Author's Note: Originally written for the hiatus exchange at kurt_blaine on Livejournal.

"The capital of Venezuela is Caracas, Blaine," Kurt says, leaning over him to place the coffee pot on the table. "Which makes twenty-two across 'lupus', and twenty-four down –-"

"Anastasia, I know," Blaine says in response, smiling wide and fond. "I am a history teacher Kurt, although –-" He takes a long sip of coffee, curling his hand into Kurt's under the table as his husband sits down and picks up his own mug. It's a silent thank you, of sorts; for the answers (that top left hand corner has been irritating Blaine since five minutes after Kurt placed the Sunday paper on the table and promptly commandeered the entertainment section), for loving him, for remembering that the new coffee beans they've bought are stronger than before (and organic, Kurt reminds him with a sigh, whenever he complains) and Blaine now prefers only half a shot.

Kurt squeezes back and says, "I'm not a complete Neville Chamberlain when it comes to the world's propensity to enjoy starting wars," He pauses, quirking an eyebrow; their gazes meet over the bowl of fruit salad for a moment and they both burst into laughter. "Okay, so maybe I'm Sarah Palin, except absolutely not –- Alaska's shopping options are more limited than Lima."

"As much as I adored you falling asleep in my lap whenever we tried to study for history, I'm starting to wish I'd woken you up a little more often," Blaine says, taking a deep breath because it's all he can do not to spit his coffee out in bewilderment – how on earth did he end up marrying such a man of contradictions, someone who's more fastidiously put together than even Blaine at Dalton had ever pretended to be, and yet so insane? "Although I'm starting to think it would have taken more than just my tutoring for you get more than that one A."

"If you taught your students half as well as you did me for that essay, the New York Education Department might have to fire you for being too competent," he says in a half-hearted dig; Blaine gets consistently glowing reviews from the principal and, while he doesn't always understand its significance, is constantly praised by Kurt for never once letting his glee club rap. He's a little confused, though, and at the gentle shrug of his shoulders, Kurt adds, "You certainly had no problem cuddling with me through "Marie Antoinette"."

"Your essay was about fashion trends in nineteenth century France, you didn't even need to watch it." Blaine leans over to skewer a strawberry, pausing as something occurs to him. "You're totally designing a Russian themed collection for your winter show, aren't you? Hence all the singing of "Once Upon a December" last week."

"I'm certainly not writing a musical about them; William's unfortunate balding makes for a much better tragedy," Kurt says, rolling his eyes as though his husband should already know this. And Blaine should, probably – Kurt's nothing if not forthcoming when it comes to his interests - but he can't help but marvel at the fact that after so long, there are still things to learn about what makes Kurt quintessentially Kurt.

He glances at the crossword puzzle for a moment; in the early days of their relationship, when everything had been glazed sharp and bright with newness, it was like every time he'd seen Kurt, every time he'd kissed him, the clues he'd been blinded to for so long had been answered, the boxes he almost hadn't known were empty suddenly filled. If these days, Blaine sometimes has to chew the end of his pen for a moment in contemplation, finds himself reaching more and more for the dictionary, it's not because they know each other any less intimately - rather, it's because their love is no longer built on frenzied touches and the need for more-more-more; now they have all the time in the world to discover the answers to questions that they haven't even thought to ask, just yet.

It's this train of thought that makes him turn to Kurt, kissing him slow but heavy, his mouth sloppy with coffee and Sunday morning stupor. The kiss lasts less than a minute, just enough to remind him that they don't always need words.

There's a smudge from Blaine's pen across Kurt's upper lip when they pull apart, and he's fairly sure his husband's ruined his perfectly ironed button down shirt. He's just about to suggest a shower to freshen up before they head down to the local markets, drunk on the knowledge that this is their life and samples of the vegan fruitcake they'll pick up for Rachel that probably doesn't even actually involve sherry, when Kurt jabs at his crossword with a finger.

"Forty-seven across is ABBA" he says, nodding encouragingly as Blaine fills in the squares with painstakingly neat letters. "And before you ask, I have absolutely no plans to relieve those days vicariously through anything ever again."

"Oh, but I do ," Blaine says, hauling Kurt to his feet as he hums the opening bars of "Dancing Queen" and senses another line or two of the crossword puzzle that is their lives, with all the answers they already know intuitively and all the knowledge that they together still want to seek, slowly filling itself in.