Blaine sighs, relaxing into his deck chair, exhaling all the tension of semester finals from his body with every cleansing breath. His eyes closed behind dark lenses, he lets the soothing sounds of the sea lull him into a state of meditative tranquility. Yes, this is the life – the fall semester of his freshman year at NYADA behind him, all the arrangements for his and Kurt's upcoming wedding in place, his gorgeous fiancé sitting by his side, and a cool, fizzy drink in his hand, complete with a bendy straw and a purple paper fan sticking out of the top.

“Kurt? Baby? Can you hand me the sunscreen, please?” Blaine asks, holding out his hand, face tilted up in the direction of the warmth spreading over his body.

“Th'ure.” Kurt sniffles, reaching down over the arm of his chair and into his beach tote to grab a bottle of SPF 50. “Here.” He flips the lid open with his thumb and passes the bottle over to Blaine.

“Thanks,” Blaine says, taking the bottle. He sits up, squirts a dollop of sunscreen into his palm, and starts spreading the thick, white lotion over his arms. He takes a sniff and smiles. He loves the smell of Coppertone. It's a scent that reminds him of vacations with his parents and his brother by the coast of California and clam bakes down by the Cape. A hundred memories of amazing summers are wrapped up in every breath of that distinctive tropical smell. “You know, I'm so glad we still opted to go on vacation. Winter in New York has been brutal.”

“I dnow,” Kurt agrees, his voice nasally, his sinuses completely clogged. “I'm glad I di'nt let a liddle t'ing like da flu get me down.”

Blaine peeks over at Kurt reclining comfortably with his head resting back, his eyes shut, Ray Bans perched on the bridge of his nose, and a content smile on his calm face. This is what Kurt needs after all the hard work he does – school, interning, long grueling shifts at the diner. What a tremendous stroke of bad luck to get the flu a week before Christmas. Kurt's father was supposed to visit for the holidays, but he had to back out when he found out how sick Kurt was. Burt is at a delicate point in his remission and he can't afford to catch the flu – not now when his immune system is weak. Kurt understood, but he was still heartbroken.

Kurt sulked for days before Blaine came up with his vacation plan, and this last minute getaway has done wonders to bring back Kurt's smile. Blaine is just happy he was able to arrange this for him.

“Did you want me to rub some sunscreen on your chest?” Blaine asks, his voice smooth and alluring, especially in contrast to Kurt's raspy cough.

“I'm not th'ure how well it will mix wit' da vapo-rub on my chest,” Kurt says with a rough laugh. “But you cad do my legs.”

“My pleasure,” Blaine says, setting his drink down in the sand, slipping off his deck chair, and kneeling at Kurt's feet. He squirts another dab lotion in his palm and heats it between his hands before spreading it over Kurt's bare legs.

“Mmmm,” Kurt hums, readjusting in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. “That's nice.”

“What…the fuck…is this?” Santana groans, stepping through the sliding door of the loft and greeted by the sight of Kurt sitting in a deck chair in the center of a humongous mound of sand in the living room while Blaine rubs sunscreen up and down his pale, pasty legs. Surrounding them is a series of lamps – some tall, some short, all emitting a bright, yellow light, raising the temperature in the loft twenty degrees and forcing Santana out of her coat. “What did you guys do with all the furniture?”

“It's ober d'ere,” Kurt says, not opening his eyes when he points past Santana to the far side of the room. She turns and sees every piece of furniture shoved against the wall – sofa, chairs, coffee table. Even the rug is rolled up and shoved aside.

“And why, may I ask, is there a makeshift beach in the middle of the living room?” she asks, making her way over to the lamps and the mound of sand. Sharing an outlet with one of the lamps, she eyes Blaine's white noise machine, dial set to sounds of the sea and shore.

“Because I didn't want Kurt to miss out on our vacation just because he got sick,” Blaine explains, dusting off his hands and returning to his chair.

Santana puts her hand in front of one of the lamps, but pulls it away quickly at the intense heat coming off the bulb.

“Is this, like, a thousand watt bulb?” she asks, turning away and blinking into the darkness to clear the spots from her vision.

“They're homeopathic sun lamps,” Blaine explains, slipping his sunglasses back over his eyes. “Elliot lent them to us.”

“He got dem during hi'th yoga retreat in Ala'ka,” Kurt adds, snuffling grotesquely between words. Santana shoots him a disgusted look he doesn't see.

“And where in the hell did you guys get all this sand?”

“The Home Depot,” Blaine replies, utterly nonplussed by Santanas negativity.

Santana shakes her head, lifting up her arms in defeat of understanding anything these two freaks of nature ever do.

“I just came by to borrow Berry's white thigh-high boots,” she says, passing through the privacy curtain into Rachel's corner of the loft.

“Did she say you could?” Blaine asks offhandedly.

“Does she ever?” Santana returns. Santana walks back out, takes one last look at Kurt and Blaine on their make-believe beach, and rolls her eyes.

“You guys are weird,” Santana says, throwing her jacket back on, shoving the boots under her arm, and heading out of the loft.

Both men lie quietly in their chairs until they hear Santana's heels retreat out the door.

“Hmmm,” chuckles Kurt when the sliding door clicks shut, “th'ays the woman who went to Lethbos Island thinking it was full of lethbians.”