I seriously do not know how this became so long. I think I'm just letting off steam from finals studying, so...yeah. Read in parts if you want, or let me know if you think I should break it up into chapters. Either way, enjoy yourselves, guys, and Merry Christmas (from a Jewish girl).

"Merry Christmas, dude!"

"Merry ChristmaMMMPH."

"Finn!" Kurt yelps, setting down the serving platter of canapes and dashing over to the front door, where Finn Hudson is doing a magnificent job of smothering Kurt's boyfriend in the chest of his new cable-knit Christmas sweater. "Finn, he can't breathe down there!"

"What? Oh...sorry," Finn apologizes as he quickly releases Blaine, who stumbles backwards gasping for air. Kurt hurries to his side and protectively smooths down the rumpled hair at the nape of his neck, because even though he isn't all that big of a fan of Blaine's notorious gel addiction he is a good boyfriend. Blaine straightens his candy-cane-striped bowtie (Rachel's off-screen companion gift to the capri pants, so much cuter than the Christmas-tree tie) and gives Finn a slightly frazzled smile.

"No worries. Thanks for the hug, man, Merry Christmas." Blaine offers a fist for Finn to eagerly deliver a pound to. Kurt rolls his eyes but can't stop himself from grinning, because Blaine and Finn are friends again and the house is warm and noisy with guests attending his father and Carole's Christmas Eve party and everything smells like the delicious canapes and cookies that Kurt spent all day making (and has been complimented on twelve times and counting) and seriously, everything is just wonderful right now. Kurt flashes back for a moment to last Christmas-going to bed early with just his dad in the house, aching to be over at McKinley suffering Coach Sylvester's wrath along with the rest of the New Directions, closing his eyes and hearing Blaine's voice singing "Gosh your lips look delicious" and wishing, wanting, needing so bad that he considered sending up a silent request to Santa before reality popped like a bubble and he felt like a stupid little kid.

Things have certainly changed.

Finn and the massive yarn body-armor that is his new sweater have melted back into the party crowd, and now Blaine slips off his snowy coat, turns to Kurt and gives him a real, twinkly, I'm-not-currently-recovering-from-asphyxiation-by-wool smile. He looks ridiculously good: the stripy tie perched like a Christmas tree ornament on a dark green velvet suit (because Blaine can do the impossible and rock velvet), snow-damp hair gelled into the more angular ridges that Kurt really prefers to the rounded look of the last few months, dark eyes sparkling and cheeks glowing from the short walk through the freezing snow up to the front door. Kurt's heart thrums a little as he looks over Blaine, cute Blaine, smiling Blaine, his Blaine, here with him on Christmas. A quick glance down reveals that he's even wearing socks, printed with what appear to be strings of tinsel. Kurt is so proud.

"How's the hosting going?" Blaine asks, and Kurt practically bounces up and down on his toes with excitement.

"Perfection! Okay, there was a little bit of a crisis when Carole forgot to load the turkey into the oven at exactly three-oh-five, even though I specifically set the stove alarm and the microwave alarm and the egg timer all for three, but luckily I was able to pull off some calculus magic with the heat-to-poultry ratio and it's just a gorgeous bird, thank you very much, and Dad did some really nice arranging with the tinsel and the little wreaths from the drug stores and Finn put the scented reindeer stockings up high so they wouldn't distract from the general decor, and everyone has been telling me the thumbprint cookies are amazing and just now I saw Quinn looking through one of the craftbooks I laid out, so I finally get to shove it in Finn and Dad's face that they were a good idea-"

Kurt goes on and on, and he can hear himself sounding like a lunatic but he doesn't care, because this is Christmas and he worked hard and this party is truly fabulous. Blaine's smile gets bigger and bigger as Kurt blathers, and without interrupting his boyfriend's holiday ramblings he takes his arm and gently steers him through a crush of Carole's friends from the nursing station and into the living room, where the rest of the New Directions (minus Puck, who muttered something about Daddy's first Christmas with his little girl, and Mike and Tina, who have to be at Mike's family's party but send their love) are scattered around chatting with Burt and Carole's adult guests and munching on the truly spectacular smorgasbord that Kurt and Carole have laid out on two folding tables against the back wall. Snow is dancing outside the windows and laughter is ringing through the air and people are happy and if Kurt had the perfect song to express the fullness of his heart he would belt it out right now, except that he's too busy telling Blaine about how he lined all the skirting boards on the ground floor of the house with reindeer wrapping paper.

"Hey, Blaine!" Mercedes calls from over by the tree, and Kurt only huffs a little at being cut off mid-boast as Blaine gives him an apologetic smile and pulls him by the elbow to where Mercedes is cuddled up next to Sam, their backs pressed against the sweet-smelling pine tree and their hands holding glasses of eggnog so close their knuckles are practically brushing together. Kurt has given up on wondering where Shane is in all of this-if someone was cozying up to Blaine as much as Sam is to Mercedes (coughSebastiancough), he'd be a little less absent than the hulking football player is apparently deciding to remain.

"Sweet party, bro," Sam drawls, his words only a tiny bit slurred (that might be his fourth or fifth eggnog). Mercedes rolls her eyes and leans forward to kiss Kurt on the cheek, and for a minute Kurt remembers when they were glued together at the hip and she was the one person in the world he really felt like he could be himself around. Everything is so different now than it used to be, and as happy as he is in this life of Blaine and Rachel and New York dreams, he feels a little pang inside for that specialness that they've lost. It's his fault, he's not denying it; he remembers Mercedes' face when he turned her down for bowling or manicures or coffee dates so that he could hang out with Blaine, and even the war cry of "Tots! Tots! Tots!" couldn't sway him from wanting to spend time with this amazing new boy, but yeah, he feels guilty about it, and he misses her, and who knows, maybe they'll find their way back to each other in the second half of the year.

Or maybe they won't. But there's always hope.

"It's really beautiful, Kurt," she says, and he preens and gives a little cursty.

"Why thank you, Ms. Jones. I trust you've sampled the-"

"Cookies and the green beans and the mashed potatoes and the fettucini? You bet your bubble butt I have, and they're dee-vine," she sasses, waving a finger in the air. All the boys laugh, and Blaine's triangular eyebrows rise as he scopes out the spread over Sam's shoulder.

"Mmmm...excuse me a moment, I'm feeling a little divine in my stomach right now," he mumbles, and giving Kurt's hand a squeeze he moves around Sam and heads towards the food. Sam grins as he watches Blaine bob away through the crowd.

"Man, Kurt...he's a funny guy. A really cool guy, but a really funny guy. And like, is it weird that he's so teeny? Because I think hobbits are awesome, but I don't know if I'd want to date one." Sam chuckles, and Kurt fights the urge to make a comment about how he wouldn't want to date someone with a pair of slugs mating underneath his nose. As though summoned by the mere thought of Sam's guppy mouth, Santana suddenly appears out of the crowd, looking smoking hot in a tight red and green dress and followed by a sleepy Brittany. She parks herself next to Kurt and gives him the side-eye, while Brittany hugs her from behind and drops her head onto Santana's shoulder.

"We're out of here, Pogo. Gotta get Brit home before she falls asleep in your fish tank," Santana says with a small smirk, and Kurt would think she were joking if he hadn't seen Brittany staring with abject fascination for a full ten minutes at Carole's little square tank with the two goldfish and the darting silver minnows. He nods and smiles and offers his hand, like the exemplary host he is.

"Lovely to have you, ladies. Merry Christmas, and drive safe."

"Yeah, whatever. Don't let Blainers at the eggnog or he'll probably start humping Rachel's leg," Santana sneers. Kurt drops his hand.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he says with a bright, conversational lilt to his voice, "I sent you your present in the mail. I wanted to give it to you in person, but Botox doesn't wrap well." Sam chokes on his eggnog and turns his head so that his snorts of laughter are muffled in the Christmas tree; Mercedes just bites her lip and watches with familiar amusement as a smile curls around Santana's lips and she pokes Kurt in the chest with one red-painted finger.

"If you had any more carcinogens in your hair right now, you'd be in HazMat holiday quarantine."

"That dress makes you look like the melted, half-eaten Christmas Peep someone dropped in Kool-Aid."

"Your boyfriend is short and his hair is stupid."

"Your girlfriend thinks Belgium is a legendary Pokemon."

"Lady-boy."

"Bitchface."

Santana laughs now, a real giggle, and Kurt grins as she kisses him on the cheek and wiggles her fingers at Mercedes and Sam in farewell before turning and leading Brittany towards the door, one arm looped around her waist and the other raised to flip off Kurt over her shoulder. Brittany looks back and mumbles, "Merry holidays, little elf", and then they're out of the living room and out of sight.

"Dear God, you two," Mercedes says, shaking her head. Kurt shrugs and brushes his hair back daintily, because he knows that he and Santana have worked out a system of mutual respect and claws. Sam is still snickering to himself when Blaine reappears, holding a plate piled high with so much food that Kurt's own stomach expands a little bit in sympathy.

"Hey guys. What's going on?"

"Nothing, Frodo, nothing," says Sam, absently patting Blaine on the arm. Blaine looks confused, but opts to just smile and nod and make eye contact with Kurt out of the corner of his eye, and Kurt smiles back and laughs to himself and feels happiness in every part of him.

The party seems to go on and on and on, and everyone eats and laughs and drinks and Kurt could stay here forever. Blaine drifts in and out of his peripheral vision, always looking cheerful, always pausing to give Kurt's shoulder a soft touch or to curl their fingers together for a couple seconds. People tell Kurt how wonderful his food is and how great he looks in his indigo suit with more and more vigor as the night and the mild but effective alcohol wear on. Burt emerges out of the throng at one point and throws an arm around Kurt, maybe a little more jovially than he would have if he'd had less eggnog and champagne.

"It's a great party, Kurt. Great party. You do me proud, son. Great, great party," he says with a silly smile on his face, and Kurt reaches an arm around his dad and hugs him back. They have so much now, so many people and so much love for the both of them, and yet there's still no one he needs and cares for as much as he does his father. The two of them are still sacred. Kurt would have it no other way.

"Blaine! There he is, the Say Hey Kid...hey, hey kid, get over here," Burt calls, gesturing wildly with his free arm, and Blaine is barely within reach when Burt lunges and gets him in a vice, pinning Blaine to his side with a one-armed hug. Blaine's eyes are wide and he's looking at Kurt like if you love me even a little bit you will save me from this scary scary thing that is happening and Kurt looks back like deal with it darling, you're family now.

"Y'know," sighs Burt, and Kurt can feel a Heavy Statement coming on. "Y'know, boys, when you two first started spending time together, I was...reluctant. Yeah, reluctant, 'cause you know, Kurt, he's such a great kid but he hurts real easy, you know? He takes stuff pretty hard sometimes, and you, Blaine, you had him all twisted up in knots and he was floating around like a damn balloon, and I thought, 'Oh man, if this kid is trouble, Kurt's gonna feel bad, it's gonna be a bad thing.' But then Blaine...Blaine, you turned out real well. You're a good man, Blaine. Good enough for Kurt by a long shot. And that's...that's what his mom would've wanted, you know? Someone good enough for him. Doesn't even matter that you're a guy. Or...you know what I mean. Kurt's happy. He's in love and he's happy, and when a guy's son's happy and in love and going far far places with all his talent, you can't help but just wanna bust open! Somebody turn on the radio!"

With that, Burt is off and away, bawling at his friend Ernie to find a good goddamn song about jingle bells and Christmas spirit on the radio, and Blaine laughs a little awkwardly and straightens his jacket where Burt rumpled it. Kurt looks at his boyfriend and thinks, Dad, you don't know how right you are.

"This party is amazing, Kurt. You've outdone yourself, which is really saying something," Blaine says, eyes warm and locked on Kurt's as he finishes adjusting his bowtie. Kurt feels a sudden and weird urge to be humble about this crowning achievement of his, something that he could only ever feel because of a compliment from Blaine.

"Oh, you know...it was the whole family. Carole was so great, I love her, she's really-"

"Hey, can we-step out for a minute?" Blaine cuts him off, and Kurt hopes to God he's heard him right. "Not for too long if you don't want to, but I wanted to give your present before it got too late, and it's so crowded in here, I just thought-"

"C'mon." Kurt grabs Blaine's arm and forcibly drags him through the sea of guests, past Rachel (another eggnog casualty) hanging all over Finn's sweater like she'd fall down if her fingers weren't inextricably tangled in the yarn, past Quinn and Rory and Artie giggling over another Christmas craftbook on the couch, past Sam and Mercedes making goo-goo eyes in the front hall, all the way to the stairs without being noticed, and as he shoves Blaine up the steps so that he can follow behind, Kurt feels a little thrill in his stomach that is very different from the Christmas-party-ecstasy he's been floating in all night.

They make their way to Kurt's room without turning on any lights-Blaine knows the way in the dark almost as well as Kurt does now, having tiptoed through the hall on numerous occasions when he technically wasn't allowed to be there under any circumstances. Kurt opens the door and they slip inside, and for the long second between the clunk of the door swinging shut and when Blaine reaches out and flicks on the overhead light, they're alone in the velvety darkness, listening to each other's breathing, bodies oh so close but separated by the meanest of space. In the sudden glow of the light fixture, Kurt blinks and makes an internal executive decision that Blaine should never be allowed to wear anything but velvet again, because damn.

"So, um...here," Blaine mumbles with uncharacteristic discomfort, and from the pocket of his suit jacket he pulls a small red box with a slightly squashed but still shiny bow on top. Kurt's heart clenches in his chest and he feels warmth spreading all throughout his body, and all he wants to do is hold his boyfriend close and let that warmth move between them and pulse like a single heartbeat, but instead he just takes the box and gives Blaine a small smile before opening it.

"Oh...oh my god," Kurt breathes, because inside the box is a ring-but not a shiny ring, not any kind of metal or gem he's seen before, instead it's gum wrappers, ever so carefully twisted and knotted together to form a little (oh my god) bowtie, and Kurt cannot stop looking at this gum-wrapper ring and feeling that warmth growing softer and sweeter under his skin.

"I know you wanted something from the Elizabeth Taylor collection, like not just in the whole chalet bit but for real," Blaine says with a little shrug. "And I looked online, I swear I did, but it's was just way too-I mean, Kurt, you know that if I could I-but-look, the point is, I can't afford Elizabeth Taylor. But I can't afford to disappoint you either. So this...this is from me. It's a promise."

And suddenly Blaine is right up next to Kurt, his hands coming up and removing the ring from the box, taking Kurt's left hand and sliding the ring onto his fourth finger. It glows bright-red-and-white against the pink skin. It fits perfectly. "A promise...that one day, you will get something really spectacular from me. Something you deserve, with all the wonderful, wonderful things that you are. I promise I'll give that to you, Kurt. I'll give you anything," Blaine finishes, his eyes shining, and Kurt's mind won't work. It's turned off, shut down, just his body making the decisions as he takes Blaine's face in his hands-the ring presses against Blaine's cheekbone, pulls a little at the skin there-and kisses him, sweet and firm at first, then slower and deeper, their lips moving together, teeth dragging lovely over tender spots. Blaine's hands are clasped at the small of Kurt's back, and Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine's neck and leans down into the kiss and this will never end, it will always be him and Blaine, so full of love for each other and for who they are when they're together. He wants Blaine in every sense, wants him close, wants his joy and his fear, wants his little hums of pleasure when Kurt twists his tongue just so and the curve of his smile against Kurt's lips as they move together and he lets a hand drift slowly up Kurt's spine.

The kiss ends but they don't, electricity buzzing back and forth between as they pull slightly apart, still embracing, Kurt playing with the ring on his finger behind Blaine's head. Long moments of contact, just being close to each other, and then Kurt does the unthinkable and steps back so that they're separate creatures now, two people just standing in a room. He wants to give Blaine his present, wants to do it right now; without a word he heads to the dresser and pulls out a flat box wrapped with pristine accuracy and only the most sophisticated silver wrapping. Kurt turns around to see Blaine blanching white, his eyes widening with alarm.

"Oh god...oh no, you actually bought me something, and I didn't, and Kurt, I'm sorry, I really was just trying to-"

"Blaine. Chill." Kurt enjoys talking to Blaine like this, being the calm and collected one instead of the one in hysterics for once. Blaine stops talking but still stares at the present like it's a bomb he's expected to strap to his chest; Kurt has to forcibly jam it into his hands. "Open it."

Blaine swallows once, looks up at Kurt, and then slowly peels the paper off the cardboard box and opens it up. When he sees what's inside, he bursts into laughter. "Socks? Really, Kurt?"

"Well, it would have made more sense if you'd showed up tonight like you do every other day of the whole frickin' year," Kurt says, mock-indignant, and Blaine laughs again and holds up the perfectly nice pair of perfectly nice blue socks. As Kurt watches he sits down on the bed and, face now perfectly serious and concentrated, strips off his Christmas socks and pulls on the blue ones. Watching his boyfriend sit there in a sexy velvet suit, frowning down at his blue-socked feet as he wiggles his toes in a little syncopated rhythm, Kurt experiences a sense of contentment that is both achingly familiar and completely new to him. It's Blaine: just Blaine, all Blaine, everything about the boy with the hair and the eyes and the grin and the heart that Kurt knows and loves so well. Blaine gives him this feeling. Blaine gives him so much.

Kurt sits down on the bed and watches as Blaine continues to experiment with his new socks. Soon they're both laughing and shouting as Blaine dances his feet through the air, conducting silent music with his toes and rubbing his ankles together ("I never knew how cozy and warm it could get below the shin!"). It's fun and sweet and only when Blaine accidentally knocks the gift box to the ground does Kurt remember the other present, the one specially fitted and concealed beneath the wrapping paper.

"Hold on there, honcho," he says, picking the box up and plopping it in Blaine's lap. "There's another part to your present."

Blaine lowers his feet to the ground and raises an eyebrow at Kurt. "Seriously, Kurt, don't do this to me. I'm already considering a tattoo that says 'incompetent boyfriend' in my forehead."

"Shut up and open the gift," Kurt laughs, and Blaine smiles and brushes his fingertips over the back of Kurt's hand before pulling back the extra paper and revealing the book bound in soft black leather underneath.

"Kurt..." he trails off with a frown, working the book out of the box and holding it delicately in his hands. "What is it?"

"Open it," Kurt says, and reaching over he pulls back the front cover to reveal the first page: a plastic sleeve in which a photograph of Blaine and Kurt has been slipped, the photo from Sectionals last year when Blaine had wrapped an arm around Kurt's shoulders and dragged him up against his cheek and demanded Wes take a picture, and Kurt's face is glowing from the win and the proximity to Blaine and he has one arm slung around Blaine's waist and the two of them are squashed into each other, a tangle of blazers and smiles and unspoken attraction. Kurt holds his breath while Blaine stares down at the photo, his toes curled tight in his new blue socks.

"Kurt..." No more words, but he turns the page and sees the next photo, this one from the Dalton common room, a creeper-shot of Kurt sleeping on Blaine's shoulder during finals week. Wes, once again handling the camera, had snuck up close and snapped the shot without Blaine noticing, so that while his eyes were still glued to a copy of The Odyssey, he was absently rubbing Kurt's shoulder and leaning into the top of his head, while Kurt just snuggled in and if you look closely you can see the tiniest bit of drool on the side of Kurt's mouth, but Kurt never looks too closely. Blaine touches the photo and looks up at Kurt, his eyes full of something that can't be said; Kurt meets his gaze and for a moment the world stops and they both remember when it wasn't like this, when they were friends and not boyfriends, not lovers but still so very much in love.

Blaine looks back to the book and flips a few pages forward, and now it's a more recent photo from the beginning of the year, the New Directions back-to-school party at Tina's house, before all the year's drama started and everyone was just happy to be back with each other again. This is a rare photograph of Blaine and Kurt actually acting like a couple when they aren't in private, and Kurt remembers what a relief it was to let his guard down about Blaine, just for one second: he's plunked himself in his boyfriend's lap and grinned up at Brittany's camera, and even though there's half a finger in the bottom corner of the shot and the whole image is slightly tilted, the photo is still one of Kurt's favorites, Blaine hugging him tight around the waist and Kurt's hand cupping the back of Blaine's neck and both of them grinning, just happy to be there, happy to be together.

Blaine turns to the last photo in the book, which is only halfway full anyway (for the all the photos of their future, Kurt justifies), and the photograph there makes him bite his lip, and a familiar tingle run up Kurt's spine: it's from the Christmas show they did, a snapshot Artie took for his "artistic collage". Kurt and Blaine are on the sofa during a rehearsal of their number, waiting for some lighting guy to adjust a floodlight, and they look absolutely perfect. Blaine has one of Kurt's hands in his and the fingers are woven together, Kurt's other arm is hitched up on the sofa so that he can brush a nonexistent piece of hair back from his best friend and holiday roommate's forehead and let his thumb press gently against Blaine's temple, they're sitting so close on the sofa that their legs could wrap around each other's waists (if they felt the urge) and they aren't looking at Artie, they're looking at each other. Not smiling, talking quietly, but their eyes are locked together and in this photo, Kurt isn't Virginal Porcelain and Blaine isn't a hobbit, they are clearly lovers, clearly two people who know every side of intimacy and know each other's bodies and faces and everything underneath better than they know themselves. It's what they could look like in twenty years, Kurt thinks, in some house in some place in some time where this is their life together, no bullies, no drama, just them.

Blaine looks up from the photo and he and Kurt stare at each other, their future sitting there in a book on his lap, the party swinging downstairs, the snow piling up outside, and without a single word Blaine reaches out and pulls Kurt roughly to him, hands tangling in his suit jacket and teeth clicking painfully as they kiss and push their bodies together and the photo album slides to the floor with a little thump. Kurt snakes his hands underneath Blaine's jacket and cups his shoulder blades, feels the muscles moving underneath his shirt, and lets out a little sigh that very suddenly becomes a broken cry when Blaine yanks him right up against his chest and bites hard at the top of his neck. It's an area where any mark will be completely impossible to disguise, and Kurt would push Blaine back if he had any control over his body right now, but damn it, he'd be lying if he pretended this wasn't what he's been wanting, craving, the whole night.

Blaine is working at Kurt's neck like a man with a mission, wrenching the collar of his shirt down his shoulder so that there's more skin exposed, and strong hands are grasping and pulling at his waist, and the weirdest, most pornographic moans and squeaks are coming out of Kurt's mouth. It's all kind of too much for him but not even close to enough, and Kurt drops down onto the bed, pulling Blaine with him. They wriggle around for a moment, pushing themselves backwards so their legs aren't sticking out in midair and they're over in the middle of the mattress, and then it's game on: they're tearing at each other's clothing, Kurt pulling at that amazing velvet suit and thinking Jesus Christ, I love it when the wrapping paper makes the present even better. Blaine straddles Kurt's hips, sitting up but leaning forward so that Kurt can push his jacket off his shoulders and start working on the shirt buttons while Blaine hums in his throat and strips off Kurt's jacket and then practically rips his shirt off (Kurt hears a button ping off something but hey, he can sew) and how that Kurt's in just an undershirt and Blaine's shirt is open to the waist and then with a flourish Kurt is au naturale from the waist up.

"Oh...oh, man," Blaine breathes as he stares down at Kurt's bare chest, and really, if Kurt has any dearth of reasons to love his boyfriend, that stunned look on his face-half-admiration, half-awe, all lust-would be more than enough. There's a tightness in his chest, like someone has his heart wrapped in their fist, and when Blaine's eyes track up and meet his the fist squeezes and squeezes until his heart bursts and love for Blaine floods through him like liquid fire. Kurt works his fingers up under the hem of Blaine's shirt and both outer- and undershirt are gone in a flash, and then, then they really get down to business.

Blaine flattens out on top of Kurt and wraps his arms around him, cupping the back of his head and pressing their mouths together even harder, pulling their stomachs up tight against each other. They start to rock as they kiss, the familiar rhythm settling into place as their hips align and sparks start to burn deliciously between their legs. Kurt hooks his arms under Blaine's armpits so that his hands grab at his boyfriend's shoulders, and then he digs his nails in and rakes them down the sensitive skin on Blaine's back. Blaine shudders and arches and moans so loudly that Kurt has a brief moment of terror that someone might have wandered upstairs and heard, but before he can even really form the thought Blaine is kissing him deep and dark and the heat of it is searing him, and everything is Blaine's tongue and hands and legs twisting around his.

"God, I love you." Kurt's not sure if the words actually made it out into the open air or not, but he gets a clue when Blaine's breath hitches hard in his throat and he grinds his hips down with sudden desperation. Kurt's eyes roll back into his head and he bites his lip and grabs a handful of Blaine's dark hair so that he has something to hold onto when the bolts of aching tingling devastating pleasure start surging through him, as Blaine begins to roll his pelvis in earnest.

Every part of Kurt is shaking with this incredible energy, this thing that happens to him when he and Blaine leave the world behind and live within their skin together. There was a time once when they always stopped before they started: when Kurt would feel Blaine's hips stutter as they kissed goodnight in the front hall cubbyhole and he'd immediately pull back, flushing and mumbling; when they would be cuddling on Blaine's bed and Kurt would think about Blaine's hand on his waist and be so aware of how high up on his side it was, and yet have to fight the flutter of fear in his stomach at the shamefully wonderful thought of it sliding downwards; when Blaine would apologize with looks or words if Kurt ever caught him staring while he changed outfits in front of the mirror.

There was a time, once. But that was then and this is now.

Blaine whines a little and quickens the tempo of his movement, sweat pooling at the middle of his collarbone and redness creeping into the skin around his eyes as he begins to fall apart against Kurt. For his part, Kurt isn't sure how much longer he's going to last: the friction and the relentless rhythm and the pressure right exactly where he wants it are just so so so so good, his heart is racing faster and faster and his body sizzles with white lightning, and there's Blaine's face so beautiful and wrecked above him-though Kurt is positive that however bad Blaine looks he's about ten times worse. He really doesn't want either of them to ruin their suit pants, but this is one of those times when fashion must take second place, and he isn't sorry, especially not when Blaine dips his head and sticks his tongue in Kurt's ear and fireworks are exploding in the air overhead.

"Oh God, Blaine, please, please," Kurt begs, not even knowing what he wants but knowing that he'll die if he doesn't get it soon. His own hips are pushing back against Blaine's thrusts now, his legs scrabbling uselessly against the sheets and kicking them all down onto floor. The edge is in sight, it's almost got him now. Blaine whimpers into Kurt's earlobe and his hands twist hard into the linen on either side of Kurt's head, the knuckles going white. If he weren't so far gone himself, so utterly and completely destroyed by the things Blaine is doing to him, Kurt would really enjoy how undone Blaine is-somehow, when his sexy, charismatic facade drops away and he turns into a sweaty mess whose breathing is high-pitched and hot in Kurt's cheek and whose cowlick curls start to flop their way out of the iron grip of his hair gel, Blaine's attractiveness is only amplified. It's not fair, really; except it is, because it's all Kurt's and no one else's.

"K-Kurt...ah-damnit-I can't-" Blaine full-on grunts, and his teeth are in Kurt's shoulder, and the rhythm doesn't exist anymore, it's mindless pounding in random senseless patterns and Kurt is half-sobbing and twisting at the waist and he needs that one last push, the tiniest of triggers. Suddenly Blaine's hand rips out of the sheets and cups Kurt's face with a completely unexpected and seemingly impossible gentleness, stroking a thumb along his eyebrow and resting fingertips on the top ridge of his ear, and that's it, Kurt comes with a shattering of senses and a total obliteration of anything but this moment, this perfect feeling that is burning him and breaking him and sending him flying through the snowy winter sky to the deep blue-black between the stars.

It lasts, it really lasts up until the fuzzy afterglow starts to fade in and the high departs, and he's only just coming back to himself when Blaine reaches the end of his tether and spasms on top of Kurt, choked noises tearing themselves out of his throat and a fist smashing into the mattress while the other hand clutches at Kurt's hair, pressing painful fingernails into his scalp. Kurt lies there and lets Blaine finish, half-aware of what's happening, part of him still coasting on the rush. When his orgasm finally winds down and Blaine collapses, completely spent, down onto Kurt's chest, Kurt lets his hands drift up and move over Blaine's back, wander across the limp shoulders and stroke the sides of his sweat-slick face. Blaine is shaking and breathing shallow against Kurt's jaw, and when Kurt runs a fingertip over the bridge of his nose he laughs a little and nuzzles into the curve of Kurt's neck and shoulder.

"Wow," Kurt hears from somewhere out of his range of vision, and he giggles, still totally sexed-out and dazed and finding everything to be perfect and awesome in the world. They lie like that for a few minutes, pulses returning to normal, sweat drying on their skin, sometimes touching each other's faces or ribs or hands but mostly just basking in the post-coital buzz. It takes a faint but distinctive burst of squawky music echoing up from downstairs to stir them, and even when Blaine kind of flops off sideways and Kurt raises himself up on his elbows and surveys the damage-yeah, Blaine's pants might okay if they act strategically, but Kurt's are just done for-he still can't feel anything but stupidly, blankly happy.

"Don't wanna move," Blaine mumbles, his eyes fluttering-half open and his voice soft and sleepy. Kurt is tempted to lie back down and just fall asleep there beside Blaine, with the snow drifting and the partygoers powerless to interfere with their time together, but the perfect host must only indulge themselves for so long.

"C'mon, up up up," he says with peppiness he doesn't feel, and dragging himself to his feet he turns around and-oh my Lady Gaga, there should be a law against a human being looking like that. Blaine is gazing up at him from the bed, shirtless, patches of sweat shining on his face, dark eyes purring with satisfaction from underneath thick eyelashes, cheeks flushed and lips half open, just so unfairly and magnificently sultry that Kurt's knees go a little shaky. He realizes after a little while that he's been standing there staring at his boyfriend for much, much longer than is not creepy, and indeed, Blaine is beginning to smile a bit as he notices how transfixed Kurt is. That little smirk is exactly what Kurt needs to snap him out of his sexpot-boyfriend haze, because if there's anything that motivates him to kick asses and take names, it's Blaine feeling superior.

"I said up," Kurt barks, and reaching down he grabs Blaine's hand and tugs so hard that Blaine has to get on his feet just to avoid a dislocated shoulder.

"Ow, Kurt, Jesus!" he protests, but Kurt is already heading to the bathroom to start the clean-up process, because he's got suit pants to quarantine and a new outfit to arrange and both his and Blaine's general appearance to fix up and that's gonna be a good half an hour all told when they've already been gone for maybe forty minutes or more.

Kurt Hummel does many things, but making everything looks fucking fabulous is what he does best.

Only the New Directions give them a second look when they finally make their way back downstairs, and of the club members only Quinn and Mercedes raise an eyebrow and shoot Kurt and Blaine looks of amused understanding. It's almost like they had never gone upstairs, except that Kurt is wearing a new (and stunning) suit and he's glowing inside and out and he can't get rid of this feeling in his body and soul that things are perfect, really perfect right now. Blaine walks through the living room beside him, groomed and pristine, smiling at guests and tracing the lines of Kurt's palm with his index finger.

It's already pretty late, but the party shows no sign of winding down; Kurt can see Carole feverishly refilling the big crystal punch bowl, and the general guest accessory right now is skewed too much towards eggnog or champagne and too far away from alcohol-absorbing food. Kurt squares his shoulders and allows himself only a single chaste kiss to Blaine's temple before he heads off to grab a platter of sugar cookies and make the rounds with his dad's poker friends.

A host's work is truly never done.

The flurry of accumulated duties (he was gone for quite a whole) keeps him busy and away from Blaine up until the party starts to let out around two a.m. and a flurry of taxis are being called for drunk guests and designated drivers are rounding up their charges and everyone is saying goodbye and swiping cookies in bundles of napkins and pulling on their thick winter coats. Rachel, now completely wasted, manages to slur out a teary goodbye before Finn picks her up and carries her out to the car she's sharing with Mercedes, Sam, and the good-naturedly sober Rory. Quinn and Artie hug him goodbye, Aunt Mildred wafts her stench over him as she ruffles his hair on her way out, Carole's book club buddy thanks him for the lovely evening and then he turns around to breathe for a second and there's Blaine, wearing his coat and clutching the leather-bound photo album to his chest.

"Leaving already?" Kurt asks with dismay; he'd hoped that Blaine might stick around to help with the preliminary cleanup, and maybe partake in a little fireside snuggling. Blaine shrugs apologetically.

"Mom and Dad need me to go pick them up from their friend's party. They're both smashed. I'm really sorry, I was planning to stay and help you guys clean," he says with genuine distress, and all Kurt's disgruntled feelings melt away. He reaches out and wraps his boyfriend in a tight hug, the album pressed up between them and their cheeks rubbing side-by-side. Blaine drops a kiss on Kurt's hair and Kurt feels a small tingle on the other side of his neck, where the egregious and rather impressive hickey has been hidden by a generous application of foundation. He squeezes Blaine close for a second, then steps back and raises an eyebrow.

"You know what I'm going to say?"

"Drive safe, and I will," Blaine sing-songs. Kurt rolls his eyes.

"And?"

"Text you when I'm home just in case."

"And?"

"Call you tomorrow to plan Christmas coffee."

"And?"

"And..." Blaine trails off, looking puzzled. Kurt purses his lips and sighs with exasperation. "Um, Kurt, I don't know."

"And I love you like crazy, you goober," Kurt says with a loud, obnoxious sigh. Blaine laughs before fake-pouting.

"That's a trick question, I'm the one who always says that."

"You never call me a goober," Kurt parries, and Blaine harrumphs and raises a hand in defeat.

"You win. I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?" he asks without waiting for an answer, brushing a kiss against Kurt's lips and pushing past a crush of people to the door. Kurt watches him go, smiling, arms crossed, loving Blaine so much it's kind of embarrassing, and then Blaine turns back and gives Kurt the most unbelievably adorable smile.

"Love you too," he says, clicking his tongue, and then he's gone, shiny re-gelled hair and black jacket and leather photo album disappearing out into the snow. The gum-wrapper ring on Kurt's finger brushes against the skin of his wrist and makes it tingle.

Kurt blinks once, twice, and turns towards the living room, where his father is lying on the couch waiting for a cold compress from Carole and the Christmas music is still pouring out of the radio, and as he moves he's here in the house, but he's also outside in the cold-the other part of him, his boyfriend, his lover, his love, walking through the yard and heading out into the world while the snow swirls and something quiet and exquisite and unbreakable stretches between the heart in his chest and the heart that Blaine carries away with him into the night.