The morning of May 27, when the early white-orange sunlight streams in through the curtains and the downstairs hums with a familial murmur, Blaine creeps down the hallway and turns Kurt’s doorknob as quietly as possible.

Kurt’s curled up in rumpled white sheets, his lips slightly parted, rose-pink and lovely. Blaine tiptoes over to where he’s lying on the left side of his bed and brushes some hair off his forehead.

“Hey…” he whispers and plants a kiss on Kurt’s forehead.

“Wha’r you doin’ here?” Kurt murmurs, eyes squinting to face the sunlight and hand reaching up to cup Blaine’s cheek.

“It is May 27, Kurt. Which means you are now nineteen years old. And I have a very special surprise for a very special birthday boy.” Blaine says.

Kurt still looks somewhat disoriented, but with a fond little smile on his lips nonetheless.

“You are a wonderful little dork, Blaine Anderson. Will you allow me to wake up just a little bit more for this?” So Blaine grabs his face and kisses him hard and thorough. It’s a rational way to wake someone up, Blaine reasons.

“Oh God, morning breath, Blaine. I’m disgusting.”

“You’re never disgusting.” Blaine says, running a thumb along Kurt’s cheekbone.

“My breath begs to differ.”

“Fiiiine… so brush your teeth, brush your teeth!” Blaine whines.

“Patience.” Kurt says softly, touching his hand to the side of Blaine’s face.

So Blaine sits on the side of the bathtub and watches Kurt brush his teeth, impatiently tugging on the hem of Kurt’s t-shirt like a child. Kurt swats at his hand with a mouth full of toothpaste foam, but looks down at him with a happy little smirk. Then Kurt gargles and rinses and bares two rows of white teeth to Blaine in an absurd, very un-Kurt smile.

“Beautiful. Now come with me.” Blaine says, tugging Kurt by his shirt collar to pull him in for a kiss. Kurt laughs against his mouth, Blaine’s arms around his neck, and Blaine feels bright-gold, like constellations of fireflies or like love incarnate.

“I have to get dressed, you nut.”

“No, you do not! This is a Blaine Anderson patented birthday affair and we are not leaving your house as of yet and you will come with me in your pajamas!”

Kurt’s eyes widen and he laughs, rather taken aback.

So Blaine takes his hand again, leads him down the stairs to the backyard. The whole setup had taken an hour last night after their date (during which he tiptoed around the dark grass trying not to let Kurt see him from his bedroom window) a hushed conversation with Burt, and a total of two hours in the Hummel’s kitchen early (far, far too early) that morning to complete.

And judging by the look on Kurt’s face, it had been worth it. God, he hates to see Kurt cry, but these happy tears he gets sometimes—he could live with those. Especially when Blaine is the cause of them (Blaine tries not to be cocky, but notes that the happy tears are usually because of him).

“You...are…” The words get stuck in Kurt’s throat and his face wrinkles up like he’s trying to hold back tears. Blaine notes to himself that the effort is futile: Kurt’s eyes are already wet.

Underneath a (hand-painted, Blaine will note to anyone who does or does not ask) “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KURT!” banner, the breakfast Blaine had prepared is displayed on a picnic blanket arranged in between two vases of hydrangeas. The pancakes were taken out of an old recipe book that Kurt’s mom used—Kurt pulls it out all the time when they cook together and Blaine knows that the recipe lies on a wrinkled, batter-stained page 16 of the cookbook. They’re Kurt’s favorites, these perfectly pressed, golden-brown pancakes with gems of sweet, tart blueberries. There’s a stack of buttered toast, a platter of turkey bacon, a pot of coffee, plates and plates of little pastries Blaine had picked up from Kurt’s favorite bakery. The breakfast is certainly too enormous for two people, but hey, they had Finn and Sam when they woke up.

Kurt tilts his head back to look up at the tiny white lights Blaine’s strung up, how they look twinkling against the sky—gorgeous this morning, blue with melting streaks of lavender and peach.

Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s waist from behind, rubbing circles on his sides, and moves to whisper in his ear: “Happy birthday.” Kurt looks over his shoulder to smile at him.

“You’re wonderful.” Kurt says, dragging his thumb down Blaine’s jawline to rest at the hollow of his throat.

“I know I am. But let’s eat. I want to gauge my cooking ability after my beginner’s course in Kurt Hummel culinary education.”

* * *

“Okay, you get an A in Pancakes, a gold star in Coffee, and a 100 in Bacon. You have successfully graduated the beginner’s level of the Kurt Hummel Cooking School. Diplomas will be awarded shortly.” Kurt says sleepily, his head resting on Blaine’s (remarkably full) stomach while they stretch out together on the blanket.

He takes another sip of coffee out of his new mug, one of those silly ones on which you could put a picture. It was cheesy as hell, but that’s precisely why Blaine picked it out—the white porcelain mug with a picture of Blaine smacking a kiss on Kurt’s cheek while Kurt is stuck mid-laugh. After opening it (but not before cries of “It’s not your real present, I swear! That’s for later!”), Kurt had shrieked with laughter and kissed him silly.

“Thank you, thank you. If I’m in any way good, it’s only because you made me this way. So how are you liking the world of the nineteen year old?” Blaine asks, running his fingers through Kurt’s hair.

“I would say it’s amazing only because of you. And all of this. Otherwise, there’s absolutely nothing to do when you’re nineteen. No newly acquired driver’s licenses, no new capability of purchasing cigarettes or porn, no new voting ability.”

“You don’t want to buy cigarettes or porn.”

“But I had the brand-new option to, didn’t I? Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I’m perfectly content to stay here in my backyard with you cooking me breakfast every day and eating underneath Christmas lights all year round.” Kurt flips over onto his stomach, looking at Blaine with his chin propped up on his fist.

Sometimes his eyes go big and wide and almost golden with love when he looks at Blaine, filled with the lace blossoms of spring, the brilliant sun and the brilliant stars of summer, the copper glint of autumn, the pure white freeze of winter. And there’s nothing Blaine can do then but hold his hand and surrender, letting himself drown in those thousand igniting stars.

“Thank you for this. All of it. I honestly don’t know what I did to deserve you, but…I’m glad I did it, whatever it was. I tell you all the damn time, but… I love you with every single bone in my body and with every fiber of my being and with every inch of my heart. I just really, really love you.”

“I really, really love you too.” Blaine says, wrapping his arms around Kurt to bring him closer.

Soon, Blaine will want to put on the music and hold Kurt close while he dances with him, slow and lazy. Later that evening, Blaine will gather the glee club and conduct the twelve-part harmony of “Happy Birthday” that they’ve been practicing for three days.

But right now is perhaps the happiest Kurt’s been in this miserable fog of a past week. Right now, there are the arms of his favorite boy around him. Right now, the sun showers over his freckles and shoots gold through his eyelashes. Right now, Blaine presses a long kiss to his forehead and tries his best to let Kurt know that everything will soon be beautiful again.