A/N: So. Basically, don't kill me. That's, like, an extreme por favor. I'm currently suffering from withdrawal; my laptop is refusing to turn on or cooperate in any shape or form, so I now have to put up with the absurdity that is iPhone autocorrect- so egotistical that it will not capitalize my name, but will gladly capitalize its own. **glares** Anyways, sorry for formatting issues that may come out of this. Bear with me.

That being said- for those of you who are idiotic enough not to get the memo, last time I checked, I was a teenage girl, not Ryan Murphy. Though, if he so chose, I'm sure he could become a teenage girl. I do not doubt his resourcefulness or power.

...anyways.

A/N2: So, iPhones make your formatting go wacky. So for anyone who got an update on their email addresses saying that I uploaded a story that could not be found, sorry, but I didn't think you'd appreciate the giant chunk of text that was my story. Anyways. On with the story! :D

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It is everlasting springtime here, in picture, if not in temperature.

Laughter and bubbles fill the air, following the breeze, moving lazily across the space and gently landing on the ears and arms of anyone who fills it. The sky is an amiable shade of blue, bold in its vibrant hue, yet gentle in its light.

Blades of grass thinly map the ground underfoot, peeping out to see who is singing, whether friendly faces have returned rather than the small critters who feast on the greenery when searching for sustenance.

When Kurt closes his eyes, he sees the tree and the grass and the bubbles. He hears the laughter, the shrieks of Mercedes, or, more likely, Rachel and Quinn as the sprinklers unexpectedly jump out of their hiding places and create their own kind of rain, regardless of anyone in their paths. He sees Sam and Finn, chucking a football around, Puck wandering aimlessly as he scarfs down a pizza. He sees Mike and Tina and Brittany and Artie and Santana, in a haphazard circle, limbs pressing against the grass as they lay on their stomachs and talk about the day, about the week, the year, everything.

He sees Blaine, his hair wet from the sprinklers, grinning at him like a dazed puppy as he hums to himself, gradually becoming louder and louder until Kurt joins in, and then Rachel and Mercedes and Tina and everybody else.

But then he sees Wes and David, blazers nowhere in sight, ties loosened as they lead in Jeff and Thad and all of his friends who he misses so dearly, and Kurt has to open his eyes.

And when he opens them, he is no longer among sprinklers and trees and friends- he is surrounded by walls and books and air conditioning, and in front of him, Blaine is not grinning. The hazel eyes are filling up with tears, as are the ones of glasz, and Kurt cannot help but attempt to grab at the image of the garden, the sky, the smiles. The fresh, wafting breeze.

"I feel like you're already gone again." Blaine whispers, breathing deeply as he drinks more coffee, just for his hands to have something to do. And Kurt is going to agree. But then Blaine adds on the ending, the "back to McKinley High. Without me." and he cannot.

"I could never say goodbye to you." Kurt reminds him with a broken whisper, and the conversation dissolves, the ice breaks, the tension shatters with Blaine's crooked smile.

It's imperfect. It's reality.

Kurt is unable to keep his thoughts away from it anymore. It isn't a meadow, it's not a park. There is nothing particularly identifiable about it, except that it is the slice of calm and beauty in the mundanely rigorous world.

It is no longer "the place." It is now "The Place." Capitals and all.

It deserves it, Kurt thinks. It's perfection in a snapshot.

He wishes he could bring it out of his mind and into the world. He wishes he could share.

At the same time, he doesn't.

Kurt is eight years old when his mother passes away. She was like a ray of light, casting beauty on everything that came her way. Enhancing everything, just with her presence. Making the world perfect.

Kurt thinks that he will strive for perfection now.

For his mother.

One night, Kurt trains his eye on his bookshelf. It has sat there, mainly a decorative piece, since he can remember, and it is filled with magazines, books, and his own journals and such. The journals hold nothing of consequence, simple doodles and sketches of clothing he has tried to alter, outfits he has put together, recipes for cocktails of skincare products to get the absolute balance of moisture and SPF.

Kurt glances speculatively at the blank page he now has resting in front of him, fingers stroking the pens that lie perfectly arranged next to him. Closes his eyes, and thinks of it. The Place. Presses his pen to the paper and waits.

And then, like a bolt, his hand is flying across the page, scratching the surface, embedding the ink in the most memorable ways possible, creating lines, textures, words, everything that is contained in his mind that he cannot simply speak aloud.

It is late, however, and when the stair outside his room creaks, Kurt is overwhelmed and nowhere near finished. It is like he has opened a gaping hole in a pipeline he wasn't previously aware of, and the memories and thoughts and wishes and ideas are just bursting out of him in a way that is almost relieving, but mostly frightening. And as the footsteps of his father draw nearer, Kurt wrenches his hand away from the page, flinging the book across the room and into the soft chair, where it lands shut, noiselessly so that Kurt can sleep, or try to sleep, or pretend to sleep, or whatever.

His heart is racing, his mind is reeling.

His eyes slip shut more easily than they have in years.

Kurt is ten the first time he thinks of someone as perfect.

Kurt is ten when he first has feelings for someone who encapsulates perfection.

Kurt is ten the first time he admits his feelings to his crush.

Kurt is ten the first time he is taken to the nurse at lunchtime, and sent home with a sympathetic smile.

Like a moth to a flame.

He blinks before the thought can fully cross his mind, because, well, it's sort of one of those Hello, Where Did That Come From thoughts that appear and disappear before they can fully be understood.

After some contemplation, though, Kurt can smile wryly, dreaming of The Place and Perfection and Moths Drawn To Flames and all of those other things that deserve capitals that he wishes he deserved.

Maybe he does deserve them.

So as he looks into Blaine's eyes, glazed with worry, he cannot help that Blaine From The Place has eyes much brighter than these, and that, come to think of it, in The Place, everything is brighter than over here.

And everything about it is a stark contrast to the symmetry, the peace, the music in Kurt's head.

Why isn't he in The Place? he wonders, not for the first or last time.

Numb.

This is a feeling that has never been in The Place.

It is a feeling associated with reality; that frightening place he no longer lives in for fear of the imperfection he avoids so desperately.

This is imperfection. This is not...

Kurt's careful words are insummonable, though, or would be if there were such a word, and goodness, how imperfect is this situation that Kurt is using words that have never seen a dictionary?

Blaine is walking away. To a relationship that isn't one sided anymore. To college. To life. To reality.

Kurt wants to follow him.

That night, Kurt does not dream of The Place as a place he wants to be in. He dreams of it in contrast, in contrast to reality.

Kurt doesn't know what to think. So he cries himself to sleep.

Kurt's friends are relieved when they see the tell-tale red in his eyes. They wonder if, perhaps, he has returned to them as Kurt-With-The-Bitch-Please-Attitude instead of the Dalton-Churned-Kurt-Who-Has-Lost-His-Footing-And-Reverted-To-His-Perfectionist-Tendencies.

In Glee, they ask him to sing.

He still doesn't.

Kurt dials.
Kurt hangs up.

It's a vicious cycle.

Kurt is sweeping his room carefully. It's time to get an apartment, live life, go to college.

Kurt is excited.

It's new, in a sort of Oh-There-You-Are-Again way.

So he smiles tentatively and checks his closet again to make sure he hasn't left anything, and as he's feeling around on the shelf he can't quite see over, he comes across a box.

Curiously, he takes it down, and blows the dust off, sitting gingerly on his bed to remove the cover with his artistic fingers.

Kurt stops breathing.

Conversely, his heart speeds up.

Barely aware of his own intake of air, he begins to sift through the pictures, pictures of his mother.

Tears prick his eyes as he gazes hungrily, taking in every aspect of her hair, her smile, her frowns...

His mother. His hero.

Imperfect.

Kurt is suddenly able to breathe a lot easier.

Kurt meets Blaine one or two years later in the summery heat wave-esque weather of New York. They are at a coffee shop, and when Blaine picks up his iced medium drip and hears a high, irritable voice indignantly protesting "What do you mean you don't carry mocha right now? Out of chocolate?" his heart stops and his legs carry him towards the countertenor before he can bat an eyelash.

He cannot register the shriek he hears as his drink falls over the stylish coat- his arms are too busy encircling the tiny boy and holding him close and never letting him go.

There are many conversations after that- real ones, proper ones, without the intrusion of The Elusive Perfection and The Place. They talk about it, though, and Kurt opens up in ways that he has never before- about his quest for following in his perfect mother's footsteps, about the pressure he felt in doing so, about how he lost his hold on reality and the boundaries of realistic perfection, and, ultimately, how he allowed Blaine to slip through his fingers, which he would never ever do again if he could have a second chance, please?

And in an all too familiar gesture, Kurt's hand is being covered by Blaine's, and Blaine leans in a little too hungrily to recapture their beautiful first kiss; but Kurt thinks perfection may be overrated anyways.

Suddenly they are graduating from college, and moving in together for good, and talking about starting a family, and Kurt and Blaine are ready to take on the world with their degrees in Business and Theater and Fashion.

So Kurt is shifting through his belongings in the dim light next to the window and chucking out those things that once sat on his bookcase so long ago, because, really, nobody sane kept stuff like that for so long, when he comes across a journal that he has seen back in high school, as a sophomore or a junior or something- when he was lost in that haze of nostalgia and confusion and perfection and inadequacy.

And Kurt wonders, so he flips the pages back and turns through them slowly up until-

The words are recognizable- gibberish about perfection mixed with self-pity and general thoughts as such- but the part that takes his breath away...

With stunning accuracy and dedication to detail, Kurt had drawn Blaine's face. The young features, the watery eyes.

It is the day in the coffee shop, the first and only time Blaine confronted him.

Underneath the picture is the word "perfect."

Kurt takes a page out of the typical romcom movie's book (as well as this page out of his own) and races down the street to the coffee shop, where he knows his beautiful boyfriend will be waiting for him patiently despite the late time and dark sky.

And when he finds him, he throws his whole self into Blaine, almost knocking him over as he clasps his arms around his neck and attaches his lips to the soft warm ones that are Blaine. And Blaine's stubble and his curls are tickling Kurt's face as he is first surprised, and then smirking into the kiss, rubbing his hands up and down Kurt's back, and Kurt wants to cry, because why did he ever let this drop for those unbearable years?

Instead he presses the paper into Blaine's hand and Blaine lets him go, taking his hand in his other easily and leading him down the street as he carefully runs his eyes over the paper as if it is a treasure.

Kurt can sense the exact moment that Blaine finds the sketch of his own face, and the caption below, because he lets out a soft "oh" and relaxes and tenses all at once before shoving it in his pocket and pulling his boyfriend into a deep kiss.

They stand like that for a while, just kissing, in the wake of the stars and the moon, and finally Blaine pulls away and leans his forehead against Kurt's and whispers "Marry me someday, Kurt."

And it is not The Perfect Proposal and it isn't in The Place, and he is not Kurt From The Place, and Blaine is Just Blaine, not Blaine From The Place, and that's is okay. Because this is Reality, which is equally, if not more, deserving of capitals.

And in Reality, he can create his own Place. With Blaine.

"Yeah," he whispers back giddily. "I think I might."

A/N: So. Damn. Long. Hah.
Or maybe that's just cause its on my phone. I don't know.

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