When they first meet on a staircase under a vaulted dome of light, amid a sea of navy and crimson and too much hairgel, Kurt thinks their love story will be like Sleeping Beauty. The noble prince -- with the exquisite singing voice and the perfectly styled coiffure who Kurt’s certain he’s met in his dreams -- rides in to save the day. He slays the dragon (s, plural, there are so many, it’s a drove, a drone, a drowning of dragons lining up to be slain, and just the king’s words aren’t enough like they were when Kurt was little and his problems were a scraped knee, not combination-lock-shaped bruises) and scales the tall tower (because no walls can keep out true love, not even ones that Kurt’s spent his entire life building, walls of pride and style and well-placed words, walls made of grief and loneliness and loss, walls that are all too effective) and he replaces the kiss of death (the kiss of cafeteria meatloaf and body odor and too-big, too-sweaty, too-strong hands and sometimes Kurt lies awake and wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been able to push Karofsky away) with true love’s kiss.

But even Aurora had three fairy godmother’s (spoiled bitch) orchestrating every movement, making sure that the death threats never came to fruition. Kurt has to play his own hero, has to run off to the ivory tower of Dalton and hide among the ties and the birds and the Katy Perry medley’s. And he’s not sleeping, not anymore, not when he walks through the halls and not when he lies awake and listens to Pavarotti chirping and wonders if he should’ve triple-checked the locks.

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When they sing their duet and chase each other around the common room and exchange long lingering looks that pop stars write number one hits about (number one hits that are promptly set to acapella humming and accompanied with dance moves and elaborate faces) Kurt imagines their love story will be like Cinderella. He’s the one pursuing, the one dolling himself up in striped ties and perfectly pressed blazers, ready to sway and doo-wop in the background. Because if he doesn’t show up to the grand ball, how’s the prince going to see him and realize that he’s the one, he’s always been the one, and dance with him until midnight and love him even when he’s turned back into a pumpkin? And granted, there’s confusion at first -- the course of true love never did run smooth -- and a few frogs are kissed and a few evil stepsister’s try on the slipper, but that doesn’t matter, because the happy ending is coming, right?

Except the prince never sang near-profane songs to the frog in the Gap store, and he never had one too many Smirnoffs and kissed the stepsister (sorry, Rachel) in a game of spin the bottle while Cinderella looked on with mixed disapproval and horror. The prince and Cinderella never fought about his inability to recognize her when she was back in her dowdy clothes, sweeping the floor, and the prince definitely didn’t wonder if he was also into girls (or guys, or however that would’ve worked, which would’ve added an interesting dynamic to the standard Disney fare) and storm out of the Lima Bean and leave Cinderella (Cinder-Fella?) to sit and recollect himself.

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When the tragic choir mascot gives up the ghost and navy-and-red are traded in for somber (albeit slimming) black, and Beatles songs are sung and there’s a look of realization and words of something that, if it isn’t true love, is definitely affection, or something like it, Kurt wonders if their love story will be like The Little Mermaid. The beautiful siren sings to the dazed prince and awakens him, and he wastes no time in searching for her, finding her and planting a big old kiss on those melodic lips (and hey, they’re already ahead of the game, because there isn’t a sea witch here, and there’s no three-day deadline, and they’re kissing and duet-ing and smiling and falling in love way before it anyways). And then they live happily ever after in the world the fish out of water always dreamed about, a world of humans and dancing and feet (and zero-tolerance, no-bullying policies, which wouldn’t have fit in Part of Your World, because what rhymes with “policies”?) and spotlights and recognition at last.

Except unlike in the movie, the doting father (and doting stepmother and semi-doting-at-times stepbrother) are still in the sea, and so is the rest of the underwater chorus, so there’s no happily ever after for the two lovers from different worlds, just a farewell song and an almost-desperate embrace, and the thing they never tell you in the fairy tales is how hard and how often you have to say goodbye.

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By the time senior year rolls around, Kurt’s run out of fairy tales. The prince always announces his love under the moonlight, slipper or lifesaving kiss at the ready, not midway through latte’s and medium drips. The prince always stays in his glittering castle and waits for the world to come to him, rather than exchanging a blazer for too-tight red pants and a bow tie and an expectant grin next to a locker. The main couple’s dreams never run into each other, collide and mix up and tangle in uncomfortable ways, because there’s one main part in the school play and there’s two of them, there’s graduation looming for one and not the other, there’s a snarky meerkat and he isn’t sticking to “Hakuna Matata” this time around and it’s not simple and it’s not easy and the story doesn’t end at true love’s kiss. It drags on, through smoky bars and across brightly lit stages, it doesn’t skim over the awkward adjustment to having to restrain themselves in public, to having to exchange kisses and cuddles for hand-holding and meaningful smiles. It doesn’t fade to black when there are too many layers to deal with and uncertainty and discomfort and hesitancy once all the clothes are gone and the facade is stripped away and it’s vulnerable and open and terrifying and just them, no ball gowns or white horses around to hide behind.

But it’s also everything Kurt’s dreamed of, and everything he wanted, it’s a part of himself that he’d almost accepted he’d never get to give. It’s the feeling he gets the next morning and the next week and the next month, when he looks across the choir room and sees Blaine’s already looking at him. It’s the knowledge that they belong together, they belong to each other and no matter where this story takes them, that isn’t going to change.

Somewhere between waking up in each other’s arms for the first time and opening a jewelry box to find Wrigley’s and Trident wrappers woven together, he realizes that their love story is going to be like them. Like Kurt and Blaine. And that’s perfect.