“Tracy Beyoncé Anderson-Hummel!” Kurt calls, charging through the house after his wily toddler. “Get your tush back here and put your party dress on! Your birthday guests will be here any minute!”

“Nnnnno!” Kurt hears, along with the heavy pat-pit-pattering of uneven footsteps, as his giggling little girl, wearing nothing but a princess Pull-Up and a top knot, streaks by on chunky, slightly bowed legs.

“Still can’t catch her?” Blaine asks, sliding in from the opposite end of the hallway on socked feet, his own attempt at scooping up their impish daughter failing by an inch.

“No,” Kurt grumbles, unhappily admitting defeat. “Obviously she doesn’t understand the importance of dressing for the occasion.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Blaine chuckles, tugging his socks back up. “She’s two. All she knows is that we’re chasing her, and running away from us is fun. Especially with the way your voice breaks every time you call out her name.” Kurt gasps sharply, insulted by his husband’s comment on his voice. “She thinks this is a game.”

“Yeah, well,” Kurt says, following Blaine to the living room, where they can hear the television switch on and the theme song to Little Einsteins start, “she’s winning.”

“Okay” - Blaine creeps up to the first living room doorway, putting a finger to his lips to bring their conversation down to a whisper - “we’re going to have to handle this in military fashion.”

“You know,” Kurt says, tiptoeing behind him, “attending a private school and wearing a uniform for two-and-a-half years doesn’t qualify you to do anything in a military fashion.”

“Just…follow my lead.” Blaine gestures Kurt toward the secondary entrance.

Kurt pads away with a muttered, “What else is new?” He peeks around the corner of the doorway, but because of the configuration of furniture in the room, he can’t see the sofa from his vantage point.

“Do you see her?” Kurt whispers behind the wall to his husband.

“No,” Blaine whispers back. “You’ve got that…Victorian chair in the way. The one that’s taller than humanly necessary.”

“Bite your tongue,” Kurt snaps, still hushed. “That was a present from Isabelle, and her taste is exceptional.”

“Not when I’m trying to see my daughter, it’s not,” Blaine grouses under his breath. “But she’s got to be in there, so let’s just go. On the count of three.”

“Alright,” Kurt says, nodding.

“One…two…three!”

Kurt, still clutching the pansy-covered Oscar de la Renta dress, and Blaine rush into the room from opposite sides, converging on the sofa, where they assume their toddler daughter has snuggled into the overstuffed cushions to watch TV. Since they couldn’t see her before they started their bum-rush, they didn’t know she had moved at the last second to a spot in the center of the floor, until both men race right for her, her bubbly body planted smack dab in their path.

“Blaine!” Kurt yelps, the soles of his Gucci Oxfords gripping the wood floor, helping him skid to a halt. But Blaine, wearing only a pair of black dress socks on his feet, sails over the polished vintage timber floor like an Olympic speed skater. Kurt drops to his knees and covers their awe-struck birthday girl just as Blaine takes a flying leap to avoid them, landing square on his butt. He overturns a platter of cupcakes on the coffee table, which lands with a cartoonish splat on his chest.

“Ugh…” Blaine moans.

“Blaine!” Kurt stares at his startled husband for any sign of serious injury. “Blaine, are you alright!?”

“Papa!” a less than concerned Tracy babbles, squirming out of Kurt’s arms and giddily heading for her cupcake-doused father.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, moving the platter off his torso and unveiling the devastated cupcakes, mashed into the fibers of his now ruined sweater. “Yeah, I’m alright. But I think we’re going to have to get more cupcakes.”

“Well, if that’s the worst of our problems,” Kurt says, laughter fizzling up between his words at the sight of Blaine spattered in pink fairy frosting and purple sprinkles, “I would say we got off ea---“

Before the final syllable can make its way out of Kurt’s mouth and into the atmosphere, Tracy launches herself at her father and gives Blaine what he calls one of her ‘teddy bear hugs’, completely covering her freshly-cleaned self in fluffy frosting.

“Tra-cy!” Kurt whimpers. He reaches out to grab her arm, planning to lead her back to the tub for a ten-second bath, but she manages to squirrel away, escaping two exhausted fathers, leaving the living room, and her Pull-Up, behind.

“Oh my God!” Kurt groans. Blaine watches her go, sputtering out stifled laughs, like a lawnmower engine struggling to start. “That’s your daughter, Blaine.”

“Now, Kurt,” Blaine says, making his way to his feet, “we don’t know for certain whose she is biologically, remember?”

“We do now,” Kurt says. “Because I would never willingly cover myself in frosting and go running around naked.”

“Someone’s obviously forgetting our third wedding anniversary,” Blaine says, lifting the hem of his sweater and pulling it up over his head.

“Blaine Anderson-Hummel!” Kurt scolds, watching with the twitchings of an ill-timed erection, as his husband strips off his sweater and starts to unbutton his shirt. “What are you…we’ve got fifteen toddlers showing up in less than half-an-hour!”

“Well” – Blaine finishes undressing by peeling off his pants, standing before his husband in a pair of red briefs and a smile – “if you can’t beat ‘em…”

“Traumatize them for life!?”

Blaine rolls his eyes, grabbing up his clothes and heading out of the living room in search of his frosted daughter.

“Hey, do you think it’s too late to make this party clothing optional?” Blaine asks.

“My father’s coming,” Kurt reminds his husband. “I’m not putting myself through that. Although” – A wicked smile crosses Kurt’s lips – “your brother is on the guest list…” Kurt makes sure to add a dreamy cast to his otherwise disapproving tone. “I guess that would make up for it.”

There’s a pause, and Kurt can’t hear a thing – not his giggling daughter, not his husband, strutting around in his Tommy Hilfiger briefs.

“Then again,” Blaine says, his voice rising above the sound of the tub water turning on, “nothing says Happy Birthday like a nice, three-piece suit.”