Genre: Romance/Friendship/Smidge(ish) of humor
Spoilers: Episodes up to 2X16. Pretty much AU after that.
Warnings: boy/boy love of the fluffy variety; blatant disregard for spoilers and speculation of future episodes; failed attempts at believable dialogue; and, worst of all, an OC!
Summary: Kurt's happily ever after is underway. His family supports him, the Warblers appreciate him, and the boy of his dreams finally kissed him. No need to worry now, right?

AN: This is my first foray into writing in over four years. I've recently found myself unhealthily obsessed with all things Glee, and have come to the conclusion that the only way to get that wondrous show off my brain is to write about it. I am rusty and nervous, mostly because my skills are mediocre and I'm well aware of this fact. However, I have found myself in a quasi-creative mood, and have managed to pull together an outline for a story I think (read: DESPERATELY HOPE) people will enjoy.

This first chapter is … uh … lengthy? The rest will more than likely be less than half the word count of this bad boy. I got a little carried away, strayed from my outline, and thus my version of War and Peace was born. I apologize for any eye strain I may have caused - doubly apologize if you think my story's crap.

Oh, and also: any and all mentions of designer labels was Googled first by yours truly. I have the fashion sense of a demented squirrel. So, if you find yourself scratching your head at an obscure Gucci reference or I mix up Dolce with Dulce, it's not because I'm trying to be artistically ironic. It's because I have no idea what I'm talking about.

And now, without further ado …

Falling Backwards
Chapter One: Discussion With Fiburt

"All right, gentlemen, listen up."

Burt Hummel and Finn Hudson glanced up, startled, each sporting a vaguely guilty expression. They had been in the middle of sampling the menu for their usual Friday family dinner (Carole had carelessly left her famous chicken noodle casserole unattended while she ran upstairs for something) when Kurt charged into the kitchen from the hallway, his hair impeccable and his expression determined as he came to a stop in front of his father and step-brother.

"Hey, man," Finn greeted him cheerfully, visibly relaxing once he saw it was not his mother who had caught them red-handed. Leftover gravy was congealing on the tip of his chin as he shoveled another heaping forkful of chicken and carrot into his mouth. "Cool outfit."

Kurt took a moment to grimace at the sickening display that was Finn Hudson chewing, then waved the taller boy's compliment away impatiently. "No time for flattery tonight, Finn." Besides, Kurt didn't need to be told he looked fabulous in his clingy ribbed sweater and painted on jeans. He planted his palms flat on the island counter separating him from the other two men and leaned forward; the tassels of his ivory-colored Gucci scarf brushed against the wooden surface as he glared narrowly into first his father's, then step-brother's eyes, not unlike an intimidating detective would with guilty persons under arrest.

"The hour of reckoning is almost upon us," Kurt began without preamble, and he was satisfied to see both Burt and Finn glance at each other perplexingly. "We are officially at defcon two. We are blinking red, people. We need to batten down the hatches, throw our backs against the wind, and prepare for evasive maneuvers -"

"Uh, Kurt?" Burt's tone was two-parts confused, one-part exasperated as he cut across his son's histrionics. "Don't mean to interrupt, kid, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Kurt arched an eyebrow at his father. Surely Burt wasn't being serious? Hadn't he been listening to Kurt at all the past few days? Kurt had been coaching his father and step-brother for this momentous occasion, every night, for an entire week. He had spent hours drawing up diagrams and printing out cue cards for the two men to use as their own personal study tools. Hell, he had even used hand puppets, fearing Finn would not be able to truly grasp the potential direness of the situation without the added help of a visual aid.

And now he had come to find that all his time, preparation, and last bottle of FabuDazzle glitter had gone to waste? Typical.

"Need I remind you," Kurt said slowly, taking care to inflect into his tone just how unamused he was with Burt's interruption, on the off-chance his dad actually was only joking, "that tonight happens to mark a major rite of passage toward my long and perilous journey in becoming a man?"

Silence met Kurt's declaration from the other side of the counter. Burt was staring at his son with such a lackadaisical expression Kurt wondered whether his father had yet processed what he said. Not to say the man was slow; on the contrary, Burt Hummel was an intelligent man. He was merely a careful thinker, the sort of fellow who would ponder the punch line of a joke for fifteen minutes before deciding it wasn't funny.

Finn, on the other hand, truly was as simple as he looked, and he was currently wearing his patented expression of looking fetchingly confused. "Wait, so does that mean you're going to, like, go out and kill a deer or something?" he asked unsurely, his eyes widening almost comically as he spoke; more than likely because the idea of Kurt Faint-at-the-Sight-of-Snot Hummel hunting was about as ridiculously far-fetched as Brittany Pierce becoming McKinley High's valedictorian next year.

Kurt laughed, shaking his head in haughty amusement. "Finn, Finn, Finn." He really did pity his brother's complete obliviousness sometimes. "Does this outfit make it look like I'm about to go traipsing through the forest on a woodland creature murdering rampage?" He plucked at the expensive material of his V-necked sweater, the color of which happened to be a soft, light gray.

"Dude … you wore Hugo Boss while working on my car last week."

Kurt stood away from the island, hands flying onto his hips in indignation as he huffed, "That outfit was from last season's collection, Finn, and - that's not even the point!" He stopped, inhaled a slow breath, and fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

He had known going into it that having this conversation with Finn and his dad would not be a simple task. Trying to speak to either of them one-on-one was hard enough. Burt was a man of little words, and while he always listened to whatever his son had to say, he spent most of their conversations looking mildly bewildered; and Finn - dear, sweet, simple Finn - had the attention span of an exceptionally dim-witted golden retriever, and often became distracted by loud noises or shiny objects. Like car horns, and Carole's dangly earrings. Couple all that with the fact it was less than fifteen minutes away from dinner and there was the temptation of Carole's delicious cooking sitting right there in front of them, Kurt considered it a miracle he had managed to get the other two men to even look at him in the first place.

But it was important - so, so important - that Kurt say what he needed to his dad and step-brother before it was too late, so he drew in a few more calming breaths, reigned in what little self-control he still possessed, and forced a pained smile onto his face.

"Let's try this again, all right?" he said, trying to make his voice sound as pleasant as possible. Keeping Burt and Finn in good moods - thus, less likely to purposely annoy and embarrass him - led a crucial role in Kurt's plans for tonight. He needed to stay cool, calm and collected, and he needed to lay the charm down thickly.

He also needed to speak in as few words as possible, because Burt's eyes kept shifting distractedly between Kurt and the uncovered casserole dish sitting enticingly in front of him, and Finn's features were beginning to slacken as the taller boy fell into his usual pre-dinner lethargy.

It was time for the serious voice.

"In just a short while, a very important dinner guest will be stepping through our front door." Kurt had his hands clasped tightly together in front of him, his tone succinct as he spoke. "As you will probably have realized by now, this is the first time I've ever invited someone over for a Hummel-Hudson Friday Family Dinner -"

"What're you talking about?" Kurt shot his father a reprimanding look for interrupting him a second time, but Burt didn't seem to notice as he continued, "You've had Mercedes over for our Friday night dinners plenty of times."

"Oh, Mercedes doesn't count," Kurt said flippantly. He opened his mouth to continue, but snapped it shut in aggravation when, yet again, he was rudely interrupted, this time by Finn.

"But why doesn't she count?"

Not for the first time, Kurt cursed the fairness of his complexion as he felt his face begin to heat up. This was definitely not a direction he wanted this important conversation to take. Time was of the essence, and going off on a tangent would only annoy Burt, and hopelessly confuse Finn. "She just doesn't, all right?" he said tersely. "Now, getting back to what I was saying -"

"Is it because we always have to eat tots when she comes over?"

Kurt ground his teeth together impatiently as he turned to his step-brother. "No, Finn, it's not because we always have to eat tots when she comes over -"

"It's because she brings her own fork, isn't it?" Burt guessed, indicating his own, which was currently four-prongs-deep in Carole's casserole. "Don't get me wrong, I get a major kick out of Mercedes, but that was pretty weird."

"It has nothing to do with Mercedes' utensils, Dad," Kurt sighed. He paused, then smirked to himself. "Well, at least not her eating utensils." He snickered appreciatively at his own joke, but when Burt and Finn just stared at him, clearly stumped, Kurt's laughter petered out awkwardly.

"It's because she's a girl," he clarified; he cleared his throat uncomfortably and resisted the urge to squirm under Burt and Finn's scrutiny. It seemed as though the two men had finally managed to put two and two together and come up with it's-a-gay-thing. Clear understanding was beginning to blossom on his father and step-brother's countenances, and Kurt soon found himself regretting having brought the topic up at all.

"So that's why you've been wigging out on us, huh?" Burt Hummel, as usual, was on top form tonight. His father was the only person Kurt knew who could take a ridiculously out-dated word like "wigging" and make it sound completely legitimate in regular conversation. "Because it's a boy who's coming for dinner, and not one of your lady friends."

Kurt could feel his wondrously blemish-free cheeks start to burn, damn them, but he kept his voice as dignified as possible as he lifted his chin and said primly, "That's the gist of it, yes."

A lopsided grin was beginning to pull at a corner of Finn's mouth as he added, eyebrows waggling in a way that made Kurt want to throw something at him, "You want to impress Blaine, huh dude?"

Kurt would set fire to his Coach messenger bag before ever admitting it, but the mere mention of that name had his stomach performing giddy flip-flops. Yes, it was safe to say Kurt wanted to impress his warbling, dapper new leading man. Blaine Anderson was, after all, so gorgeous it should be illegal, what with his perfectly coiffed Gregory Peck-esque hairstyle, warm brown eyes, and strong masculine features. But stunning good looks aside, there was a lot more to Warbler Blaine that made him so irresistible to Kurt. Disregarding Blaine's truly unimaginative taste in music, there wasn't much about the boy that Kurt didn't often find himself drooling over. He was everything a well-bred gentleman should be: he was courteous, generous, intelligent, funny, and endearing with every fiber of his character. With his crinkly eyes and high-wattage smile, his contagious laughter, his habit of biting on the ends of pencils when he was concentrating, the way his face spasmed whenever he hit a high note while singing, and - sweet grilled Cheesus, stop it now, Kurt, before your head explodes and you coat the entire kitchen with lovesick goo!

Kurt came back to the present with a small shake, and felt himself flush scarlet at the concerned looks he saw his father and step-brother directing his way. He had zoned out into Blaine-Land again, a pesky, recurring habit that always seemed to happen at the most inopportune times for Kurt. During lectures at Dalton, in the middle of conversations with friends, at the end of Project Runway, and … dear Gaga, was it really so close to five o'clock already? His mouth dropped open in horror when he noticed the positions of the hands on the wall clock above Burt's and Finn's heads. If Blaine showed up on time (and he would, Blaine had been nothing less than perfectly punctual since Kurt had met him) then Kurt had less than five minutes until the highly anticipated Hudmel-Family-Plus-One Dinner Extravaganza began.

Just how long had he been stuck in his Blaine-induced stupor, anyway?

Burt and Finn were still huddled around the kitchen island, staring at Kurt. The casserole in front of them seemed to be mostly intact, and Kurt took that to mean he hadn't completely lost the other two's attention just yet.

"So, where was I?" Did his voice always sound that breathy and flustered whenever he thought about Blaine? How embarrassing. "To answer your question, Finn, yes I am trying to impress Blaine. It is, after all, the first time my family will be properly introduced to my - to him." Burt's countenance darkened suspiciously at Kurt's near-slip. Kurt studiously ignored him. "I don't think I have to tell you just how important it is that this evening goes well. Blaine's friendship -" Burt and Finn shared another, significant glance - "means a lot to me, and while so far your interactions with him have been less than …" Kurt struggled to find a suitable word, "… warm -"

"Dude, I told you I didn't mean to egg Blaine's car," Finn interjected adamantly, gesticulating in protestation with his fork. A pea flung off one of the prongs and sailed past Kurt's right ear. "It was an accident. I had no idea Blaine even went to that coffee shop. It's not my fault his car looks so much like Karofsky's -"

"Finn, I'm not even going to pretend to understand how you managed to mix up Karofsky's pick-up with Blaine's Volvo," Kurt said, pressing a hand briefly against his eyes. He could feel a headache beginning to form. "They're not even the same color."

Finn did not seem to have a response to that.

"Well, I've been nothing but friendly with what's-his-face," Burt proclaimed loudly. Kurt dropped his hand and looked at his father. "What? What? When have I ever been anything but respectful of your guys' friendship?" Kurt's brow lifted sardonically, and Burt scoffed at his son, crossing his arms in front of him and muttering to himself, "You threaten to throttle the kid you find in your son's bed once, and suddenly you're the bad guy …"

"Okay, that attitude right there is reason enough for me to be concerned, Dad," Kurt said loudly, drowning out his father's grumblings, "and, coincidentally, it's also the reason I took the liberty last night of drawing up certain … certain guidelines for you and Finn, to help ensure tonight's dinner is a calm, relaxing, cheerful experience for everyone involved."

Burt's suspicious expression was back, though it was now tinged with a wrinkle of apprehension. "Guidelines? Ain't that another word for 'rules'?"

Kurt waved his hand dismissively as he trilled, "Semantics." As he stooped to rummage around in Carole's baking supplies' cupboard - a prime spot for Kurt to hide sensitive documents, as it was one of the last places either Burt or Finn would ever snoop - he heard Finn whisper to his dad, "Cement-tics - that's a bad thing, right?"

Burt was shrugging his shoulders when Kurt straightened up once more, holding two identical-looking pieces of paper in his hands. He handed them over to the other two men with a flourish. Finn and Burt both glanced down at the papers. As one, their expressions morphed into looks of distaste as they each read the heading Ten Tips For Not Embarrassing Kurt, which wasemblazoned across the top in bold, magenta lettering.

Kurt was now bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. "So … what d'you think?" he asked his dad and step-brother, watching closely as they stared agape at their lists. "Originally I had the whole thing color-coded, but I didn't want to run the risk of overwhelming you, so I stuck to just beautifying the title. I think it works better this way. Makes the heading really pop, you know?"

It was Burt who reacted first. He didn't speak, only sighed in a sad, long-suffering sort of way. He pulled off his ever-present ball cap and started rubbing the back of his head, still staring down at his paper, looking in dire need of a stiff drink.

Poor Finn, who wasn't nearly so used to Kurt's theatrics as Burt was, was wide-eyed again. "There isn't going to be a quiz after, is there?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried as his eyes skittered across the page in front of him.

Kurt laughed. "Don't be silly, Finn -" Finn let out a relieved sigh - "there isn't enough time for the quiz, so we're just going to have to hope a quick read-through will be enough."

Kurt smiled winningly at the two appalled faces opposite him, cleared his throat importantly, and began.

"Rule number one: no baby pictures will be shown at any moment during the course of the evening. I - no, Dad, not even if Blaine asks to see them. Which he won't, because last I checked he didn't have a death wish.

"Rule number two: no embarrassing anecdotes from my childhood, teen-hood, or near-adulthood will be shared. Please keep in mind, gentlemen, that what may be funny to you is mortifying to me. Also, take care to remember how well I hold grudges, that I never forget, and that I've been itching to de-flannel both your closets for months.

"Rule number three - and I know Carole will back me up on this one -"

"What am I backing you up on?" Kurt craned his neck around and watched as his step-mother entered the kitchen, wearing a very lovely ensemble Kurt had picked out specially for tonight. Her hair was tastefully pulled up, her make-up was flatteringly applied and, luckily for Finn, her ears were dangly-earring-free.

At least he could count on Carole to not humiliate him tonight, Kurt thought to himself fondly. Kurt's step-mother was always pleasant and easy-going, in a strictly non-embarrassing sort of way. Finn did not know just how easy he had had it so far with Carole as his mother.

Kurt wolf-whistled as Carole came to stand beside him, and she smiled appreciatively. The smile turned into an exasperated grimace when she saw a significant portion of her casserole was missing. Burt and Finn hastily hid their forks. Carole glared at the two of them for a moment, then rolled her eyes and turned back to Kurt, clearly unsurprised with the untimely demise her casserole had just suffered.

"We were just going over number three on my list of rules for this evening," Kurt explained, proudly indicating the papers Burt and Finn were still clutching.

"'No belching of any kind at the dinner table,'" Carole recited slowly, leaning over the kitchen island and upside-down-reading from Finn's list. "Oh yeah, definitely agree with that one." She looked significantly over at Finn. "Totally inappropriate way to sing 'Happy Birthday', by the way."

Kurt rounded on his brother. "You burped 'Happy Birthday' to your mother?" he gasped, appalled; Burt chortled expressively and thumped Finn on the shoulder. "Please tell me you were younger than twelve when you did this."

Finn's look of sheepish chagrin was answer enough.

Kurt turned a solemn eye toward his step-mother and said, "You're a strong woman to have made it this far, Carole," to which Carole laughed.

At that moment a faint, yet distinctive ding-dong floated down the hallway from the front room, and the four heads in the kitchen swiveled simultaneously in that direction. Burt looked darkly suspicious again; Carole was smiling pleasantly, unfazed; Finn was still trying to work out whether or not he had just been insulted. And Kurt …

… Kurt nearly swallowed his tongue when his heart leapt up for an impromptu visit with his wisdom teeth.

"Sweet Gucci, he's here," he whispered to himself, then said to the others with a would-be-casual voice that just so happened to be two octaves higher than usual, "I'll get it!" He scurried from the kitchen and into the hall, barking the word, "Stay!" over his shoulder, knowing without bothering to look that his father would try to sneak into the front hall behind him.

To say Kurt was feeling nervous as he approached the front door was a gross understatement: his heart was still chatting up his molars, his stomach was trying its hand at origami-ing itself into a paper crane, and his mouth had suddenly decided keeping itself moist was overrated. It was bad enough he hadn't read through the entire list with his father and Finn, let alone gone over proper table etiquette (something he would have to forewarn Blaine about if he got the chance), but Kurt honestly could not remember ever feeling this nervous before. He hadn't felt so nervous during his duet at Regionals, nor last year before his first game as the kicker on McKinley's football team. Hell, even coming out to Burt seemed like a cakewalk compared to this.

Because after all, it wasn't everyday you told your family you had snagged yourself a boyfriend.

Boyfriend. It had been just over a week since he and Blaine had first kissed (two-hundred-nineteen hours and thirty-seven minutes to be exact, but who was counting?) and still Kurt felt his heart flutter with delight whenever the b-word popped into his thoughts. It was a bit of an adjustment for Kurt, as referring to the boy he had spent months pining after as his boyfriend seemed almost surreal. The weeks leading up to the kiss had been fraught with strained conversations and awkward silences between the pair (Kurt still could not think about their sexy-face practice without wishing for a merciful death), and it had nearly gotten to the point where Kurt questioned whether they would ever again partake in the easy friendship they had started off with. The possibility of something more happening - moreover, that Blaine would be the one to initiate it - had not even crossed Kurt's mind, therefore he had spent the better part of the past week pinching himself on the arms, half-afraid he had dreamed the entire thing up.

But happen it did, and though the first few days afterward had been filled with hesitant glances and uneasy smiles as each boy became accustomed to the dramatic shift in their relationship, things had settled down relatively easily, and Kurt was now thoroughly enjoying learning what it truly meant to be dating Blaine Anderson. Doors being held open, hand-holding during study dates, flirty winks shared during Warbler rehearsals when Wes and David were too busy squabbling over set-lists to notice - Kurt had blissfully come to the conclusion that what Blaine had said about being bad at romance was nothing more than a boldfaced lie.

Kurt took a second to check his reflection in the mirror hanging in the hallway. After ensuring that every hair was in its proper place and his ensemble was entirely wrinkle-free, Kurt turned to the front door, spared a moment to will his internal organs back into their proper places, and reached for the doorknob.

When Kurt pulled open the door and peered out into the twilit evening, it was to see Blaine had his back to him. The other boy was staring out over the front lawn, shoulders hunched defensively from the frigid wind as it blew snow and ice relentlessly up against the front of the house. It was unseasonably cold this spring, even for Ohio, and large snowflakes were billowing every which way, swooping across the frozen flowerbeds, creating swirls of patterns that continuously shifted and redefined as they swept down the darkening street. It was a sight not usually seen in Lima in the middle of March, but it held a certain picturesque quality nonetheless.

Nothing about the weather managed to capture Kurt's attention, however; he was much too busy admiring the view Blaine's position relative to him (and his excellent taste in clothes) briefly afforded him. The double-breasted peacoat Blaine was wearing fell just below his waist, and Kurt quickly decided that whoever had designed the form-hugging cotton trousers Blaine had on deserved a hand-written thank-you note.

On fancy paper.

Blaine seemed to notice the warm light suddenly splashing onto the porch from the open door behind him, because he turned, a dazzling grin lighting up his features when he saw it was Kurt who had come to greet him. Kurt felt his knees go wobbly with the force of that deadly weapon trained on him, and suddenly he found himself not so much holding as gripping the door handle, lest he fall flat on his face and save Finn and Burt the trouble of humiliating him later on.

"Hello." Kurt had tried for coy and alluring, but instead he came off sounding pitchy and obnoxious, and he inwardly cringed when his voice cracked ungainly on the second syllable. Of all the possible evenings for his body to give a throwback to his pre-pubescent days …

Blaine, the highly intelligent boy that he was, pretended not to notice. "Kurt, hi!" He stepped through the doorway eagerly, and Kurt's brain promptly short-circuited as the other boy pulled him into a deliciously warm hug.

There was a light dusting of snow on Blaine's coat and in his hair, but Kurt was far from caring about this as he rested his chin against the shorter boy's shoulder and closed his eyes, secretly thrilled with just how tightly Blaine was holding him. Plus, the boy smelled incredible: a mixture of body wash and hair gel and cold and something so uniquely Blaine that Kurt could not stop himself from burrowing his nose into the side of the other's neck and sniffing. Blaine chuckled, gave Kurt's middle a quick squeeze, and stepped away. He kept his hands resting on Kurt's elbows, holding him at arm's-length and letting out a low whistle as he took in Kurt's outfit.

"Wow," he said, his grin widening as he ran his eyes appreciatively up and down the length of Kurt's figure. "You look … wow."

Judging by the slightly awestruck tone, the three agonizingly frustrating hours Kurt had spent wreaking havoc on his wardrobe in an attempt to assemble the perfect outfit had not been in vain. "Why, thank you." His brain did a happy dance when his voice came out sounding relatively normal again. He allowed his eyes to wander, and smiled in what he hoped was a flirty fashion. "You're looking pretty 'wow' yourself."

Blaine ducked his head bashfully as he admitted, "Jeff picked the outfit for me."

Thank you, Warbler Jeff, Kurt thought to himself, eyeing his new favorite pair of pants again as he mentally added the tall blond to his people-to-receive-thank-you-notes list. "I should bake that boy a cake," he murmured as an afterthought, and Blaine laughed again.

"So, are your parents here?" he asked as his hands slid down Kurt's arms to grip his hands loosely instead. A ridiculously girlish giggle threatened to bubble up Kurt's throat as their fingers tangled together.

Instead he nodded his head. "Finn, too." A fresh bout of nervousness swooped through Kurt and settled heavily in his stomach as the realization of what he was about to do truly sunk in. He was moments away from introducing Blaine. As his boyfriend. To his family. For the first time. He was going to look his father in the eye and tell him, a mere two weeks after sitting through that horrific sex talk with him, that he was dating. What's worse, he was going to go through all of that with the dapper gentleman in question standing next to him, smiling charmingly, completely unaware of the dangers an overprotective father and an abnormally uncoordinated step-brother could present.

Dear Gaga … what was he thinking?

A hint of Kurt's inner panic must have made itself known in his expression, because suddenly Blaine was grasping his hands a little firmer, squeezing his fingers gently as he asked with a concerned lilt, "Are you all right?"

Kurt nodded his head so vigorously, something in his neck cracked. "I'm fine," he said, and was instantly mortified when the words came out as unintelligible squeaking. Great, now his lungs were rebelling, too. "I'm fine," he repeated more firmly, as Blaine's thick eyebrows rose skeptically.

"You sure?" Blaine pressed, sounding uncertain as he peered closely up at Kurt. "You sound a little … off. You're not sick, are you?" Before Kurt could protest, Blaine had freed one of his hands from Kurt's to press it up against his forehead instead. "Hmm … I don't think you have a fever, but your forehead is definitely clammy" (Kurt felt his eyes widen in horror. Clammy? He was clammy? Oh, that was going to be murder on his pores …) "Is it that stomach thing that's been floating around Dalton? Nick's had it since Regionals, and he was throwing up every five minutes -"

Kurt pulled a face and held up a hand. "Ugh, Blaine, please." As much as he enjoyed the warm and decidedly fluttery sensations Blaine's worried rambling had generated within him, the imagery was doing nothing for Kurt's paper-craned stomach.

"I'm not sick," he told the other boy firmly, "I never get sick." Blaine clearly did not believe him, because Kurt had to slap his hand away when the boy moved to place it on his forehead again. "Really, Blaine," he said exasperatedly, "I take my vitamin and mineral regime way too seriously to fall victim to a mere stomach flu. No, it's just …" For the second time that evening, Kurt was fumbling for words. This was too much. Why hadn't anyone warned him that being in a relationship would affect his intelligence?

"It's just first time jitters, I guess," he finished lamely, wincing the moment the words left him. "Jitters"? Who used the word "jitters" anymore? He really needed to stop hanging around his father so much, if Burt's vocabulary was beginning to rub off on him. Next would be the wardrobe, and frankly, that thought was terrifying.

In the end, Kurt did not know what caused it: perhaps it was the shudder-inducing recollections of his very brief time as a John Mellencamp fan, or maybe the liquid hazel-y eyes gazing earnestly into his own as Blaine asked, "What d'you mean?" Whatever it was, Kurt had suddenly found himself compelled to open his mouth and speak - no, pour out every insecure thought or misgiving he had been entertaining since he first issued Blaine the invitation for dinner earlier that week. And once the words started to come, Kurt was finding it exceedingly difficult to contain them.

"- it's the pamphlets, Blaine. They sit there and they stare at me, and I know it's my dad doing the staring, and he's just sitting there on my nightstand, judging me, and when I see him in the living room watching the game, I know he's wondering whether I've read them yet. And if he finds out that I did read them and constantly think about them and pretend it's you on the cover instead of that obnoxious Jeremiah look-alike … just - you're dapper, Blaine, really dapper, and you don't deserve to be shot with a cross-bow. It's a totally gross way to die and seriously unhygienic, and my dad isn't the greatest shot so he'd probably miss the first time, or hit you in the leg, and your legs are really nice, and Wes would kill me if you started limping during performances -"

Blaine was looking fairly confused by this point. Kurt couldn't blame him: he himself didn't know what he was talking about half the time anymore. Kurt did not fully understand the mechanics of it, but he was almost certain a disconnect between his brain and mouth occurred whenever Blaine was within eye-sight, resulting in an embarrassing case of blurt-out-the-first-words-that-come-to-mind-and-damn-the-consequences. It was an issue Kurt really needed to work on, especially if he ever wanted to sound anything other than mildly unhinged whenever in Blaine's presence.

"Okay," Blaine said slowly, after Kurt had paused to draw in a much needed breath, "I've never actually heard someone talk that fast before, and I think I lost you for a moment after you inferred your dad was a stack of pamphlets, but … does this have anything to do with telling him we're dating?"

The hormone-addled part of Kurt was thrilled to hear Blaine string the words "we're" and "dating" together in a sentence, particularly in reference to him; but the other part of Kurt, the one that had witnessed Burt Hummel behead a turkey every Thanksgiving for sixteen years, gave a tiny squeak of affirmation. He then wished for a hole to appear beneath his feet and swallow him up, because he had just squeaked. In front of Blaine. Again.

Blaine, bless him, ignored Kurt's abrupt devolution into a guinea pig. Instead, smiling softly in understanding, he pulled Kurt into another warm embrace, brushing a sweet kiss against his cheek as he did so, and Kurt had to forcibly remind himself that squealing like a Bieber-crazed twelve-year-old girl would do nothing but spoil the moment.

It was a near thing, though, because Blaine really did smell that good.

"For what it's worth," Blaine murmured into his ear, and Kurt would have been deeply embarrassed by his reaction to this simple act, had he not been too busy enjoying the delicious shivers that had shot down his spine the moment Blaine's lips began moving against his skin, "I think your dad will be relieved to know you've found some happiness after the year you've been through." The unspoken reference to Dave Karofsky had both boys tightening their holds imperceptibly. "And even if he's not, you said it yourself: your dad's not the greatest shot, and clearly you haven't taken into consideration just how agile a runner I am."

Kurt smiled at this, and when he pulled away, it was to see Blaine grinning cheekily back at him. Kurt shook his head ruefully, but his smile widened as the coil of nerves in his stomach loosened significantly. It was a comfort to know that, no matter how uncomfortable and nerve-wracking the next couple of hours may be, at least Blaine would be there to help diffuse the tension.

"So you have a lot of experience running away from shotgun-wielding fathers, then?" Kurt teased, separating from Blaine completely and gesturing for him to take off his jacket.

Blaine began unbuttoning his coat, pulling a face as he answered, "I was too busy running away from the daughters to notice the dads, Kurt."

It was then that Burt's voice floated down the hallway, calling out for Kurt to "hurry it up, this ain't France, no one's going to announce you in." The sound of his father's slightly disgruntled voice had Kurt's nerves back on high alert, and Blaine watched with concern as it took him three tries to get the coat hung up properly in the coat closet.

"Kurt." Kurt turned, and Blaine was there, expression honest and open and so awkwardly sincere, and something like honey was seeping into Kurt's stomach, making him feel warm and dizzy as he wondered, for what must have been the hundredth time that week, how he had managed to convince such a perfect specimen of a boy that he was worthy of his attention.

Blaine snagged his hands again, interlacing their fingers before he spoke in an undertone. "If you don't want to tell your family tonight, I'll understand." The warm, honey feeling began to spread, and Kurt looked down at their joined hands, because if Blaine caught sight of the truly soppy expression Kurt was wearing, he would just die. "There's no pressure from this end, Kurt, I want to make that clear." Blaine squeezed his fingers reassuringly, and when Kurt met his eyes, the shorter boy grinned one of his killer grins and winked. "I'm perfectly happy with pretending to be nothing more than a friend while we play footsie under the table." He paused, seemed to consider something, and then hurriedly added, "So long as your father is at the other end of the table."

Picturing the look on his father's face if Burt felt an unexpected foot sidle up against his during dinner was enough to have Kurt spluttering in laughter, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

"C'mon," Kurt said, still chortling as he began tugging Blaine toward the kitchen. "As hilarious as the prospect of you accidentally feeling up my dad under the dinner table is -" Blaine stumbled slightly behind him - "I think he'll be less likely to have a second heart attack if I just tell him I'm dating you."

AN#2: Gah, I know. Too long, right? I tried to split it up a bit, I really did, but my fingers were having none of that, it seems. I'll try not to ramble on so much next time.

Friendly reminder: Reviews are placed upon a pedestal, addressed as "Your Majesty" and gratuitously revered. Heck, I may even throw in a sacrificial chicken if they're on sale this week.