Work Text:
1.
‘This is it,’ Blaine announces, licking each of his fingers one by one. ‘The best meal ever made. We found it.’
‘Agreed,’ Kurt says. His mouth is still full of fettucine alfredo, garbling his words. ‘We are geniuses. We deserve awards.’
‘In years to come, people will sing praises to the names of Kurt and Blaine Hummel-Anderson, for stumbling upon the best pasta recipe of all time.’
‘We should name a child after this, that’s how important it is.’
Blaine snorts. ‘Well, we are set to become ludicrously pretentious celebrities. Bad names are a requirement.’
‘Fettucine Alfredo?’
‘Little Feta! Yes!’
--
2.
The sizzle of the eggs hitting the pan is a comforting sound. It means normality, and structure, and a domesticity that makes Blaine feel safe in his own skin. The loft feels sleepy; New York has not yet awoken. Blaine shifts his bare feet on the cold floorboards, flips the eggs, and listens to the song of a sparrow perched on the window sill.
Kurt appears, heavy-eyed and sleep-muddled, shuffling over to rest his chin over Blaine’s shoulder. He yawns and blinks a couple times, then kisses Blaine’s cheek softly. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbles. ‘For breakfast.’
‘Anytime,’ Blaine tells him.
--
3.
The bed really is ridiculously tiny, is Blaine’s justification. He just wanted to flip them, so he could be on top. He didn’t mean to send Kurt toppling to the ground with a thud and a squeak. It just... happened.
Blaine can’t see Kurt, but he can practically feel the shock emanating from his silence.
And then Kurt starts laughing. Startled and high pitched, like he’s surprising himself, but utterly delighted. ‘Oh my god,’ Kurt giggles. ‘Ow. My ass is going to look like an eggplant in the morning. Blaine! Get your ass down here. We have unfinished business, buddy.’
--
4.
The wine is down to the last dregs; the cheese and crackers nothing but crumbs. Kurt is a heavy weight against Blaine’s chest, leaning back while he waves his wine glass in the air and pontificates his opinions.
‘I could beat Eminem,’ he declares. ‘And the other one. The – the Nicki person. Who do they think they are anyway?’
‘You’re better than them, baby,’ Blaine assures him loyally. ‘They ain’t got nothing on you.’
‘Damn right.’
Blaine shifts. ‘So what would be your rapper name?’
Kurt is silent, apparently thinking hard. Finally, he mumbles, ‘MC... Hot... Chocolate.’
‘Perfect,’ Blaine says.
--
5.
The leaves in the park are caught somewhere between green and red and gold, a shifting tapestry of colour above their heads. Blaine’s hand brushes Kurt’s while they make their way down the winding path, watching their breath dance and spiral in the cold air in front of them.
‘I want to bring our kids here,’ Blaine says into the silence. ‘You know, when they – happen. I just, I don’t want them to miss out on this beauty.’
Kurt’s eyes are soft. ‘We could bring the dog. Make it a Sunday tradition.’
Blaine smiles. ‘I like the sound of that.’
--
6.
Blaine rests his head back onto Kurt’s chest, feels the slow rise and fall of a deep sleep under his cheek. On the bedside table the alarm blinks its message – 3:02am. It’s quiet enough that he can hear the breathing of their roommates if he tries hard enough. In the morning they will wake with their usual clamour but for now, the night is still.
Kurt quietly snuffles underneath him and turns his head so that his breath puffs down onto Blaine’s hair.
Blaine pushes himself closer to Kurt’s body, and allows himself to fall back to sleep once more.
--
7.
‘Okay, that one – no, not that one, to his left.’
‘Chiselled, blonde and fabulous?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like... six.’
‘Are you kidding me? He’s at least an eight.’
‘His nose looks like a beak.’
‘Says the man with a crush on Alan Rickman.’
‘I have a crush on his talent.’
‘Blaine, do you listen to yourself when you talk?’
‘Not – like that, I mean his actual physical – stop laughing! Okay, wait, what about that one?’
‘Four.’
‘You’re joking. Seven. And a half!’
‘He’s wearing crocs. I’m being generous.’
‘Harsh. Okay... that one. No, to the right. I said right, Kurt, honestly – ‘
--
8.
The snick of the scissors is quiet in the evening, a rhythmic stop-start as Kurt takes a piece of hair, checks how it looks, takes some more. Blaine leans into his touch, enjoying the feeling of Kurt’s fingers pushing gently through his loose curls. ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ he murmurs.
‘I like it a little long. Your curls are lovely.’
‘They’re ridiculous,’ Blaine mutters.
‘They’re lovely,’ Kurt says firmly. ‘Don’t fight me on this, mister. Want a head massage?’
‘Was I that obvious?’ Blaine asks.
Kurt runs his hand through Blaine’s hair again, scritches gently at his skull. ‘Yes.’
--
9.
Kurt stumbles into the room, pawing frantically through his bag. ‘Blaine, honey, have you seen my – ‘
‘Your keys are on the bedside table,’ Blaine says without lifting his eyes from the TV.
‘Oh,’ Kurt sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s running late. Like usual. ‘Thanks. And do you know – ‘
‘Your metro card is in your wallet, like always.’
‘Right. And – ‘
‘I put your wallet by the front door.’
Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine’s cheek, and hurries for the door. ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he says fervently.
Blaine smiles at him. ‘I know, honey. I know.’
--
10.
When Blaine was seven years old, his grandmother had picked a broken-stemmed rose from the footpath and handed it to Blaine. ‘Don’t ever forget to smell the roses,’ she had informed him. ‘It’s the little things that make life worth living, is it not?’
Many years later, Blaine relays the story to Kurt in a night full of quiet voices and soft touches. The next morning, a single rose sits in the vase on the kitchen table. The next week, a different rose replaces it. In all the weeks after that, so it goes.
It’s the little things that matter.