Work Text:
Kurt’s lost count of what episode of Project Runway they’re on, but he’s halfway to shoving another handful of chips into his mouth when Blaine speaks, his head a riot of curls pillowed in Kurt’s lap.
The breath of air he releases over Kurt’s thigh is warm.
“Do you think you could-- maybe, would you paint my nails?”
Kurt consumes the mouthful of chips slowly and chews thoughtfully-- half of him is already cataloging every shade of nail polish that would complement Blaine’s lovely olive skin-- but the other half of him, the overly concerned husband part of him, is keyed in on the trepidation in Blaine’s voice. He sounds somewhat embarrassed, and maybe a little worried that Kurt will laugh at him.
Blaine’s never asked Kurt to paint his nails before, but Kurt’s no stranger to Blaine’s affinity for things slightly more feminine-- eyeliner, certain sweaters that Kurt knows he bought from the women’s section though he’s never said, the ones that slim down his already trim waist, so compact and tucked and small before the spill of his ass.
The pair of boy shorts Blaine surprised Kurt with once, just a single pair, lined with a dainty border of lace, creamy and frilled outlined around Blaine’s strong thighs.
Kurt doesn’t believe in labels or stereotypes, or anything of that matter, and though painting his nails has no appeal to him personally, he understands why it might to Blaine, why it does to a lot of gay men.
Besides, Kurt would never turn down the chance to have a makeover.
He brushes a hand through Blaine’s tangled curls and watches the way his shoulders relax. “Of course, sweetheart.”
He isn’t sure if they should talk about it-- there’s not really anything to talk about-- but sometimes Blaine needs that open channel of thought, even to just express something he desires that Kurt might not necessarily know about.
But Kurt knows Blaine will talk if he wants to. And Kurt will be present with every part of himself to listen.
It doesn’t seem to be a concern though, not to Blaine, who perks up like an excited puppy and rolls off of Kurt’s lap, standing up from the couch and bounding off to their bathroom. He throws a wink over his shoulder and Kurt can’t help but laugh affectionately as he watches him.
His Blaine is just so beautiful.
They don’t have a lot of nail polish, just a small collection from previous Halloween costumes and a few leftover bottles that Santana and Rachel left behind after they all left the loft in Bushwick. Kurt didn’t have the heart to throw them away; he finds there’s something quite sentimental about the shades of a friendship that rooted him during the growing pains of NYADA.
Blaine comes back with his arms full; paper towels, cotton swabs, polish remover, multiple bottles of nail polish, and the lap desk they use when doing homework on the couch. Kurt’s heart blooms warmly as he watches Blaine carefully set it all down, tongue flicked to the side of his lips in concentration.
He has enough supplies that it isn’t necessary to relocate to the kitchen-- which is good. Kurt would kill Blaine if they spilled any of this on the couch cushions.
Kurt adjusts himself so he’s sitting indian style across from Blaine, the lap desk between them.
“Which color?”
“Um,” Blaine’s eyes dash brightly across the row of nail polish, the way a small child might look upon a large selection of candy. His eyes flicker up to Kurt, gazing beneath his fanning lashes. “You pick? You have a better eye for this kind of thing than me.”
Kurt hums for a moment and considers his options, before selecting a metallic turquoise and shaking the bottle up and down to meld the separated liquids back into one.
“Ooh,” Blaine marvels teasingly at his choice, and Kurt wiggles his eyebrows at him.
“Ready?”
Blaine nods.
Kurt takes his outstretched hand, kisses his wedding ring chastely, then sets Blaine’s open palm flat on the lap desk. He twists open the cap and lets the chemical aroma fill the air.
He paints in silence, concentrating carefully and swiping his brush in precision. He may not be a professional, but he’ll be damned if he gets a drop on Blaine’s skin.
He knows Blaine is watching him and not his hand, can feel Blaine’s eyes wide and lovely on him even though he’s not looking. Blaine always watches him in this certain way, when he does anything meticulous with his hands-- cooking, baking, sewing, sketching. Almost as if Kurt is wielding magic, as if there is some wondrous process happening that he can’t quite comprehend.
It always makes Kurt’s cheeks flush warm.
“God, you have such beautiful hands,” Kurt murmurs between careful strokes of his brush. It’s not something he didn’t already know--he loves watching Blaine play the piano and strum his guitar. His hands are so capable, strong and sturdy and firm in a way Kurt’s aren’t, so talented and perfectly weighted, the loveliest tan shade and a perfect buildup of webbed veins and long fingers.
Blaine chuckles, a little bashfully, and leans over the lap desk to brush his lips against Kurt’s temple. “They’re not as soft as yours.”
It’s true, but Kurt adores the calluses and slightly rougher patches on Blaine’s hands, the way they feel stroking across his skin and twined in his own hand.
He loves Blaine’s hands. He loves Blaine’s everything.
He swats Blaine's knee when he tries to keep kissing Kurt’s face, down his cheek and back to his ear. “Stop moving, energizer bunny. Unless you want me to paint your whole finger.”
Blaine presses a parting kiss to the corner of Kurt’s mouth and settles back into his spot with a devilish grin.
When they’re done, Blaine holds his fingers up to the light. The turquoise beams, shiny and cerulean and breathtakingly gorgeous on each of Blaine’s fingers.
After he secures the cap and makes sure nothing will spill, Kurt sets the lap desk aside and crawls toward his husband, hooking his chin over Blaine’s shoulder and inspecting his final product.
“Like it?”
“I love it,” Blaine grins happily, twisting his neck sideways to capture Kurt’s lips against his own, soft and slow.
Kurt blows on his fingers gently after their kiss breaks, then nuzzles his nose into Blaine’s sweet smelling curls. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” Blaine smiles, still gazing at his nails.
And when half of Blaine’s nails are somehow chipped by the next evening, though Kurt has no idea how, he bites back his laughter at Blaine’s heart broken eyes and pats the cushion next to him, taking Blaine’s hands into his own and fixing them up till they’re good as new.