Dear Kurt,

Italy sucks. Four weeks of the summer without you sucks. Four weeks of my dad telling me to get off my ass and go ogle at some Italian girls sucks. I miss you. But you probably deduced that. Off to go eat my feelings (one thing this country is good for).

Love, Blaine





Dear Kurt,

Today was an okay day. There were some old guys playing harmonica and accordion and stuff on the street. I kinda sang with them. I asked them to play the one Italian song I know (don’t ask me how or why I know it) and they happily obliged. It was nice- made me miss Dalton. And the Warblers. And you. Mostly, definitely, and completely you. (three more weeks.)

Love, Blaine





Dear Kurt,

There was a couple getting married in the park today. I may not have been a toddler planning nuptials like you, but I do appreciate a nice one. And this one was really gorgeous- they were under some willow trees and it was all sunny and cool and it was just really simple and beautiful and a guy was playing like, a mandolin (I think? That’s Audrey Hepburn’s windowsill instrument, right? It was that one.) and my inner romantic was really getting a treat. I wish you could have seen it. (And I wish I could see YOU! Agh!)

Love, Blaine





Dearest darlingest Kurtsie and Finnsicle (please don’t show this to Finn, I just needed to make the Wicked reference work. And now my reference is a little bit more obvious. Anyways…),

Does it make me clingy and obsessive if this is the second postcard I’ve written to you today? I don’t care. My dad has just offered up a rental motorcycle ride (those exist, I guess) and I’d really rather do anything else. Although he did take the time to find a bandana and biker jacket. I think on me that would only make me appear more gay. Definitely.

Love, Blaine





Dear Kurt,

I MISS YOU. AND YOUR LIPS.

Love, Blaine

(Excuse me for being crass, but I’m still a teenage boy. And your lips are delicious. Crass again? Oops.)





Dear Kurt,

One more week until I come home. I’m really not so sure I can do this.

Love, Blaine



----

The edges of Blaine’s postcards are worn and ragged from Kurt’s frequent handling. The handwriting gets more frantic with each word, his letters slanting diagonally and blending together. But every cluttered word makes Kurt smile.

There’s a rustle at his bedroom door. Something slips under it. Kurt picks up the postcard (oh God, did he drop one when he was getting the mail and did Burt read it and oh no) and reads.



Hi.


Kurt freezes- his mind spinning, fingers trembling. But he flings open the door and there’s Blaine- all exhausted from the international flight, with shadows under his eyes and stubble scattered along his jawline. Still in quite a serious state of shock, Kurt throws his arms around Blaine’s neck, Blaine’s arms snake around Kurt’s waist, and they just hold each other. Blaine is the one to pull his head up from being buried in Kurt’s shoulder and press kisses along his neck, his throat, his tiny bit of exposed collarbone, and then to his lips in what has to be one of their best kisses to date, Kurt thinks.

“You’re here…” Kurt murmurs dreamily between insistent presses of Blaine’s lips.

“I’m never going on vacation again.” Blaine deadpans, looking at Kurt straight in the eyes and tracing shiver-light circles on the back of Kurt’s neck.

“That’d be okay, I guess.” says Kurt with a smile and coy lip-bite. He’s trying to make Blaine go crazy with want, just because he can. And it’s succeeding. Blaine’s pulling him closer, tighter, and pressing his lips to Kurt’s again.

Tilting his head to his room and pulling Blaine in by the worn ribbed collar of his t-shirt, Kurt whispers, “So why don’t you tell me about all those Italian girls you may or may not have ogled at?”