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It’s nearing 2:14 a.m. when Kurt, tipsy and flushed from dancing, stumbles out of the party. “Mmmmm…” he moans, tipping his face toward the sky, the nippy, damp air refreshing against his skin. The music still thumps behind him, heavy and low, and the sidewalk sways just a little under his feet. He feels a bit dizzy, so he rights himself and thumbs at his Uber app, blinking hard at the screen’s too-bright glow and tapping with the kind of determined precision only inebriated people think they have.
He waits… trying to count to fifty in his head to keep focused, when headlights swing across his boots. That was fast! he thinks as he heads for it, but someone darts in front of him before he can even make it halfway there and opens the door, slipping inside.
“Excuse me!” Kurt says indignantly before the jerk can close the door. “That’s my Uber!”
Blaine’s already climbing into the backseat, but he turns before getting all the way in, and his brows furrow in confusion, and then he smiles. “Kurt?”
Kurt’s eyes widen. Oh, god almighty. That’s… That’s… Blaine Anderson. Like, Blaine Anderson, the guy he’s been crushing on all semester. His curly black hair tousled so fucking perfectly that Kurt’s fingertips tingle with desire to tangle up in it, and is he wearing… holy fuck. He’s wearing eyeliner and…it’s smudged just enough to be so so so so damn sexy, like he was having too good a time to worry about it smearing. “Uh. That’s—actually my ride,” he says this time, much more unsure. It did get here incredibly fast for it to be his.
Blaine snickers. “Your ride? Me?” he waggles his brows, “Or this seductive sedan?”
Wait. What? Kurt reprimands himself. He despises it when he drinks too much to let someone be wittier than him. Did Blaine just… insinuate that…
“I’m versatile,” Blaine says with a wink. “But pretty sure this one’s mine…” he continues, smirking as Kurt looks at him like an adorable lost soul. He holds up his phone with the Uber app open, the sedan in question on his screen. “See?”
They stare. And then both burst out laughing. Nothing is particularly funny except that they’re just standing there gaping at each other.
“Guess fate’s the designated driver tonight,” Blaine declares, scooting over with a dramatic pat to the seat beside him. “C’mon, tall boy. Let’s see what the universe has planned.”
Kurt doesn’t think twice and climbs in. The car smells way too strongly of pine, one of the scented tree fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t have time to think about it because Blaine’s thigh is already pressed up against his. The air between them fizzes and pops—they’re both alcohol warm and giddy—with the thrill of a story that’s maybe just beginning.
“So, what were you doing at that party?” Blaine asks, tucking one leg under himself and turning toward Kurt like they’re chatting on someone’s couch.
Kurt grins, eyes flicking to the way Blaine’s stunning eyes glow in the passing streetlights. “Honestly? Came as a favor to a friend who giggled as she left early with the girl she’s been pining after. Stayed for the bad punch. And the dancing—it relieves stress. What about you?”
“Came for the drama. Stayed just long enough to run into you,” Blaine replies, not even pretending not to stare at Kurt, his eyes keep flickering to his lips.
“God. Is it getting hot in here?” Kurt’s voice cracks as he pulls at his collar.
“Maybe it’s that sweater. Meeeow! It’s totally working for you, by the way.”
Kurt chuckles, one hand dragging through his disheveled-from-dancing brown hair. “Yeah? I was thinking of taking it off.” He pulls at it again, jaguar print—he felt sexy in it, and it’s thin, he wore it knowing it wouldn’t be too warm but perfect in case he started sweating through his shirt at the party, and damn! Wasn’t that brilliant foresight? Because tipsy or not, Blaine is making him feel hot everywhere.
“Oh no,” Blaine says, mock gasp. “We barely know each other. Shouldn’t we at least get some food together before we start shedding our clothes?”
“I—” Kurt’s eyes widen, and he laughs. Here, he thought Blaine was a dapper, polite boy, and it turns out he’s the biggest flirt he’s ever met. It’s the best discovery ever. He puckers his lips, pretending to be in thought. “I suppose we should. Seems like the only logical course of action.”
“My thoughts exactly! I knew I liked you!”
That’s how they end up at the only twenty-four-hour diner within five miles, sitting on cracked red vinyl seats, two giant waters with fresh lemon wedges swimming amongst the ice, a basket of fries between them, dipping into the same pool of ketchup like it’s some kind of trust exercise.
Kurt talks with his hands—sharp, graceful movements, like he’s casting spells with every gesture. Blaine leans with his hand resting in his palm, elbow on the table, nodding like he’s under one.
Their knees keep bumping underneath the table, their ankles brush every so often.
Kurt takes a fry, dips it slowly, and offers it across the table. “Truce for the Uber theft?”
Blaine’s lips curl. He leans forward, eyes never leaving Kurt’s, and takes the fry straight from his fingers. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I might owe you for the best mix-up of the semester.”
Their banter keeps pace with the fries. They trade stories about worst dates, weirdest professors, and guilty-pleasure playlists. Kurt admits he secretly loves boy band ballads. Blaine admits he cries during animal adoption commercials. They laugh. A lot.
Blaine’s fingers are playing with his straw wrapper. “So, tell me, Kurt Hummel, with the gorgeous eyes—what’s your major? Besides stealing hearts?”
Kurt laughs into his water. “Whatever!” But he blushes spectacularly, the color matching the ketchup. “Creative Writing with a minor in theater.”
Blaine leans closer, golden eyes gleaming with hints of neon pink and turquoise from the signs around the diner. “You definitely steal hearts. Trust me.”
Kurt rolls his eyes but his heart is doing an Olympic worthy high bars routine, an outlandish, perched backflip with a full twist that sticks the landing right in his throat, clinging to breath and pretending, that he in fact is not about ready to launch himself out of the booth, straddle Blaine’s lap and make out with his unbelievably pretty face. “What about you? Besides being too handsome for your own good?”
“You think I’m handsome?” Blaine beams, his head tilting, eyes sparkling. “Music with a minor in songwriting. I take theater classes for fun.”
“College classes for fun? Who can afford that?! What are you, some sort of trust fund baby?”
“As a matter of fact. Yes. Yes, I am.”
Kurt blows a breath and a gust of laughter through his nose and lips. “Of course you are.”
“It’s not my fault! You can’t hate me for that, can you?”
“Hmmm… I suppose not,” Kurt teases. “Maybe I can hold you ransom, instead.”
“Mmmm. You can hold me any way you want to.”
“Are you always this subtle? Or just when you're drunk…” Kurt says, trying not to grin.
“Uhmm… I think I’m a proper gentleman sober. I can’t really remember. Need more fries.”
“We so do,” Kurt agrees, and they flag down their waitress for another round of everything, and this time they decide to get milkshakes, too: chocolate for Kurt, and strawberry for Blaine.
—
What little is left of their milkshakes is mostly melted by now, but neither of them moves to leave. The conversation spins on, easy and oddly eclectic.
They swap horror stories about old roommates. They talk about the one class they’re dreading next semester and the professor they low-key have crushes on—they both say different names, then stare at each other across the table, amused and intrigued.
Blaine admits he screenshots weird things and keeps them in a folder called “Evidence of Life”—bad dating app bios, cursed memes, bizarre autocorrect fails from his mom.
Kurt admits he has a folder in his notes app called “Important Stuff” that’s just unhinged ranking lists—best pasta dishes, best colors for seduction, an outfit planner for impossible scenarios like going on a first date with a ghost, attending the funeral of his boss’s ego, meeting the king of the fairies, confronting his ex on a reality show, winning an academy award. And then there’s the list of people he would loathe or love to get stuck in an elevator with. “It’s a bizarre way to help me feel in control,” he says, snatching another fry. “Plus! I have strong feelings about fettuccine.”
“Wait. But. Which column am I in?” Blaine looks up at him from under his lashes.
Kurt’s nose scrunches. “What?”
“Would you love or loathe getting stuck in an elevator with me?”
“Oh!” Kurt grins. “Love isn’t a strong enough word, I think.”
Blaine preens with pride as if Kurt just handed him an award. “Shall we find one to get stuck in?”
Kurt shakes his head, giggling. “I’m sure we could find much better places to be locked up in.”
“Mmmm… I bet you're right.” Blaine suddenly turns serious. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Uhm. Sure? You okay?”
“Yeah. I just… Do you ever just like…want cuddles? Why isn’t flirting for cuddles a thing at parties? Like yeah, fucking is great and trust me, I’m offering. God, you're amazing, Kurt. But why can’t you just go home from a party and cuddle with someone?”
“I…” Kurt stops himself, really thinking about the question because it’s a valid one. Why aren’t there more cuddles in the world? “I think…Cuddling is too quiet. You have to sit in a space with someone. Make room for the silence and be comfortable with it. Maybe sex is easier because you're busy? And if it’s good? It’s pretty loud.”
“Damn. That’s deep…”
“That being said. Yeah. Why not have more like… movie cuddle pileups at parties, right?”
“I think I love you,” Blaine says and sighs happily, looking at Kurt sincerely and nothing short of wonderstruck.
“I’m sure you do. I’m fabulous,” Kurt replies, trying to concentrate on breathing because his body seems to have forgotten how to do it.
“Don’t you love me, too?” Blaine’s lips fall into a spectacular pout.
“Oh, I do!” Kurt assures him, his eyes alight and playful. “I do love you. Must be the eyeliner.”
“The eyeliner?” Blaine's face screws up in thought. “Oh! I forgot about that!” He reaches up and taps a finger to his eye like he’s trying to feel it. “That was a dare. My friend…” He shrugs.
“Well… I’m apparently into it. Like really into it.”
“Well, that settles that. If you can love me like this? Well… That’s it! We’re officially married now.”
Kurt tips his head back and laughs, filling the almost deserted restaurant. When he looks at Blaine again, he says, “You’d make a terrible husband, though. You steal all the fries!”
Blaine sighs and nods in agreement. “I do have my faults. It’s true. But don’t forget I’m rich.”
“Ohhhhhh. Right! How silly of me!” Kurt says, tapping his chest hard with his palm. “How could I forget that? Fine. We’re married. I’m sure we’ll live happily ever after.”
“Of course we will, if we decide we will. We’re awesome. We can do anything.”
“I bet you’re right,” Kurt says, suddenly realizing that he doesn’t doubt the truth behind those words, and he’s sure Blaine meant every one of them. He’s never felt more comfortable with someone and just happy.
“So, the question is…” Blaine taps his fingers together, tangling their feet under the table. “Shall we cuddle at my place or yours?”
“Oh, I see how it is! You married me just for the cuddles!”
“Would you rather I married you just to get into your pants?” Blaine asks, scandalized and giggling.
“Hmmm…” Kurt can’t hold back his own grin. “Both. Both is good.”
“Mmmm… You’re right. Both is so so so good. I have… I have an idea…” Without another word, he slides out of his side of the booth and into Kurt’s. The leather seat creaks beneath him as he tucks in right beside him, warm and close. Their legs press together now, hip to knee. Kurt turns, heart lurching wildly behind his ribs.
Blaine leans in—slowly, like he’s asking, and Kurt nips at his lip once and barely nods, his eyes answering, Yes! Yes!
Their lips meet gently, like brushing the edge of a quest. Kurt’s breath stutters. Blaine’s mouth is soft, slightly cool from the milkshake, tasting faintly of strawberry and salt. The kiss heightens with a breath, and then another, their lips sliding—careful at first, then lingering. It feels like falling into a song they’ve always known the words to, but never knew the melody until now. Blaine makes a quiet but sultry sound, something between a sigh and a moan, and Kurt feels it against his lips like hot, melted candle wax.
Blaine’s hand lifts to Kurt’s jaw, thumb brushing the barely there stubble at his chin. His fingers are warm, sure, cradling Kurt’s face. Kurt’s own hand slides instinctively to Blaine’s thigh, resting lightly, sending a shiver of tingling through them both.
When Blaine tilts his head, the angle changes—ardent, deeper, and Kurt’s lips part without thought. The press of their mouths is magnetic now, relaxed but deliberate, like neither of them is in a hurry to pull away—can’t pull away. There’s a whisper of tongue, not urgent, just curious. The air between them is pulsing with anticipation and contentment, lips dragging slightly as they kiss again, and again—like they’re learning each other in increments.
Kurt exhales a shaky little laugh into Blaine’s mouth, and Blaine grins against him. Their foreheads rest together now, noses brushing, breath ghosting each other’s faces.
“I’m glad we got around to that part,” Blaine whispers. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for months.”
“Me, too, husband…” Kurt teases, pecking Blaine’s lips.
“Mmmmm… Someday we can tell our kids we didn’t even kiss until after we got married.”
Kurt chuckles, his fingers gripping tighter into Blaine’s thigh. “Someday.”
The diner whirrs softly around them: silverware clinking in the distance as it’s loaded into a washer, coffee makers dripping, and a song from the fifties plays overhead. But right here, in their little booth, it’s just them, and something impossibly new and perfect.