giggling about for the past few hours? Or should I turn out the light and go to sleep?”

“No, no, wait,” Blaine says. “I'm coming out. Close your eyes.”

Kurt settles back against the pillows and closes his eyes, afraid that if Blaine takes too much longer, he'll be asleep before his husband steps out the door. Kurt hears the bathroom door open, then more giggling, and finally, “Okay. Open them.”

Kurt opens his eyes and jumps, because there's Blaine, standing propped up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a head-to-toe red costume with a yellow lightning bolt square in the center, smiling smugly as he fixes Kurt with come hither eyes.

“Well?” Blaine asks, his voice lowered, trying to sound seductive. “What do you think?”

“Uh…what the hell is that?” Kurt knows what it is. Maybe that wasn't the right question. He can't ask why. Kurt knows why. Blaine has a certain penchant for playing “dress up”. And Kurt wants to go along with it, considering how excited he was all day about this secret he'd been carrying. But Kurt can't imagine what Blaine was thinking when he bought this particular costume. Or was it a bizarre coincidence?

“I'm The Flash,” Blaine explains, his cocky attitude withering. “I saw you ogling that guy wearing it when I got back from the bathroom. I thought, maybe, you might be into this.” Blaine wiggles his eyebrows, trying to ignite Kurt's playful side. Kurt reaches over to the trash can by the bed and pulls out the magazine. He opens it to the center and holds it up for Blaine to see. “See?” Blaine says, his face brightening with this shred of validation. “I saw you looking at…oh my God…” Blaine rushes the bed and grabs the magazine from Kurt's hands. “Is that…”

“I thought so, too, but apparently not,” Kurt says. “It seems Sebastian's got himself a doppleganger, except this one's an actor, and according to that article, a nice guy.”

“Wow,” Blaine says, then with sudden realization, “oh…uh…let me take this off then.”

Blaine sounds so defeated, so embarrassed, and Kurt feels guilty demolishing his fun, but he can't help teasing him a little.

“Okay, but it's too late,” he huffs as Blaine strips off the suit, keeping a single eye peeled as his husband disrobes. “The mood was completely ruined the second you came out here in that thing.”

“Awww, come on, Kurt,” Blaine says, kicking the costume under the bed, planning to box it up and send it to Sam first thing in the morning. Maybe he can find someone in The Secret Society of Superheroes Club at McKinley who needs a costume. “It can't be completely ruined.”

“It is,” Kurt says, rolling on to his side away from Blaine and staring out the window, off to the skyline, hiding his smile. “Completely…ruined…”

“And there's no way I can get it back?” Blaine asks, climbing onto the bed behind his husband and putting a hand on his shoulder, trailing light fingertips along the length of his arm.

“None,” Kurt says, yawning to feign disinterest, and to hide the way his body shivers at Blaine's touch.

“Not even if I do…this?” Blaine leans forward and kisses Kurt's neck, focusing on the spots in particular that make Kurt shiver more.

“Nope,” Kurt says. His voice cracks and he swallows hard. “Not even that.”

“Okay,” Blaine whispers with his head buried in the crook of Kurt's neck, “how about if I do this?” Blaine lets his hand wander beneath the sheet Kurt's under, down to the waistband of his lounge pants, slipping inside to gently stroke Kurt's rapidly hardening cock.

“Nu-uh,” Kurt objects, but it sounds more like a moan, and Blaine laughs against his throat.

“No?” Blaine asks with a playful pout. “Too bad, because I was thinking we could do that for most of the evening.”

“Well, too bad,” Kurt says, mentally slapping himself for bluffing this far. Blaine can be stubborn, too, when he wants. He might just pack it in and call it a night.

Then Kurt would have to swallow his pride and jump him.

“Then how about this,” Blaine slides quickly under the sheet, his mouth replacing his hand, and gives Kurt one long, drawn out suck.

“Okay,” Kurt squeaks in an unnaturally high voice, even for him, flailing with his left hand to turn off the light. “Mood's back.”