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Kurt’s fingers trace absentmindedly up Blaine’s thigh as they eat a quiet, lazy breakfast, a calming motion that makes Blaine hum contentedly into his orange juice.
The latest edition of vogue is spread across the table near Kurt’s plate; he’s so engrossed in it that even if Blaine felt like he needed to make conversation, it would be in vain. His food has long since been ignored in favor of scanning over the pages with a thoroughly unimpressed eyebrow quirk and pink lips gaped in disbelief.
So, some really outrageous fashion trends, then.
Blaine’s stomach gives a tiny grumble in protest. He’s still hungry, but he’s already finished off his plate and the ten feet trek to the kitchen suddenly seems like an unbearable amount of work. Kurt’s fingers stroking him along with the morning sun filtering fresh and hazy through the blinds has reduced his strength to minimal amounts, body lethargic and putty like.
His gaze lands on Kurt’s plate.
Aha.
He spares a glance up to where Kurt’s eyes are running furiously over the printed ink, tremendously clear in the morning light. Blaine smiles at the way Kurt’s lips mouth quietly to himself.
Slowly, he stretches his hand forward, moving quiet and stealthy for Kurt’s bacon, almost--
“Stop it.”
Kurt smacks his hand away without so much as a pause in his reading.
Blaine sighs heavily at his defeat, the sound over dramatic enough to get the corner of Kurt’s lips to twist into a grin.
He retracts his hand and tries to determine the best tactic to go about this. He could try quicker, but Kurt has remarkable reflexes and would probably just hit him harder, so he decides to wait until Kurt seems distracted enough again.
He sips his juice, watches Kurt flip a couple pages with the hand that isn’t roaming Blaine’s thigh, then tries again.
“Blaine Devon, I can see your hand in my peripheral vision.”
It’s enough to make Blaine abort his attempt. He sticks his tongue out playfully, and Kurt mimics him, rolling his eyes.
“I can see your face, too.”
Blaine chuckles at that, settling back in his chair. He’s satisfied with sitting quietly for a minute and enjoying the serene atmosphere. His goal has shifted more to provoking Kurt than actually getting the bacon to eat anyway.
He runs his socked foot along Kurt’s ankle, feeling out the delicate bone with his toes and watching the way Kurt’s face relaxes with the casual touch. He loves Kurt uninhibited and natural in the mornings, chestnut hair mussed in a million different directions and eyelids still just a tad heavy with residual sleep.
Eventually his hands wander to the one Kurt has on his leg, sandwiching it between his palms and twining their three sets of fingers together. He twirls the cool metal of Kurt’s wedding ring with his fingertips, back and forth, back and forth, before leaning to settle his temple on Kurt’s shoulder.
“Love you,” he murmurs, and Kurt tweaks his neck to kiss his forehead softly.
Which is precisely when Blaine snatches his bacon.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Kurt grumbles, standing from the table to leave, but not without smacking Blaine atop his curls with the rolled up magazine.
Blaine gives him a better luck next time shrug, and Kurt flips him the bird.
“Get a husband, they said!” he yells sarcastically over his shoulder, sauntering off in the direction of their bedroom, probably so he can read his magazine in peace. Blaine laughs around a mouthful of victorious bacon. “He won’t love you with conditions, they said! He won’t show you affection just to steal your food!”
And later that night, when they’re making cookies, Kurt intercepts the spoonful of cookie dough that’s headed straight for Blaine’s mouth in retaliation and Blaine isn’t even remotely surprised-- is expecting it actually-- and he mashes the lump of cookie dough all over Kurt’s mouth and chin.
“Blaine!” Kurt shrieks, trying to wriggle away from him, but Blaine has an arm locked around his waist.
“We never did get to do this with our wedding cake, so…” He laughs, smoothing the cookie dough all along Kurt’s cheek.
“This is doing nothing for my complexion.”
“I think you look beautiful.”
Kurt struggles in his grasp for a few seconds longer before conceding to his fate. He scoops up a dollop on his own finger and rubs it into Blaine’s eyebrows, giggling at Blaine’s affronted look.
“Okay, that is not playing fair.”
Kurt smirks at him. “You started this.”
“Because you stole my cookie dough!”
“And you stole my bacon! Consider this me making things even.”
He picks up another handful of cookie dough and plops it right into Blaine’s hair, grinning mischievously and squealing when Blaine tickles the spot right under his ribs he knows is Kurt’s proverbial Achilles heel.
By the end of the night, Blaine has cookie dough in places cookie dough should never be, and hardly any baked cookies to show for how long they spend in the kitchen.
But he has a husband he loves, grinning and laughing in that carefree way Blaine so hopelessly adores as he chases him around the kitchen, cheeks flushed pink warm, dimple pronounced, and blue eyes sparkling.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.