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The problem is the key.
Well, it’s not really the key. The key is just a normal, brass front door key with a little rainbow sticker on it that Kurt had thought was cute. It’s an innocuous enough object, although its mere existence had nearly brought Blaine to tears when Kurt had presented it to him in a little monogrammed cufflink box on their three-month anniversary.
The problem is that in the couple of months since, the key has come to represent a recurring issue in their relationship, and now the sight of it never fails to elicit a Pavlovian huff from Kurt.
The thing is, Kurt loves Blaine’s manners. He really, really does. He’s a romantic at heart, having spent the first few years of his childhood cuddled up with his mom watching her favorite old-time musicals. He’s charmed to his toes by the way that Blaine rushes to open doors for him and brings him flowers, and never, ever abbreviates words in text messages. He’s such a sweet, old-fashioned thing, and Kurt loves it.
Mostly.
Because there is such a thing as too damn polite, and the key… Well.
When Kurt had given Blaine the key, he’d meant for him to use it. He’d meant for him to slip it onto his own bundle of keys and use it as naturally and as often as he uses his own front door key, coming and going as he pleases. Kurt had fantasised about coming home with groceries to unexpectedly find Blaine barefoot at the piano, or Blaine slipping between the sheets after his band rehearsal with lingering kisses just because he’d missed Kurt too much to be away from him, or Blaine being there when he gets home from the show, greeting him with surprise take-out and a sleepy-sweet grin.
Kurt had had plans. And okay, so he hadn’t exactly shared the details with Blaine, but he feels like the gist was implicit in the key-giving. He thought Blaine would get it.
Instead, Blaine is unfailingly, depressingly, country-club considerate. He texts Kurt to ask permission every time he wants to come over. If he thinks it’s too late or too short notice, or that Kurt might be tired (as if Kurt doesn’t sleep better with Blaine there anyway), or that he might compromise Kurt’s moisturising routine, he’ll leave it until the next day. He hasn’t even put the key on his own fob. Instead it hangs in Blaine’s room, dangling from its own separate hook on an ugly waxed cord, reminding Kurt every time he sees it that Blaine still feels some sense of formality around their relationship, and… it stings. So Kurt huffs and grinds his teeth because he can’t stop himself, and Blaine doesn’t notice because Blaine is sort of oblivious about stuff like that, and that stings even more.
‘Quit being such a giant baby and ask him to move in already,’ Rachel hisses one morning, after Kurt had woken up predictably alone and taken out his irritation on their glazed artisan coffee mugs.
‘It’s not about him moving in,’ Kurt grumps back. ‘It’s about him having enough trust in our relationship to know that he can use the goddamn door key without getting my express written permission. Every. Single. Time.’
Rachel puts her hands on her hips, her expression dark with exasperation. ‘Have you considered the revolutionary concept of talking to him about it?’
He bristles. Of course he’s thought about it. But he wants Blaine to want to be here and he’s worried that some big serious discussion might end up in Blaine feeling like he has to be here, which Kurt worries would be the beginning of the end for them.
He slumps down onto a stool. ‘And how do I do that without pressuring him into a level of intimacy he clearly either doesn’t want or isn’t ready for, Rach?’
She gives him a flat look. ‘So instead your plan is to sulk at him until he spontaneously develops mind reading skills?’
Kurt sighs. ‘I never said it was a perfect plan…’
‘Ugh.’ Rachel flings up her hands, and whirls out of the room in a sweep of despair and long brown hair, leaving Kurt with nothing but a chipped coffee mug and his bad mood.
So, yeah, the key is a problem.
His bad mood worsens when Blaine texts him yet again to ask if it’s alright if he comes over, since he’s done with his mountain of grading sooner than he’d expected.
Kurt scrolls through his emojis for a second to see if something in there accurately represents ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me this dumb-as-rocks question again just get your stupidly sexy butt over here already I’m side-eyeing you so hard right now’, but all he finds is the classic eye-roll one, and since he does actually want Blaine to come over he discards it in favour of his usual, ‘Of course, any time. Use your key!’
In the forty-five minutes it takes Blaine to get to the apartment, Kurt cleans the kitchen, and in the process works himself up into something of an emotional lather about the fact that Blaine could have been here already if he just goddamn moved in -
Well, fuck.
Rachel was right.
The realisation doesn’t do anything to improve his mood. He hates when Rachel’s right.
By the time Blaine arrives, the sound of the cursed key in the lock is like nails raking over Kurt’s raw, exposed nerves.
Blaine is his usual perky self because he’s Blaine, and he bounces over to press his winter-cold nose into Kurt’s cheek and kiss him in greeting, oblivious to Kurt’s irritation, which just infuriates Kurt more. He scrubs at the counter top harder and grits his teeth.
‘Mm, you smell good. God, it’s freezing outside. So, I have news!’ Blaine winds the long cord around and around his key and then tucks it into a little pocket inside his messenger bag, before shrugging off his jacket.
‘Mmhm?’ Kurt works at a particularly stubborn glob of something stuck to the kitchen counter. He suspects Rachel has been experimenting with that hinky Irish Moss gel stuff again. Kurt thinks it looks less like food and more like the goop that explodes out of implants on When Boobs Go Bad, which he’s been known to secretly binge watch when he has a cold and needs to feel better about his life. He purses his lips. No wonder Blaine doesn’t want to be here more often. Great. Now he’s mad at Blaine and Rachel. And himself, a little, but mostly Blaine and Rachel.
‘The Dandy Lions…’ Blaine pauses for dramatic effect while he fills the kettle and puts it on the heat, ‘have booked their first official gig! It’s a week Saturday at Retox, in Brooklyn.’
Kurt stops scrubbing abruptly, resisting the urge to put his hands on his hips because his rubber gloves are covered in suds and he doesn’t want to ruin his pants. ‘Wait, a week Saturday? The same day as the gala we RSVP’d to about a month ago?’
Blaine’s brow knits apologetically. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry, the band the bar originally booked fell through so it was sort of last minute. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.’
‘You’ve confirmed it already?’
‘Well the guys did… I can’t let them down, Kurt.’ Blaine takes a placating step towards him, but Kurt turns back to the counter pointedly.
No, but you’re fine with letting me down…
‘You do know that June is throwing the gala, right?’ Kurt says tightly. ‘That this is the first thing she’s invited us to since we got together?’
‘Technically she didn’t invite me,’ Blaine points out, ‘she invited you and a plus one, even though she’d have known from Eli that we’re still together.’
Kurt rests his hands on the edge of the kitchen counter and sighs. ‘And you’re expecting me to blow it off to be at your gig?’
‘I… was hoping, I guess.’ An edge of surprise to Blaine’s voice is all the accelerant Kurt’s temper needs. How inconsiderate can one guy be of another’s feelings?
He straightens up. ‘So your good news is what, that I get to piss June off all over again and take a hundred per cent of the blame because you’re not named on the invitation?’ Kurt strips off his gloves and throws them into the sink, folding his arms across his chest. The skin on his hands feels over-sensitive and brand new like it always does when he’s been wearing rubber gloves for too long, and he hates it. Everything is wrong right now.
‘I didn’t realise that you cared what she thought.’ Blaine chews on his lower lip, keeping his eyes on the floor.
‘This is my career, Blaine. It would be stupid to alienate one of the most powerful women in the business over a one-off gig in some dive bar.’ Kurt thinks maybe he’ll feel better if Blaine is hurting the same way he’s hurting, but he doesn’t, and he regrets the words as soon as he says them. He can almost see them fly across the room and kick Blaine in the stomach. His rapid, ‘I’m sorry,’ sounds weak and feeble in comparison.
Kurt watches the muscles of Blaine’s throat work as he swallows, wrestling to keep his game face on. After a minute he says gently, ‘You know what, you’re right. You should go to the gala. That’s what you got your understudy lined up for, that’s what you probably already got a suit for, right?’ Kurt nods imperceptibly. ‘Right. So you should go. Take Elliott or someone. Chandler would bite your arm off to go.’ Blaine smiles but it has a brittle, forced quality. ‘If you want to build bridges with June then it’s probably better that I don’t go, anyway. I don’t think her feelings about me have changed at all.’
Kurt feels his jaw tense up for a second. He feels bad, and he wants to make it better, but what comes out is, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I don’t really have anything to wear, anyway.’ Blaine offers up another fragile smile. Behind him the kettle starts to shriek and bubble at the spout, and both men welcome the excuse to busy themselves with a distraction. Blaine makes tea, and as always, the cup he hands Kurt is perfect, just the way Kurt likes it.
They watch a movie, wrapped around themselves at opposite ends of the couch. Kurt doesn’t know how to broach the distance. The fire of his anger has burned out and now his mouth tastes like ashes. Eventually he reaches over and takes Blaine’s hand, threading their fingers together and squeezing. He hopes Blaine knows he’s saying sorry, skin-to-skin. He’s hugely relieved when Blaine squeezes his hand back.
When the credits roll Blaine rubs at his temples and says he has a headache.
‘You wanna stay here?’ Kurt asks hopefully. His mom used to pillow his head on her lap and run her fingers through his hair, whenever he had a headache. He could do the same for Blaine.
Blaine shakes his head. ‘I think I’m gonna head home. Take my contacts out, see if that helps.’
Kurt tries not to flinch when Blaine says ‘home’. Instead he draws Blaine into a hug and holds him close, murmuring, ‘I love you,’ into his hair.
‘I love you, too.’ Blaine says into his chest, his fingers flexing briefly in the fabric of Kurt’s shirt.
He watches as Blaine puts his jacket and gloves and bag back on, moving slower now, like his limbs are heavy. He seems smaller than the buoyant Blaine who arrived a couple of hours earlier. Kurt brushes the back of his knuckles over Blaine’s temple, feather-light.
‘Blaine, about Saturday…’
‘It’s fine,’ Blaine cuts him off. ‘You do your thing. I’ll do mine. We’ll get together after, when we have time. Like we usually do.’
Kurt pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. ‘I wish we could do both things, together.’
Blaine sighs. ‘I know. I can’t let the guys down, though, and you can’t commit career suicide over it, so it is what it is.’
After he leaves, Kurt watches six back-to-back episodes of When Boobs Go Bad while morosely eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Rachel nearly tears her hair out. Kurt can’t blame her.
He can’t possibly ask Blaine to move in. They’ve only been together for a little while, it would be crazy. Kurt’s had years to settle into New York, but Blaine is still discovering the city, still stretching his wings out and figuring out exactly who he is now that he can pretty much do whatever he wants to do. He’s spent his whole life in small-town Ohio being limited in one way or another by other people’s expectations of him. Kurt doesn’t want to limit him any further by forcing him into premature cohabitation.
It's for the best.
Right?
Right.
Blaine seems to mostly avoid him for the next week, citing an increase in band rehearsals as his reason. They have little enough time together as it is, with Blaine working during the day and Kurt working most evenings. Blaine is at Kurt’s every weekend more often than not, and Monday evening is their sacred date night in addition to whatever dinners they can manage to grab together, but this week none of that happens. It ends up being the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since Blaine moved to New York. They speak a few times on the phone, but it’s awkwardly stilted as they both try to construct a conversation around the giant pink elephant that is Saturday Night. Kurt feels the same sort of helplessness that he used to feel around Blaine before they got together; a frustration that he can’t make himself understood.
By the time Saturday rolls around Kurt misses Blaine so much he feels physically unbalanced, and is more than ready to get the whole gala thing done with so he can meet Blaine for brunch the next day and try to get back to how they were.
He gets ready for the gala mechanically, on autopilot. His tux is a beautiful, midnight blue number by a guy who’s made suits for Tim Gunn, but somehow Kurt can’t bring himself to be excited about it. He pulls out his phone to text a selfie to Blaine, who is the one person he knows who would be as into the Tim Gunn thing as he usually would be, but stops short when he sees the photo Blaine and his bandmates have just uploaded to Twitter. It’s a candid shot of them sitting along the edge of a stage, talking and laughing together, with the caption ‘Pumped for tonight’s gig @Retox, come down and see us!’
Blaine is smiling so widely you could count his teeth if you were so inclined, and he appears to not be giving a single shit about the fact that Kurt has to walk into a gala full of frenemies and strangers and face June, alone.
Kurt like he’s been kicked in the chest. His jaw is so tense it aches. He closes the screen and flings the phone down onto his bed, going back to his illuminated mirror with renewed determination. If Blaine can have a good time tonight, then so can he.
*
He steps out of the car and onto the red carpet, sliding his hands into his pants pockets to pose for pictures. He answers the usual questions about what he’s up to currently, how Peter Pan is going and who he’s wearing, as quickly as he can. He used to love having the spotlight on him like this. It had made him feel important; wanted. Now it just highlights the fact that he’s alone.
A guy in a simple black suit directs him to the reception room, and he whistles lowly as he catches sight of the main room where the food will be served later. The room is circular, the vaulted ceiling rising to an enormous gold and crystal chandelier in the centre. The walls are draped with some sort of dreamy white muslin which has been lit up with thousands of projected stars. The countless tables are dripping with crystal glassware and gold cutlery, shining in the candlelight. The reception room is equally beautiful, simple but opulent in navy, ivory and gold.
There’s quite a crowd of people already, some of whom Kurt knows. He smiles over at Chandler, on the arm of a new guy, not missing the significant look Chandler sends to the empty space at his side, and the way he leans over to whisper to the group he’s with. Kurt mentally rolls his eyes and starts to brave the rest of the crowd, suffering through hugs and air kisses, until he’s worked his way towards the middle of the room, where a familiar figure in a deep red, sparkling gown presides.
‘Everything looks beautiful, June,’ he says, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
‘Kurt.’ June turns and nods at him, her eyes taking him in shrewdly. ‘You came.’ She seems… surprised? Impressed? He’s not sure.
He inclines his head. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘No plus one?’
‘Blaine sends his apologies. He has a gig tonight, with his band,’ Kurt replies coolly.
‘His band…’ June smirks like that amuses her.
‘His band.’ Kurt repeats back icily, raising his glass to her before taking a sip. ‘They’re good. Blaine’s phenomenal.’
‘Hmm.’ June doesn’t seem impressed, but Kurt hadn’t really expected her to be. She purses her painted lips and says, ‘It’s good to see you back where you belong, at any rate.’ Kurt’s fingers curl reflexively into fists. He wills himself not to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but she seems to know she’s got a shot over his bow because she allows herself a small, satisfied smile. ‘Well,’ she says breezily, ‘I really must go and greet the rest of my guests. I wonder, since you’ve done this all before…’ She reaches over in a rustle of bracelets and grabs someone by the elbow. ‘Meet my new protégé. Be a dear and take care of him for me, will you?’
Kurt shakes his head as he watches her cross the room in a glitter of sequins, schmoozing shamelessly as she goes. ‘She is unbelievable,’ he mutters.
‘She certainly is,’ says the guy she left him with, although there’s a good dollop more admiration in his tone, and hello, lovely accent. Kurt looks him over. He’s long and lean with nice hands, and floppy, Hugh Grant hair, only he’s fairer.
Tall, Cute and British says, ‘God I’d kill for a beer. Can’t stand champagne,’ and flashes Kurt a smile which, pre-Blaine, might have dazzled him a little.
Kurt shrugs, taking another deep sip from his glass. ‘I like it. But it looks like it’s this way to the bar.’ He starts to lead Tall, Cute and British through the crowd.
‘You’re Kurt Hummel,’ TC&B says once they’ve reached the counter.
Kurt turns to lean back against the bar and arches an eyebrow. ‘True. But I already knew that. It’d be much more helpful if you told me who you are.’
TC&B smiles, which is also cute, and introduces himself as Adam Crawford, eighteen months out of NYADA and the newest of Dolloway’s Darlings.
He’s pleasant company. He tells Kurt about the Glee group he’d started at NYADA, and Kurt laments that they weren’t at NYADA at the same time. He leans in closer and starts to tell Kurt about a new project he’s about to be involved in, a stage adaptation of The Illustrated Man. He’s charmingly animated, reaching out to touch Kurt’s arm or hand when he wants to emphasise a point. Kurt feels relaxed enough after two glasses of champagne to let him. A lot of the theater crowd are touchy feely, he’s had to become accustomed to it in others even though it’s not a trait he espouses himself.
Adam reaches the punchline of an anecdote, and watches Kurt laugh, sipping at the bottle of fancy craft beer he’s managed to procure. There’s heat in his gaze as well as in the hand that rests casually over Kurt’s wrist, and finally red flags start to appear in Kurt’s mind. He glances up to see June watching them. An expression slides briefly over her face. It’s just the narrowing of her eyes, the upturn of the corner of her mouth, but it’s smug and almost predatory, and it makes Kurt burn hot with discomfort.
She looks from him to Adam and back again, and that’s when he realises he’s been set up. She’d smelled the merest hint of Blaine’s blood in the water and had thrown her newest shiny gay toy his way. He looks down at himself, in his midnight blue suit, at the tables covered in three linen cloths each and the loud, gossiping crowd, and he feels like a fool.
Back in Ohio he’d told Blaine he didn’t care what June thought about them being together, and now… Now he realises how much he’d meant it. Because he loves his job, and he’s willing to make sacrifices for it when he needs to, but this gala… He already knows most of the people here, and there are always more parties and more galas… Sure, June wouldn’t have been happy with him not coming, but he has connections and respect and a reputation that are all his own. She opened doors for him, back when he was a new ingenue, but the fact they’ve been kept open for him after all this time; that’s down to his own hard work and talent. He doesn’t need June.
He needs Blaine. And Blaine needs him.
‘You okay, love?’ Adam tightens his long fingers around Kurt’s wrist.
Kurt draws his hand back to himself sharply. ‘Uh… No. Not really. I… actually have no idea what I’m doing here.’
‘Hob-nobbing?’ Adam grins around the neck of his bottle.
Kurt blinks. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Networking with the hoi polloi? The brightest and best talent the city has to offer.’ Adam winks. ‘And us. Hard to believe it’s real.’
That’s because it’s not.
Kurt nods jerkily, looking around the room. ‘Yeah… I’m sorry but I actually have somewhere else I need to be.’ He pushes himself upright and brushes down his tux jacket. ‘Good luck with everything, Adam Crawford. See you around.’
He slips from the room, casually saluting in June’s direction when he catches her eyes on him, ignoring the disgruntled look on her face. As soon as he’s outside, freezing rain sleeting through the night air stinging at his cheeks, he starts to run in the direction of the nearest subway station. Dress shoes aren’t exactly made for running though, and after a couple of precarious near-falls on the rain-slick sidewalk he decides, to hell with it, and hails the nearest cab, the driver eagerly accepting his offer of a double fare to go to Brooklyn.
The cab driver has the heat all the way up and the air is humid and musty from other people’s rain soaked clothes. Kurt feels his hair wilt in the damp heat, his suit probably ruined from the rain, but none of that matters. Blaine is the only thing that matters. His anxiety rises at every red light, so he closes his eyes and tries to will the road to pass underneath them more quickly. It still feels like it’s only inch by torturous inch, and he’s pretty sure it’s hours before they pull up outside the brick-fronted bar, but as soon as he jumps out, he doesn’t care. He can hear Blaine’s voice spilling out through the door onto the street; he made it.
The crowd is thick so he’s forced to stand near the back, against the wall, craning his neck to see Blaine and the rest of the band onstage, and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the bittersweet, nostalgic memory of leaning against the wall at Sugar’s party, staring at Blaine onstage. They’ve come so far. He’s not letting his pride get in between them again.
He screams himself hoarse when the band finishes their set. He can tell the exact moment Blaine catches sight of him in the crowd by the way Blaine smiles, like he's lit up from within and just has to let it out somehow and his ridiculous, radiant grin is the result. Kurt can't help but smile back. He knows he made the right call in coming here.
He elbows his way to the stage, years of experience of shopping on Black Friday allowing him to cut an efficiently ruthless swathe through the milling people. Blaine jumps down from the stage, black shirt sticking to his chest from his exertions, and starts to make his own way through the crowd to meet Kurt, although he's waylaid by several well-wishers as he goes so his progress is considerably slower.
‘You’re here!' As soon as Blaine is within touching distance, he reaches up and cups Kurt's jaw, drawing him down to kiss him. Kurt lets himself sink into the way Blaine feels and tastes and smells for a second, because he's home, and he'll take that - breathe it in, soak it in through his skin - any time Blaine is willing to give it to him.
‘Thank god,’ a tall guy that Kurt thinks is called Matthew shouts from the stage, where the rest of the band are getting their gear together, ‘he’s been fucking miserable without you here.’
‘I have not been miserable!’ Blaine pouts in response to Kurt's smirk.
One of the other guys snorts, the room now clear enough for the sound to carry clearly over to them. ‘He moped.’
Blaine sniffs and winds his arms around Kurt more tightly. ‘I might’ve moped. A little bit. Still killed it, though!’ He raises his voice for his last few words, and Kurt buries his face into his hair with a smile.
A chorus of whoops and cheers rises up from the rest of the band, so Kurt has to lean right in and press his next words into the shell of Blaine’s ear. ‘Can we talk?’
Blaine nods. Kurt can feel the brush of his eyelashes against his cheekbone. ‘Yeah, of course.’ He makes a gesture to Matthew who waves amiably in response, and then grabs Kurt by the hand and tugs him around behind the stage to a corridor that must lead down to the store room. It's lined with empty kegs and trays of bottles, and only half of the overhead lights are working so it's mostly dark, but it's quiet at least.
'Kurt...' Blaine worries at his lower lip, suddenly smaller somehow as he hunches in on himself. 'I'm so happy you're here, you don't even know... But, uh, are you okay?'
'Yeah. C'mere.' Kurt sits tentatively down on an upturned beer crate, and pulls Blaine down to sit next to him. 'I owe you an apology, for the way I've behaved. I should have been more supportive about this, even if I couldn't make it. I'm sorry I was an ass about it.'
Blaine looks at him astutely. ‘Thank you. But… that's not what's really going on, is it?'
Kurt shakes his head slowly. 'No, not really.’
Blaine leans into him, a comforting line of warmth down his side. 'Please tell me. I feel like you’re pulling away from me and I’m going crazy trying to figure out why. Is this,’ he gestures between them helplessly, ‘not what you want any more?’
’Of course it is, of course it's what I want,’ Kurt clutches at Blaine’s hand like a lifeline. ‘That’s not it.’
’Then you need to trust me.' Blaine's face is open, like always, and full of concern, and Kurt doesn't want to hide from him any more.
‘Okay.' Kurt takes a deep breath. 'Okay.' He takes a second to get his thoughts in order, staring at their linked hands. 'When I was a kid... my mom would sit on the stoop every morning and wave me onto the bus. And when I got home, she’d be sitting there, on the stoop, waiting for me. And I thought, for the longest time, like, literally, years, that she sat there all day waiting for me. So... it didn’t matter if the kids at school were mean that day and it didn’t matter if I’d fallen down and scraped my knees and it didn’t matter if I didn’t like what they were serving for lunch, none of that stuff mattered, because I knew she was sat on that stoop waiting for me like I was the most important thing in the whole world to her. Coming home meant coming home to her.’
Blaine’s eyes are huge and liquid in the dark. He grips Kurt’s hand a little tighter.
‘The first day I ever came home and she wasn’t sitting there on the stoop… was because she’d gone into the hospital. She was diagnosed not long after that. But she’d still sit on the stoop, whenever she could. Until she couldn’t any more. And then my dad, he became my home. And then he was gone, and I didn't have that any more. Until you.' He bites his lip and chances a glance at Blaine. 'You feel like home to me. Hence... the key.'
'This key?' Blaine dips his free hand into the neckline of his shirt and draws out the key on its waxed cord.
'You... wear it?'
Blaine nods. 'Sort of always.'
Kurt blinks at him, incredulous. 'I've never seen you. And let's face it, I would have noticed because, you know, accessories...'
'I take it off when I see you. I thought you might think it was stupid.' Blaine shrugs sheepishly.
'I...' Kurt frowns, trying to process. 'I don't understand. You never use it unless you ask me first, you don't act like it's yours. Like it's your home, too.'
Blaine's face softens. 'Kurt... You think I don't see the way people look at me when we go to your theater parties together? All of those hundreds of Chandlers? You think I don't hear them talking? They think I'm a gold-digger, that I'm with you for what you have. Not who you are. And I never want to give you a reason to think that, not even for a second. I'm trying not to act... entitled.'
'But...you are entitled. Because I love you and I know that you love me, so fuck June and Chandler and everyone else, I want you to use the goddamn key every goddamn day and come home to me, so I can come home to you.' Kurt's voice rises higher and louder to match the ferocity he feels inside.
Blaine turns into him and slides a hand up around Kurt’s jaw, stroking his thumb over Kurt’s cheekbone, which makes Kurt's heart swoop in his chest, and then he leans up to kiss him. 'Ask me, then.'
Kurt holds Blaine's hands to his face and pulls back enough to murmur, ‘Move in with me… please…’, before he kisses him again.
Blaine grins into the kiss. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’
Kurt feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in weeks, and he sags into Blaine like a puppet whose strings have been cut, letting Blaine catch him.
As they lie in Kurt's bed - their bed later that night, and Kurt traces patterns into Blaine's skin with his fingertips, Blaine turns to him and whispers, 'Hey, Kurt... How would you feel about getting a cat?'