Fic: For Better or for Worse (4/4)
Title: For Better or for Worse (4/4)
Fandom: Glee
Rating: R
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson, Mercedes Jones, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mike Chang, Sam Evans, Artie Abrams, Sugar Motta, Noah Puckerman, Lauren Zizes, Rachel Berry, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Matt Rutherford
Count: 9570 words, this part; 24,100 total
Summary: Kurt is an up-and-coming New York City wedding planner working on the biggest wedding of his career, and Blaine is the frontman of an unfortunately-named band from New Jersey. Booking an untested band with a distracting lead singer is either going to be the best or the worst decision that Kurt has ever made. He's not sure which, just yet.
Notes: For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unicorndust. To the real people who are mentioned here: god I hope you never come across this, and I'm sorry for what I have wrought.
* * *
As easy as it was to hold Blaine's hand and stare into each others' eyes in the cab, by the time they stumble through the door to Kurt's apartment, they're all over each other.
"Finn!" Kurt yells as they both frantically pull off coats and gloves and hats, arms tangling and elbows accidentally smacking each other. They both pause for a long moment. There's no answer. "Good," he says, and then he and Blaine messily collide again.
Blaine backs him toward the sofa and Kurt yanks Blaine's dangling scarf off just as they fall down together. Blaine grabs at him like he can't decide where to touch him first so he's just going for all of him, all at once, and god, his mouth is amazing. It's with slight reluctance that Kurt stops kissing him long enough to leave a curve of kisses up his jaw and suck high on his throat, but the noises that Blaine makes, and the way that he shifts and squirms under Kurt, are very worth it.
He pushes Kurt's blazer off his shoulders. Kurt pulls it down his own arms and drops it off the side of the couch, then Blaine wedges his hands between their chests and starts on the buttons of Kurt's vest, except they're both still trying to kiss and still heaving against each other, and when Blaine is on the lowest button, his wrist bumps Kurt's erection.
It's a wake-up call, if an unbelievably tempting one. Kurt hisses and says, "Wait," and Blaine freezes. Kurt pushes himself up to sit on his feet and helps Blaine up, and doesn't let go of his hands afterward. They're practically in each others' laps. "I'm old-fashioned," Kurt tells him. The wariness in Blaine's face fades a bit. "This isn't something I usually do without at least a few dinner dates first."
Blaine smiles immediately, and Kurt exhales a long, relieved breath. "Me neither." He leans in for a much slower kiss. Kurt sucks on his lower lip with just a hint of teeth, and Blaine sighs into his mouth. "Have dinner with me tonight," Blaine says, voice low and sweet.
"... On the other hand," Kurt says. "We did eat pizza together the first time we met." Blaine blinks at him, and then he understands and his smile flashes with enough wattage that it could probably light the tree at Rockefeller Center. "And I bought you a drink after Mercedes's set at the Garage."
"I made you dinner; we can just ignore that you were comatose at the time," Blaine contributes, and Kurt snorts. "So -- what do you think? Three dates?"
Kurt pretends to consider it. He doesn't have to consider it, not really. The thought of sex with Blaine isn't the same as the thought of sex with some random stagehand who Rachel set him up with (which has yet to happen even once, because Rachel is the worst yenta in the history of yentas) or a stranger who Kurt has just met at a bar. They know each other very well, Kurt is halfway to hopelessly in love with him, and they've practically been dating for two months. It's Blaine. "I think my conscience is assuaged." He crawls the rest of the way into Blaine's lap and loops his arms around his neck. "What do you think?"
"God, yes," Blaine says fervently, and they get carried away making out again, until Kurt finds himself rocking against Blaine's stomach, and then he drags Blaine into his bedroom, because that couch may be perfect for lying together and kissing, but he refuses to have sex on a piece of furniture that Finn has dripped maple syrup on.
"Hold that thought," he says, pointing at Blaine, who is deliciously rumpled and smiling and in his bed, and then he scrambles back out into the living room. He digs through his abandoned bag until he comes up with his iPod, and he finds the song that he's looking for, turns the volume all the way up, sets it on repeat, and leaves it on the kitchen counter.
Blaine shoots him an amused look when Kurt comes back with the tinny sound of Diana Ross's classic "Love Hangover" echoing from behind him. He has made himself at home in Kurt's bed, propped up on his side with his head in his hand. His jeans are lying in a heap out on the living room floor, and Kurt allows himself a long, long happy stare at muscled legs and tight boxer briefs and the way that the T-shirt he'd been wearing under his sweater is so thin it's practically translucent, as he shuts his bedroom door.
"Everything okay?" Blaine asks.
Kurt toes off his shoes and crawls into his bed. "It is now," he says, and he grabs Blaine around the waist and rolls him over as Blaine laughs.
Somehow, despite the facts that Blaine started out with less clothes on and that Kurt has been dying to do this for him, Kurt is the first one to wind up on his back with someone between his knees. He throws his head back into the pillows and tries not to thump Blaine in the small of his back with his heel as Blaine peppers the insides of his thighs with kisses and runs warm fingers up under the hem of his briefs.
"Can I--?" he asks, lifting his other hand to the waistband.
Kurt pushes himself up on his elbows so that he can shoot Blaine a wordless disbelieving stare.
"Okay, okay," Blaine laughs, peeling off the underwear as Kurt shimmies out of them. Kurt kicks them off once they're hanging around his right ankle, and then registers that Blaine has sat up, his hands on the tops of Kurt's thighs -- and is staring.
Kurt has every bit of confidence in himself and in his own attractiveness, but there's still a half a second where something uncertain shifts in the pit of his stomach. "Blaine?"
Blaine keels over and presses his face against Kurt's hip. "Oh Kurt, god," he groans, muffled by Kurt's skin, and Kurt would laugh at him, but -- he feels the same way, hot and wanting and giddy and overwhelmed. He reaches down and starts running his fingers through Blaine's curls.
Blaine apparently needs a moment to collect himself, but once he does, he turns his head on Kurt's thigh, close enough that warm puffs of air gust across Kurt's feverish skin as Blaine breathes, and he hesitates and glances up at Kurt.
Kurt takes a guess at what's going on. "I'm -- good to go," he says, and then internally cringes, because that's what his dad says to customers about finished cars at the garage. "I got tested after my last ex--" and he doesn't want to finish that sentence, not really; Blaine is aware of what went down with Diego, anyway, and it would be spectacularly unromantic to bring it up at a moment like this. This conversation in general is spectacularly unromantic, but necessary. "But I probably have condoms, somewhere, if you want," he goes on, hearing his voice pitch upward, "or you don't have to--"
Blaine wraps a hand around him, and Kurt shivers and stops trying to talk. "I'm clean, too," Blaine says, his other hand stroking Kurt's hip. He's looking up at Kurt as he settles down on his stomach, and there's not a word that describes the set of his mouth and the light in his eyes so well as 'adoring.' "I trust you." Kurt blinks rapidly and nods in the face of Blaine's soft expression, and Blaine apparently takes that as encouragement, because he sinks his mouth down over him.
Kurt is forced to reevaluate his assessment of Blaine's mouth, from 'amazing' to 'absolutely out of this world.' He inhales sharply, scrabbling at the sheets. He is going to last about five seconds; he's been so hard since the elevator, and he has wanted this so badly for months, and they were already rutting on the couch, and Blaine is sucking, now, and letting Kurt rock a little bit into his mouth, his hands guiding his hips.
Kurt covers his face with his hands and says, "Ohmygod," well aware that his voice has gone strangled and high. Blaine makes a muffled noise that sounds like a moan (a vibrating moan) and has to pin Kurt's hips to the bed after he instinctively jerks too hard.
"Sorry," Kurt says into the heels of his hands; "sorry, sorry--"
Blaine whuffs something that somehow sounds reassuring, his thumbs rubbing circular patterns into Kurt's skin, and then the tight ring of suction slips lower and Kurt is going to die. It takes him a long moment to register just how hard the bed is shaking, enough that it can't just be from him, and he lowers his hands and looks down.
The sight of Blaine's head between his legs is honestly almost too much to take; feeling it is incredible enough, but looking down and realizing that yes, it's Blaine who's taking him apart -- it's unreal. Then Kurt realizes that the long, lean line of Blaine's tan back right down to his perfect ass is rocking, because Blaine is rubbing himself into the mattress. Kurt shuts his eyes and pants.
Blaine lifts one hand off a hip and slides unsteady fingers around the base of Kurt's cock, squeezing what he can't reach with his lips and his tongue, and Kurt is distinctly aware of the scrape of a guitar callus, which should probably be unpleasant but instead sends another hot jolt to the tension pooling and roiling in the pit of his stomach. He yelps, breathing ragged, and clutches at Blaine's shoulders and the back of his neck, and Blaine traces a vein up with his tongue and then laps just at the head, still stroking. Kurt's thighs start to tremble beyond his ability to control.
He squeezes Blaine's shoulder tightly, which hopefully suffices as enough of a warning, because he can't string coherent words together and he can feel orgasm barreling down on him like a runaway freight train. Blaine, because he is an amazing ruthless bastard, dives back down again, jacking hard and sucking harder, pulling Kurt in by the hip with his free hand to encourage him to give tiny thrusts into his mouth. It only takes three before Kurt is shuddering and seizing up, and then coming and coming and coming.
Kurt doesn't swear much, because he tends to find it unimaginative when there are so many more interesting ways to communicate, but he gasps, "Fuck" at his bedroom ceiling when his body has finally gone limp and he's starting to go soft and too-sensitive against Blaine's tongue. Blaine pulls back and laughs, low and rough and tender and shaky, and Kurt feels at sea.
Which, he abruptly realizes, is probably because Blaine has laid his head on Kurt's thigh and drawn his knees up and is stroking himself hard and fast enough that the entire bed is shaking like a ship in a storm.
"Blaine, Blaine," Kurt says, grabbing at his hair with one hand and his elbow with the other and weakly tugging, and Blaine gets the point. He scrambles up in the bed and Kurt comes face to face with Blaine's desperate about-to-come face, which is somehow both ridiculous and the hottest thing he has ever seen.
This is not a situation that calls for finesse. Kurt fumbles and grabs his silky-hot damp erection, and Blaine makes a choked grateful noise and throws a leg over Kurt's hip. He hides his hot face in Kurt's shoulder and groans, "Ah, ah, ah" and thrusts into the tight circle of Kurt's fist while Kurt mouths at his neck and twists on every upstroke. Within a few seconds flat, he gives a sharp cry and spills across Kurt's stomach and hand, shaking. Blaine slumps, his arm tightening around Kurt's waist, and they lie together in breathing-hard sticky silence.
"Fuck," says Blaine's muffled, scratchy voice, and Kurt chuckles and kisses every available inch of him until Blaine finally lifts his bleary-eyed head from Kurt's shoulder. "That was amazing," Blaine tells him. "You're amazing."
"Maybe next time, we'll both be amazing for more than five minutes," Kurt says, and Blaine, thankfully, takes it in the spirit in which it was intended and cracks up laughing.
* * *
By the time that keys rattle, they're half-decent; they'd cleaned up and started getting dressed again, since Blaine had promised to meet Matt to help him go over the presentation of his MA dissertation that he's giving tomorrow, except they have this problem where they keep getting distracted by kisses. Kurt can still barely believe that this is something he can do now; that when he wants to reach out and kiss Blaine, he can.
They're back in bed again, on top of the duvet, Kurt with pants on and Blaine's cardigan half-buttoned, when they hear it.
Blaine raises his head and blinks at Kurt as they hear the front door open. Kurt shakes his head and says, "Wait for it."
There is a long moment of silence, Diana Ross's tinny voice barely audible.
"--Oh, crap," says a distinctive mutter; the keys drop noisily, Finn swears, shoes scrape on the floor, the keys fall again, and then the door shuts.
Blaine laughs while Kurt strokes his sides and uses the opportunity to start buttoning his own shirt. Blaine makes a sound of protest.
"I will need to put clothes back on eventually," Kurt points out.
"Not yet," Blaine says, content. "I get to look at you a little while longer."
"A little while," he agrees, smiling, and he lets Blaine roll off of him only because he replaces the position by curling up at Kurt's side. They watch each other quietly; Blaine reaches out and gently brushes his cheek. Somewhere in the apartment, Kurt's phone rudely beeps, and he frowns. He lifts his head. "What time is it?"
"Uhh." Blaine checks his watch, because the two items of clothing that Kurt never quite managed to get off of him, in their rush, were one sock and that watch. "Six."
Kurt shuts his eyes, and he hears and feels Blaine nestle closer. "You've got to go, don't you?"
"I'm sorry," he says, without opening his eyes. "I have a casual dinner meeting with prospective clients in an hour."
"It's okay," Blaine promises, hand sweeping in long, slow strokes up and down his back. "I was originally supposed to meet Matt a half an hour ago anyway."
Kurt looks at him. He's tucked in close, watching Kurt with those gorgeous brown eyes under long eyelashes, face content. "This is going to be hard, Blaine," he says. "Wedding season is upon us, and your schedule, and my schedule -- I can't slow it down."
"I know," Blaine says; "we'll make it work," and he leans in and kisses him on the mouth with a silly audible mwah.
And the thing is, Kurt believes him.
* * *
"No," Kurt says two months later, and then: "no, what do you think you're-- Fold left, then, right, then -- yes, that's an improvement; thank you."
"Kurt," says a voice from behind him, as the waiter scuttles away with a now-properly-folded napkin; "terrifying the servers is not an efficient use of your time!"
"It was a hideous attempt at napkin origami, Rachel," Kurt says, glancing down at his clipboard and checking off 'napkins.' "It had to be done."
Rachel stomps around to his front, when it becomes obvious that he isn't going to turn to face her. "You're a terrible boss," she informs him. "The movers want to know where the wedding party's table goes."
"Did they not even look at the itemized table map that I drew them?" Kurt asks, and then he sighs. "No, of course they didn't." He points with his pen. "To the left of the stage, to the right of the ice sculpture."
Rachel whistles, shrill and impressively loud, and shouts the directions to the two men carrying one of the longest tables. Kurt presses a hand to his near ear. Rachel's enthusiasm and ability to project have made her a very useful temporary assistant thus far, but he's fairly certain he is going to go deaf by the end of the night.
"Crisis handled," Rachel says firmly, and he doesn't bother pointing out that it wasn't a crisis. "The guests are going to start arriving soon, aren't they?"
"Don't remind me," Kurt groans. "We're still setting the tables."
The gleam in her eye is a warning that Rachel wasn't thinking about what still has to be done to get the ballroom ready. Kurt turns a wary eye on her. "Rachel Berry, you aren't going to confess your undying love to Barbra Streisand, are you?"
"No. Your instructions were very explicit," Rachel says. "And four pages long, and I signed them, like you said that I had to."
He studies her for a long moment. "You brought copies of your resume, didn't you?"
"--No," Rachel says, clutching her stack of to-do lists and programs and various papers closer to her chest.
"Rachel, anything that you do will reflect on me. You cannot use this as an opportunity to network."
She fixes him with an unimpressed look. "I know that," she says, and she leans up and kisses him on the cheek.
"What was that for?" Kurt drawls warily.
"Look at this place, Kurt," Rachel says, gesturing outward, and he does look. It's still in chaos, but he can see the beginnings of something that will be, if he dares say so himself, brilliant; the 'classy nightclub with hints of the 1960s' feel that he first pitched to Robyn and Patrick a year ago. "It's beautiful. Everything is going really well and you're doing an amazing job. Breathe, okay?" She smiles up at him, and, after a few seconds, Kurt smiles back.
"Okay," he says. He lets a few seconds pass. "You look lovely."
Rachel beams (she does look lovely, dressed in simple black Milly Justene with her hair pulled back off her face, the only ostentatious pop of color a bright red lip) and wipes his cheek clear of lipstick with her thumb. "They're going to be really happy with what you've put together for them," she promises, and they smile at each other. Then the moment is broken. "All right, people!" Rachel shouts, flouncing toward the men who are moving in the tables and chairs. "Let's go, chop chop!"
Kurt watches her go, bemused and fond, and turns away to go check on the catering.
"No," Lauren says, the second that he steps into the kitchen. "Uh uh. I don't do micro-managing."
"I'm not micro-managing," he says, craning his neck to get a look at the team that she has putting together plates of appetizers all along the counters. "I'm checking on your prog--" He squawks as she none-too-gently gives him a push toward the swinging double doors.
"You're micro-managing," says Lauren flatly. (He isn't.) "And tell Puckerman that the next time he comes in here and gets in my way, I'm going to rupture something that he really doesn't want ruptured, mmkay?"
" 'Rupture someth--' " Kurt repeats incredulously to himself, the doors swinging shut behind him, and then the hotel's events coordinator is calling for him and he goes to compare notes. By the time that they finish discussing schedules and timing and the bartender that the hotel is providing, the tables are nearly all ready; the movers are putting up the last of the (gorgeous) chairs, and Rachel and Finn are directing the hotel staff in straightening tablecloths and the proper way to display the centerpieces.
Tina sweeps in just then, several bouquets of flowers in hand; the person walking behind her is hidden behind the enormous armful of lilies of the valley that he's carrying, but Kurt is 85% sure that it's Mike. He'd volunteered to help out at the wedding after overhearing Kurt tell Blaine that Mercedes wasn't going to be able to make it thanks to a gig, and he and Tina haven't been more than a foot from each others' sides since first making eye contact at Kurt's come-to-Jesus six A.M. team meeting. Kurt will be very happy for both of them, he's sure, once the day is over.
"Kurt!" Tina calls. "The church looks great, so we're switching over to set-up here." He flashes her a thumbs up and ducks around the movers to go to the table where the baker and her assistants are putting the cake tiers together.
The cake is stunning. Neither Patrick nor Robyn are fans of the twee or the over-designed, so it's among the most simple that Kurt has ever commissioned; enormous, but simple. Six broad Valencia orange layers frosted in perfectly smooth (white) orange-flavored buttercream, not a flower or a filigree to be seen, with two midnight blue fondant-and-gumpaste ribbons each ringing a layer. If Kurt hadn't known better thanks to consultations with Marina, he would swear that they were actual ribbon. Marina is currently on a stepladder and -- with the help of two taller women -- is slowly lowering the second-to-last layer onto the support pole running up through the center of the cake.
Kurt double-takes at the leggy blonde assistant. "Brittany?" Brittany S. Pierce is one of the bakers who he had considered before ultimately hiring Marina; Brittany's cake designs were breathtaking, but whimsical, complex, and strange far beyond what Robyn and Patrick wanted. Her attention span, from what Kurt remembers from that bewildering consultation, is much the same.
"Hi," Brittany says cheerfully over her shoulder, while Marina tells her to hold her hands steady. "I really like your wedding; the penguin at the door was awesome."
It takes Kurt a half a second to realize that she's probably referring to one of the hotel staff members, who are wearing tuxedos.
Marina finally exhales once the layer is in place, and dusts off her hands. She's a cheerful, short Asian woman in her mid-40s who never seems to wear anything but chef's coats and Crocs. Her cakes are beautiful and elegant enough that Kurt overlooks it, but seriously: pink Crocs. "This sweetheart offered to give me a hand when a few of us met for drinks and I was complaining about how damn big this cake is for just me and Anushka to carry," she says. "Hi Kurt; we're just about ready to go here."
"It looks incredible," he says, sincerely.
"Tell me the same thing when it makes it through the reception without cracking the cake board," Marina says wryly. "Come on, next one." Brittany and the other woman -- apparently Anushka -- carefully pull the topmost layer out of a cardboard box.
"Is that a serious concern?"
"Probably not," grunts Marina, the three women slowly lifting the circular layer. "But I can't stay to keep an eye on it -- play at my kid's school tonight -- so Brittany's gonna stick around just in case."
"I have emergency buttercream," Brittany tells him seriously.
"Steady hands, Britt-Britt!" Marina orders, and Kurt is pretty sure that watching them is going to give him an aneurism, so he leaves them to it.
The band is hard at work on the process that Kurt has never quite gotten a handle on, tuning and moving drums and juggling dozens of cables and amplifiers and instruments. He allows himself just a moment to stand back and self-congratulate on how amazing they look. The boys are in charcoal skinny-leg suit pants with midnight blue jackets that catch the light beautifully. From a distance, the jackets just look like they have a hint of a sheen in the material, but up close, one can see the subtle, intricate patterns winding through the brocade. They're paired with white dress shirts and thin matte black ties; not enough to look like costumes, but more than enough to invoke the Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons vibe that Kurt had been aiming for. Sugar, meanwhile, took to her full-skirted blue vintage dress like a duck to water as soon as she figured out that the bodice was fitted and she had enough room to pound the foot pedals of her drum set. She likes it enough that she happily added a pair of white wrist-length gloves on her own initiative. Kurt isn't sure if she plans to drum in the gloves, but if he can, he figures, more power to her.
Sam got the haircut that Kurt ordered, Sugar's hair and makeup are flawless (though he'd had to order a tone-down on the cats-eye liner), Puck trimmed the mohawk so that it looks less like something died on his head, Artie is wearing what look like a new pair of glasses, and Blaine-- Kurt devotes several precious seconds to smugly admiring Blaine. His boyfriend looks like heaven, hair slicked and shoes shined to a tee; a sixties crooner come to life. All together, they look every inch the eye candy that Kurt had envisioned. Blaine meets Kurt's eye as he bends over an amp to check a cable, and he smiles brightly.
"Puck," Kurt says, taking the last few steps to bring him to the foot of the stage. "Stop harassing my caterer. She has threatened to rupture something that is very dear to you if you go in that kitchen one more time."
All of the guys wince, Sam going so far as to -- instinctively, Kurt thinks -- shield his crotch with his guitar.
"That's bull! I wasn't harassing her!" Puck defends. "I was trying to get her number!"
Kurt lifts his eyebrows.
"She's smokin' and she won't give it to me," Puck says sulkily, like constantly bothering the woman is the obvious solution.
"Shocking," says Kurt in a deadpan, though he is actually shocked -- and not in an unpleasant way -- to hear Puck describe Lauren as 'smoking.' "She has a job to do and she isn't falling for your dubious charms. Leave her alone." He turns to the rest of them. "You look fabulous," he says, careful not to let his gaze linger on Blaine any longer than the rest of them.
They all smile; Sugar says, "I know, right??" from where she is dressed like a perfect lady while sitting like a 275-pound man, knees splayed, behind her drums.
"You have the set list, right?"
"We've totally got this, Kurt," Artie says. "It's gonna be baller!" He fist-bumps Sam.
"We're very prepared," Blaine assures him, warm. "The set list is perfect, and we've learned just about every Broadway hit of the last 50 years for when drunk guests start wanting to sing."
"Miss Saigon is really depressing," says Sam.
"And the band name?" Kurt asks.
They all glance at each other, and Kurt immediately feels suspicion crawl in. "You're going to like it," Blaine promises, and this time, Kurt does maintain eye contact for too long. Puck starts making kissy noises while Sugar laughs, and Kurt rolls his eyes as he steps away. Behind him, he can hear Blaine starting to earnestly lecture Puck on how important it is that they keep his and Kurt's relationship under wraps while they're performing here, for the sake of Kurt's professional reputation. Kurt smiles and, the next time that he has a moment to himself, texts Blaine a heart.
* * *
Kurt's favorite part of every wedding reception is the magical twilight hour in which the guests are fed and drunk enough to be dancing and happy, but not drunk enough for the bridesmaids and groomsmen (or bridesmaids and bridesmaids, and groomsmen and groomsmen, or bridesmaid-bridesmaid-groomsman -- Kurt has seen it all) to start pairing off. They're not there just yet at this wedding, but it's coming; he can feel it.
The wedding itself, held at a gorgeous UU church in Brooklyn, reportedly went off without a hitch. Kurt wasn't there thanks to being hard at work on the reception, but he saw the church this morning and it was stunning, and he's hearing talk of tears among the guests.
The ballroom is packed now, the guests having trickled in from Brooklyn over the course of an hour or two, and the wine and champagne are flowing freely as the place roars with conversation and laughter. It's going spectacularly well so far, with the only exception a brief tense moment wherein Kurt realized that a server had accidentally swapped two placecards, putting Sean Penn and Madonna at the same table, but he switched the cards before anyone was the wiser.
Lauren's appetizers are a smash, the cool-blue mood lighting on the white cake has drawn a steady stream of ooh's and ahh's and cameraphone pictures, and the band is playing quiet music, nobody singing just yet. Because Blaine and Artie are both ridiculously talented multi-instrumentalists, Artie has taken over piano duties while Blaine plays violin. Kurt listens for a half a second and is fairly sure that they're playing a Coldplay song; not a bad -- if a ballsy -- choice, given that Chris Martin is in this room somewhere.
This is by far the biggest, most star-filled wedding that Kurt has ever put together. He actually fits in and looks like a guest here, though the iPad and the fact that he never sits still probably give him away; most of the time, he's very overdressed -- and sometimes, depending on the two people getting married and where their families travel from, very conspicuously gay -- at his weddings. But among a room full of the New York arts and music scenes' finest, an impeccable burgundy tuxedo with a black bow tie: not so strange.
He's leaned against the wall by the kitchen doors, Lauren allowing him access now that the initial rush of appetizers is over with. She only let him stay if he took the glass of very expensive wine that she shoved at him ("nobody can micro-manage when they're drinking Château Margaux 1995; stand there, look pretty, and don't tell me what to do"), but Kurt was just pleased to be able to get a look at the dinner plates before they went out to the guests.
(They looked unbelievable.)
It's a good vantage point to take in the room from. They're not quite at his favorite part of the evening yet, but this isn't half bad -- everyone clearly enjoying their meals, the grooms deep in conversation at their table. Robyn laughs at something that Patrick has said, and Patrick looks like he almost might smile. Flitting in and out in a floaty green dress, Quinn snaps a photo of the moment and then ducks out of the way again, two cameras hanging from their straps around her neck.
Kurt doesn't, frankly, have much to do anymore. He's primarily here to smooth things over in case of an emergency; the wildest (most exhilarating, but also worst) part of his job is over with now that the vendors are hired and wrangled, the venues are set up, the guests are here, and the grooms look happy.
A gorgeous ballroom filled with people whose autographs he would beg for if he met them in any other setting is a pretty wonderful place for him to twiddle his thumbs, though, he thinks.
And Lauren was right; this wine is amazing.
Robyn is tapping his wine glass with a knife, and the band stops in the middle of their voiceless rendition of "The Scientist"; the room quiets down expectantly, and Kurt throws himself into action, scrambling over to the stage.
"Mic, mic," he hisses to Blaine, who blinks at him for a second, then says, "Oh!" and twists his microphone out of its stand and hands it down to him.
Robyn and Patrick have risen out of their seats, the best man and maids of honor looking up at them from the table the five of them are sharing. (Kurt really, really wants the autograph of one of the maids of honor.)
"Patrick and I wanted to thank you for being with us today," says Robyn, and then Kurt speed-walks over and hands him the wireless microphone. "--Thank you, Kurt," he says, shooting him a bemused look, and Kurt smiles and sidles back out of the way. Robyn taps the foam, the sound echoing through the ballroom. "Is this thing on?" A few rowdier guests catcall. "Wonderful. As I was saying -- today has been a long time coming," he says, glancing at Patrick, "and we're very happy that you were all able to share it with us. Even if you are only here for the very fine free booze, you greedy fucks."
Kurt leans back against the stage, conscious of Blaine standing just over his left shoulder, and he laughs along with most of the room.
"We've just got a few things to say before we go back to letting you get tanked in peace."
"You mean before you let us take the microphone and embarrass the hell out of you," says the best man, and the two maids of honor beam in agreement as three tables in the front -- Robyn's four brothers, three sisters, their spouses and kids, and his 90-year-old mother, from what Kurt remembers of his seating charts -- applaud with particularly raucous approval.
"Yeah, whatever," says Robyn, drawing more laughter. "Like I was saying -- we wanted to say thanks to the First Unitarian Congregational Society in Brooklyn, for letting all your sorry asses darken their door, and because I don't think either of us ever figured we'd get married, legally, in a church."
Oh, God, Kurt is not going to get choked up at this. He's not; he doesn't do this. He hasn't cried since the very first wedding that he planned, when he was 16 and thought it would be the epitome of romance and class to have a cage full of glitter-pooping doves. He takes a long drink of wine.
"And thanks to everybody who made this so good; the food, the decor, the drinks -- just wait til you taste the cake and see our first dance. None of you dicks are gonna have a wedding that's anywhere near as good as this one."
Kurt smiles over the rim of his wine glass, so hard that he feels like his face might split. The six-figure paycheck was an amazing motivator, it's true, but this is the true payoff; this lovely foul-mouthed moment, right now.
And then it gets surreal.
"We wanted to thank one person in particular, too," Robyn says, and Kurt nearly drops his wineglass when Robyn turns and looks directly at him. "Kurt Hummel over there planned every single inch of today, and most of you know what it's like to work with Patrick and me."
There's a ripple of knowing laughter. Kurt is very, very aware that he looks like a deer in the headlights and probably has wine stains at the corners of his mouth, as 400 very important people stare at him. He stands frozen.
Patrick leans in to the microphone and says, "Anything particularly stylish or innovative that you see tonight was Kurt's idea."
Continuing to be the greatest boyfriend that Kurt has ever had, Blaine somehow realizes that Kurt is in danger of splashing wine all over himself, and he reaches down and gently pulls the glass out of Kurt's limp fingers. Kurt is fairly sure that it's Blaine who does it, anyway, since he physically cannot move to turn around.
"Thank you, Kurt," Robyn says, tossing him a wink, and then he turns back toward his captive audience and starts telling a raunchy story about the first time that he and Patrick met, while Patrick looks increasingly embarrassed.
"Kurt?" murmurs a voice from just over Kurt's shoulder.
"I didn't know that Patrick could get embarrassed," Kurt says dimly.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm--" He takes a deep breath; a few guests at the nearest tables are still looking at him, and he draws himself up and forces a smile past his shock. "I'm fine." He glances back. Blaine is crouched on the edge of the stage, Kurt's wineglass in his hand and a concerned expression turned on Kurt.
"It's not really normal wedding etiquette to thank the planner," Kurt tells him. "My job is primarily to make everything so smooth and effortless that no one knows that I even exist."
"So," says Blaine, slowly, "what they just did was a really big deal?"
Kurt can't even bring himself to answer sardonically. "Can I please have my alcohol back now?"
* * *
After Robyn and Patrick's speech (and after the wedding party do, in fact, manage to embarrass the hell out of the grooms, much to the delight of the guests), Kurt finds it very, very difficult to keep an eye on the proceedings from the background. Every time he tries to slip from place to place, someone manages to corner him to ask about the centerpieces, to praise the flowers, to demand to know where he found the baker, or, most overwhelmingly of all, to say that they're throwing a party/getting their daughter married/going to the moon (that last one was Brittany, still keeping vigil over the cake) and want to discuss with him.
He has so many business cards tucked into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket that he's fairly sure they could stop a bullet.
"Somebody's a busy boy," says a familiar voice, when he finally manages to escape behind the bar. The bartender shot him a sympathetic (interested, and Kurt isn't leading him on on purpose, since he does have an incredible boyfriend who is about 30 feet away, but he really, really wants a martini and a moment to himself) glance and let Kurt hide while he fixed a jack and coke at the other end of the bar.
Kurt, straining gin and vermouth into a chilled cocktail glass, barely spares Santana a glance. "If you're standing here talking to me, you're not doing the job that I hired you to do."
"Easy, Mr. Wilson," she scoffs. "Quinn's on the grooms gettin' their first dance on, and I'm totally capable of multitasking." As if to demonstrate, she snaps off a quick shot over her shoulder without looking.
"Did you seriously just make a Dennis the Menace reference?" Kurt asks incredulously.
"Whatever," she says, which he's pretty sure means yes. "Listen, who's the honey guarding the cake?"
"Seriously?"
"Like I said," Santana says, half a purr and half confrontational, "I can multitask like a mofo. What's her deal?"
"That's Brittany," Kurt says sharply. "She bakes incredible wedding cakes and she's making sure that this one doesn't crack and fall to pieces before anyone can actually cut into it." He puts the strainer down, realizes that the bartender is now shooting a dubious look down the bar at him, and hurriedly slides out from behind the safety of the bar with his misbegotten drink in hand.
"Huh," says Santana, glancing over at the cake, where Brittany is standing by and having a conversation with an increasingly bewildered-looking woman. "Okay. I can work with that."
"Santana," Kurt says, as the soft instrumental strains of "At Last" come to an end and the guests applaud Patrick and Robyn's first dance as husbands. "Brittany, she's -- unique."
"I know," she says, softer than he has heard her yet. Then she seems to realize what she has just said, and she tears her eyes away from the cake. "Uh, yeah, Hummel. I kind of figured that out when she asked m--"
"Hi!" says an amplified voice, and Kurt's eyes snap toward the stage. Blaine is standing in front of the mic stand, harmonica in its cradle around his neck, handsome as ever. When he adds, "I hope you're all ready to get your dancing shoes on!" he's greeted with cheers.
"Your assistant, huh?" Santana asks, grinning obnoxiously.
"Many happy returns to Patrick and Robyn," he continues; "we are Rough Around the Edges, and we'll be here for the rest of the evening!"
Santana takes a picture right in Kurt's stunned face; then she condescendingly pats him on the side of the face, laughing quietly, and slinks away toward the cake.
The band launches into the opening bars of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," the Lauryn Hill version, with all of them singing the backup vocals. Blaine comes in, strong and gorgeous, on, "You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you."
"Wow, they're -- surprisingly good," says a man standing in a small knot of movers and shakers a few feet away.
"I would hit the lead singer like the fist of an angry god," adds a 50-something woman who Kurt knows he recognizes from the back of a playbill somewhere, and the group dissolves into hoots of laughter.
Kurt shoots the woman a startled, scandalized look, but as he keeps eavesdropping -- and keeps listening to Blaine singing a love song, in a band that he named after something that Kurt said -- and listening to their praise, he lets himself give a small, slow smile.
* * *
This wedding slides very quickly from the 'everyone buzzed and happy' to 'everyone drunk and happy' stage, and honestly, Kurt loves the hell out of it. He's going to keep his mouth shut because he knows what's good for him, but he has witnessed so much hilarious behavior from famous people in the last two hours. He can't wait to tell Carole what he saw her favorite soap star doing on the dance floor with a bottle of whiskey and a scarf.
So when he opens the coat closet -- because helping to find Sutton Foster's wrap isn't part of his job description, but it's an excuse to talk to Sutton Foster -- and finds two people making out in it, he rolls his eyes and slams the door on them.
Then his eyes widen. He reopens the door.
Finn and Rachel stare back at him, red lipstick smeared all around Finn's face.
"Uhhh," says Finn.
"What!" Kurt manages.
"Kurt!" Rachel, thank god, doesn't lose the gift of speech even in incredibly awkward, bizarre moments. "We -- we should have told you, but we weren't certain at first that it was going to work out, so we didn't want to drag other people into it, and we didn't know if you would approve--"
"And then it was really hot sneaking around," Finn says, like a dumbass, and Rachel elbows him in the ribs.
"How long has this been going on?" Kurt demands.
"Um."
"Five months, one week, and three days," Rachel says matter-of-factly, and both men stare at her.
Well. Now Kurt knows why the two of them have been so incredibly weird for the last few months. He probably would have figured it out, he thinks, if he hadn't been so stressed out, and so wrapped up with Blaine.
"Okay," says Kurt. "I'm -- happy for you, really, but I'm going to close this door now, and you can stop sneaking around tomorrow. Does that sound reasonable?"
"Very," Rachel says, as Finn blankly nods, and Kurt shuts the door on them and goes to find another drink and watch his boyfriend sing the hell out of Britney Spears.
He knows from experience as a spectator at many, many wedding receptions that there is truth to the old cliché about people getting lonely and hooking up at weddings, but between Puck still doing his damndest to impress an unimpressed Lauren, Tina leaving with Mike to get coffee after finishing with the flowers, Santana following Brittany around like a puppy in spike heels, what Kurt had seen happening on the dance floor between two female Gossip Girl costars, and now Finn and Rachel, this is getting ridiculous.
* * *
By the end of the night, Kurt may be a little drunk. Might be. Only a little bit.
Patrick and Robyn left an hour ago, and Robyn definitely was drunk, because he hugged Kurt (and, fine, Kurt knows he was drunk even then, too, because he allowed it to happen) and then smugly went on his way out to the car while Patrick long-sufferingly shepherded him. Robyn was very aware, Kurt could tell, of what they did for Kurt with that speech, and of the business cards burning a hole in his pocket.
("Thank you," Kurt had said, quiet, while his face was smushed into Robyn's shoulder, and that was the extent of the discussion.)
The reception has devolved into a general party, with most of the more-staid guests now gone. Someone on the dance floor apparently brought a supply of glowsticks, because there are an awful lot of them being worn as crowns and necklaces over fancy hairstyles and thousand-dollar gowns. This is the most absurd wedding that Kurt has ever planned. He loves it.
"I love it," he says to the person coming up behind him, and there's a chuckle.
"Not that you aren't very charming right now, but I thought the whole idea was professionalism?" Blaine asks, leaning against the table beside him.
"Screw professionalism," Kurt says. "Robyn Gantry and Patrick Tucker publicly declared their love for me. I'm never going to be short on clients again. I can hail every taxi in this fucking city."
Okay, Kurt may be on the very drunk side of drunk.
Blaine looks like he thinks Kurt is the most adorable thing on the face of the planet, and also like he's trying not to start laughing hysterically.
Kurt frowns. "Wait. You're here." Leaning against the table with his hip cocked, Blaine thumbs over his shoulder at the stage, and Kurt realizes that Puck is rapping a spirited duet of "Fat-Bottomed Girls" with Lin-Manuel Miranda.
"Oh," says Kurt, "my, god."
"If he thinks that's going to win Lauren over, he's probably got another thing coming," Blaine says.
"Did he--?"
"He dedicated it to her."
"Oh my god," Kurt says again. "This is my favorite wedding ever."
Blaine laughs. Kurt loves the crinkly thing that the skin around his eyes does. Loves it. "It's definitely the most amazing one I've ever been to," he says, and Kurt preens at the blatant compliment. "So this is the first time I've seen you without any admirers all night."
"Jealous?" Kurt flirts.
"No," Blaine says. "I have this amazing boyfriend who I know cares about me."
They smile enormously at each other. Kurt says frankly, "I think all of my admirers are shitfaced now."
Blaine, because he is the best boyfriend, doesn't say anything about how shitfaced or non-shitfaced Kurt himself may be. "I think you're probably right. It's their loss."
"Also," Kurt says, starting to wind his arms around Blaine's neck, and Blaine looks surprised and then tries to gracefully slide out from under the grab but Kurt persists, "I have a boyfriend with a very interesting band name."
"Kurt," says Blaine, suddenly serious, "you were really clear about us not broadcasting our relationship at this reception; you thought it could damage your image if you canoodled with vendors."
Kurt thinks it's sweet that Blaine listens to him closely enough that he can repeat exact phrases like that. "Blaine," he says, tone equally even. "We are now in the stage of the reception where everything turns into a big drunken rave; apparently literally, at this wedding -- did you see the glowsticks?"
He doesn't crack a smile, or let Kurt pull him in, and Kurt sighs. "Nobody's going to notice," he says, "and even if they do, I don't care. I'm with you; it's not like I'm going to run around making out with every caterer or napkin folder that I hire," (napkin folder? Blaine mouths), "or like you got the job because we were sleeping together."
"I did get the job because you stalked me on YouTube, though," says Blaine, starting to smile a little bit, and Kurt narrows his eyes and says, "Finn is a dirty traitor."
"You're really okay with this?" Blaine asks. "It's not just the--?" He gestures discreetly at the nearly-empty martini glass in Kurt's hand.
Kurt spits him on a look that is only slightly unfocused. "Blaine," he says. "It's one in the morning, all of the really important people have gone home and left their 20-something kids here, the most stressful event I've ever planned in my entire life is finally over, and I want to dance with my boyfriend."
Blaine reaches out and takes the martini from him, downs the last sip, and puts it on the empty table behind him. He holds his hand out to Kurt, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "May I have this dance?"
"Yes," Kurt says, smiling too hard to be properly haughty as he takes Blaine's hand. "Yes, you may."
He makes a strange gesture over Kurt's shoulder, and the music abruptly shifts to a very familiar slow guitar introduction, someone onstage tapping their foot to the beat.
"Do you want...?" Blaine looks toward the seething mass of sweaty humanity that is the dance floor, which is making complainy noises about the sudden slowdown in the musical tone.
"Not even a little bit," Kurt says firmly. He wraps himself around Blaine, the brocade of his suit jacket lovely under Kurt's hands, and Blaine presses his cheek against the side of Kurt's jaw and sways from foot to foot with him. They dance alone, way in the back, between empty tables.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," Artie croons. He really does have a beautiful voice, Kurt registers distantly. "Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise."
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," Kurt sings along softly, and he feels Blaine stiffen against him in surprise, "take these sunken eyes and learn to see." Blaine's arms tighten around him. "All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free."
He lets Artie go on alone, and Blaine draws his head back so that he can look Kurt in the eye. Kurt can't quite make sense of his expression, and he doesn't think it's the martinis that are giving him trouble; it's -- complicated. Open and soft and wondering and a little wounded, like Kurt just knocked the breath out of him.
"Kurt," he says, quiet.
On the other hand, Kurt knows that it is the martinis that make him want to demand, 'What?' so he keeps his mouth shut.
Blaine blinks several times, his eyes looking almost wet, and then he says thickly, "I just really love you."
Kurt feels his smile curve up shakily, and he leans in and presses it against Blaine's mouth in a chaste kiss. "I love you, too," he says softly.
A shutter clicks. "Gag me," announces Santana, and then she stalks away toward the dance floor.
He rolls his eyes, and Blaine smiles, looking more like himself again. "You're sure I can't convince you to come sing something with me onstage?" Blaine asks. "Your voice is just..."
"Built for taking the female half of duets?" Kurt suggests.
He exhales a soft, faintly amused whuff, shaking his head. "I was going to say 'amazing.' "
"No," he says, "thank you. I love singing, but I also love what I do." He pats Blaine's shoulder and smiles at him, flirty and genuine. "I'll leave the stage to you, maestro."
* * *
In the afternoon, after about 10 hours of sleep and several excited rounds of we-aren't-going-to-be-interrupted-by-texts-from-Patrick sex (and then another few hours of sleep), they sit in Kurt's bed and stare at the quilt that Kurt has made out of the business cards that he was handed last night.
"Does that say Rockefeller?" Kurt asks, stabbing a finger at one of the cards.
Blaine leans in and peers at it. "Yyyyes," he says.
"It was a rhetorical question, Blaine." Overwhelmed, Kurt flumps onto his back.
"This is a good thing, right?" Blaine asks, lying back and staring up at the ceiling with him.
"Yes," Kurt says firmly. "It's amazing. It's just a lot at once."
"Then I'm sorry, because I'm definitely about to add even more."
He frowns and rolls toward Blaine, dislodging business cards. "What?"
Kurt has no idea where Blaine got that business card from; it isn't one of his, and Blaine isn't exactly wearing a lot of clothing underneath the covers for him to have been hiding it somewhere. He hands it over. "I met him last night."
"--Oh my god, Blaine," Kurt says, eyes snapping up from the card. "Interscope Records?!"
"What?" yelps a familiar voice, and then the door bursts open and Rachel flings herself onto the bed.
"So not only are we not pretending that you and Finn aren't together anymore, but we're also not pretending that you don't eavesdrop?" Kurt asks, pointedly holding the covers up to his armpits to keep himself (and Blaine) covered.
Rachel says, "Too many double-negatives" absently as she looks through all of the business cards.
"I'm too hungover to manage double-negatives," Kurt mutters, and Blaine squeezes his arm sympathetically. He raises his voice. "And for you to be in my bed without pants on, oh my god, Rachel."
"Were you really approached by an Interscope scout, Blaine?" Rachel asks, still pantless (she's wearing a long T-shirt that clearly isn't hers and just barely covers everything that needs to be covered) and ignoring Kurt.
"Uhh," says Blaine. "Yeah, at the bar while I was on a break."
"He wasn't a simple scout," Kurt says, rereading the card and starting to bounce under the covers. "He was the vice president of A&R. He was the king scout. Blaine!" He hugs him, hard.
"Blaine!" Rachel echoes excitedly, and she can't get her arms around both of them, but she tries very hard. Rachel can have her selfish moments, but Kurt really, really loves her in ones like these. Even if he wishes he didn't now know what color panties she wears to sleep.
"What the crap is going on?" asks Finn from the doorway, leaning heavily on the doorjamb and clearly barely awake.
"Blaine's band has a record deal!" Rachel exclaims from within their cuddle pile.
"No, we don't," Blaine says; "we just have an appointment to talk with them, that's all."
"That's awesome," Finn says, and he sounds like he means it, as sleepy as he is. "Rachel, you ... maybe wanna put some pants on?"
"Thank you," says Kurt vehemently, giving her a light shove.
"Fine." Rachel hops out of the bed, fully destroying Kurt's business card organizational system. "I'll put pants on, since you all clearly need to work on your comfort with expressions of female sexuality, and then I'll call Mercedes and we'll all have celebratory wholegrain vegan strawberry-banana pancakes."
"They're actually delicious," Kurt confides to Blaine, and Rachel beams and leaves the room in as huge of a burst of energy as she'd entered it.
"Awesome wedding, guys," Finn says, and then he pulls the door shut behind himself as he leaves.
Kurt turns the business card over and over in his fingers, studying it.
"Kurt?" He glances up, and finds Blaine tilted all the way toward him, watching him. "What are you thinking?"
"That I'm in love with a bona fide rock star," Kurt says, and Blaine shakes his head, smiling, modest as always. Kurt leans in. "And that all of those groupies will keep their hands to themselves if they know what's good for them." Blaine is laughing when Kurt kisses him. "And that as long as Finn didn't down it, there's still a half a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator for mimosas."
Kurt isn't actually as hungover as he's been claiming; not as hungover as he was the first time they woke up this morning, anyway. He hops out of bed nimbly, and is about to go to his bureau for a pair of underwear when Blaine scrambles after him and grabs his elbow.
"Kurt, seriously," he says. "This is huge."
"I know," Kurt promises. It's impossible not to smile at him, not when Blaine looks so worried and so sleep- and sex-disheveled, and so gorgeous, standing there in the warm light streaming in through the open window. "I know. Everything's about to change. But we'll make it work."
From the immediate look that Blaine shoots him, he recognizes that Kurt is using his own words against him. He starts to smile back, though, and leans in for a kiss when--
"Kurt, where do you keep th--"
"No," Kurt calls sharply, too late, and the door opens.
"Oh my god," says Rachel, sounding both shocked and like she's starting to laugh, and she slams the door. "I'm sorry!" she shouts from the other side.
"This is not going to work," Kurt says, probably wild-eyed, given the way that Blaine looks like he's trying not to laugh at him. "She can't be here like this all the time."
"For what it's worth, neither of you has anything to be ashamed of!"
"Rachel!" says Finn's agonized voice, and Blaine laughs on Kurt's shoulder for what feels like forever.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: R
Characters: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson, Mercedes Jones, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mike Chang, Sam Evans, Artie Abrams, Sugar Motta, Noah Puckerman, Lauren Zizes, Rachel Berry, Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Matt Rutherford
Count: 9570 words, this part; 24,100 total
Summary: Kurt is an up-and-coming New York City wedding planner working on the biggest wedding of his career, and Blaine is the frontman of an unfortunately-named band from New Jersey. Booking an untested band with a distracting lead singer is either going to be the best or the worst decision that Kurt has ever made. He's not sure which, just yet.
Notes: For
unicorndust. To the real people who are mentioned here: god I hope you never come across this, and I'm sorry for what I have wrought.* * *
As easy as it was to hold Blaine's hand and stare into each others' eyes in the cab, by the time they stumble through the door to Kurt's apartment, they're all over each other.
"Finn!" Kurt yells as they both frantically pull off coats and gloves and hats, arms tangling and elbows accidentally smacking each other. They both pause for a long moment. There's no answer. "Good," he says, and then he and Blaine messily collide again.
Blaine backs him toward the sofa and Kurt yanks Blaine's dangling scarf off just as they fall down together. Blaine grabs at him like he can't decide where to touch him first so he's just going for all of him, all at once, and god, his mouth is amazing. It's with slight reluctance that Kurt stops kissing him long enough to leave a curve of kisses up his jaw and suck high on his throat, but the noises that Blaine makes, and the way that he shifts and squirms under Kurt, are very worth it.
He pushes Kurt's blazer off his shoulders. Kurt pulls it down his own arms and drops it off the side of the couch, then Blaine wedges his hands between their chests and starts on the buttons of Kurt's vest, except they're both still trying to kiss and still heaving against each other, and when Blaine is on the lowest button, his wrist bumps Kurt's erection.
It's a wake-up call, if an unbelievably tempting one. Kurt hisses and says, "Wait," and Blaine freezes. Kurt pushes himself up to sit on his feet and helps Blaine up, and doesn't let go of his hands afterward. They're practically in each others' laps. "I'm old-fashioned," Kurt tells him. The wariness in Blaine's face fades a bit. "This isn't something I usually do without at least a few dinner dates first."
Blaine smiles immediately, and Kurt exhales a long, relieved breath. "Me neither." He leans in for a much slower kiss. Kurt sucks on his lower lip with just a hint of teeth, and Blaine sighs into his mouth. "Have dinner with me tonight," Blaine says, voice low and sweet.
"... On the other hand," Kurt says. "We did eat pizza together the first time we met." Blaine blinks at him, and then he understands and his smile flashes with enough wattage that it could probably light the tree at Rockefeller Center. "And I bought you a drink after Mercedes's set at the Garage."
"I made you dinner; we can just ignore that you were comatose at the time," Blaine contributes, and Kurt snorts. "So -- what do you think? Three dates?"
Kurt pretends to consider it. He doesn't have to consider it, not really. The thought of sex with Blaine isn't the same as the thought of sex with some random stagehand who Rachel set him up with (which has yet to happen even once, because Rachel is the worst yenta in the history of yentas) or a stranger who Kurt has just met at a bar. They know each other very well, Kurt is halfway to hopelessly in love with him, and they've practically been dating for two months. It's Blaine. "I think my conscience is assuaged." He crawls the rest of the way into Blaine's lap and loops his arms around his neck. "What do you think?"
"God, yes," Blaine says fervently, and they get carried away making out again, until Kurt finds himself rocking against Blaine's stomach, and then he drags Blaine into his bedroom, because that couch may be perfect for lying together and kissing, but he refuses to have sex on a piece of furniture that Finn has dripped maple syrup on.
"Hold that thought," he says, pointing at Blaine, who is deliciously rumpled and smiling and in his bed, and then he scrambles back out into the living room. He digs through his abandoned bag until he comes up with his iPod, and he finds the song that he's looking for, turns the volume all the way up, sets it on repeat, and leaves it on the kitchen counter.
Blaine shoots him an amused look when Kurt comes back with the tinny sound of Diana Ross's classic "Love Hangover" echoing from behind him. He has made himself at home in Kurt's bed, propped up on his side with his head in his hand. His jeans are lying in a heap out on the living room floor, and Kurt allows himself a long, long happy stare at muscled legs and tight boxer briefs and the way that the T-shirt he'd been wearing under his sweater is so thin it's practically translucent, as he shuts his bedroom door.
"Everything okay?" Blaine asks.
Kurt toes off his shoes and crawls into his bed. "It is now," he says, and he grabs Blaine around the waist and rolls him over as Blaine laughs.
Somehow, despite the facts that Blaine started out with less clothes on and that Kurt has been dying to do this for him, Kurt is the first one to wind up on his back with someone between his knees. He throws his head back into the pillows and tries not to thump Blaine in the small of his back with his heel as Blaine peppers the insides of his thighs with kisses and runs warm fingers up under the hem of his briefs.
"Can I--?" he asks, lifting his other hand to the waistband.
Kurt pushes himself up on his elbows so that he can shoot Blaine a wordless disbelieving stare.
"Okay, okay," Blaine laughs, peeling off the underwear as Kurt shimmies out of them. Kurt kicks them off once they're hanging around his right ankle, and then registers that Blaine has sat up, his hands on the tops of Kurt's thighs -- and is staring.
Kurt has every bit of confidence in himself and in his own attractiveness, but there's still a half a second where something uncertain shifts in the pit of his stomach. "Blaine?"
Blaine keels over and presses his face against Kurt's hip. "Oh Kurt, god," he groans, muffled by Kurt's skin, and Kurt would laugh at him, but -- he feels the same way, hot and wanting and giddy and overwhelmed. He reaches down and starts running his fingers through Blaine's curls.
Blaine apparently needs a moment to collect himself, but once he does, he turns his head on Kurt's thigh, close enough that warm puffs of air gust across Kurt's feverish skin as Blaine breathes, and he hesitates and glances up at Kurt.
Kurt takes a guess at what's going on. "I'm -- good to go," he says, and then internally cringes, because that's what his dad says to customers about finished cars at the garage. "I got tested after my last ex--" and he doesn't want to finish that sentence, not really; Blaine is aware of what went down with Diego, anyway, and it would be spectacularly unromantic to bring it up at a moment like this. This conversation in general is spectacularly unromantic, but necessary. "But I probably have condoms, somewhere, if you want," he goes on, hearing his voice pitch upward, "or you don't have to--"
Blaine wraps a hand around him, and Kurt shivers and stops trying to talk. "I'm clean, too," Blaine says, his other hand stroking Kurt's hip. He's looking up at Kurt as he settles down on his stomach, and there's not a word that describes the set of his mouth and the light in his eyes so well as 'adoring.' "I trust you." Kurt blinks rapidly and nods in the face of Blaine's soft expression, and Blaine apparently takes that as encouragement, because he sinks his mouth down over him.
Kurt is forced to reevaluate his assessment of Blaine's mouth, from 'amazing' to 'absolutely out of this world.' He inhales sharply, scrabbling at the sheets. He is going to last about five seconds; he's been so hard since the elevator, and he has wanted this so badly for months, and they were already rutting on the couch, and Blaine is sucking, now, and letting Kurt rock a little bit into his mouth, his hands guiding his hips.
Kurt covers his face with his hands and says, "Ohmygod," well aware that his voice has gone strangled and high. Blaine makes a muffled noise that sounds like a moan (a vibrating moan) and has to pin Kurt's hips to the bed after he instinctively jerks too hard.
"Sorry," Kurt says into the heels of his hands; "sorry, sorry--"
Blaine whuffs something that somehow sounds reassuring, his thumbs rubbing circular patterns into Kurt's skin, and then the tight ring of suction slips lower and Kurt is going to die. It takes him a long moment to register just how hard the bed is shaking, enough that it can't just be from him, and he lowers his hands and looks down.
The sight of Blaine's head between his legs is honestly almost too much to take; feeling it is incredible enough, but looking down and realizing that yes, it's Blaine who's taking him apart -- it's unreal. Then Kurt realizes that the long, lean line of Blaine's tan back right down to his perfect ass is rocking, because Blaine is rubbing himself into the mattress. Kurt shuts his eyes and pants.
Blaine lifts one hand off a hip and slides unsteady fingers around the base of Kurt's cock, squeezing what he can't reach with his lips and his tongue, and Kurt is distinctly aware of the scrape of a guitar callus, which should probably be unpleasant but instead sends another hot jolt to the tension pooling and roiling in the pit of his stomach. He yelps, breathing ragged, and clutches at Blaine's shoulders and the back of his neck, and Blaine traces a vein up with his tongue and then laps just at the head, still stroking. Kurt's thighs start to tremble beyond his ability to control.
He squeezes Blaine's shoulder tightly, which hopefully suffices as enough of a warning, because he can't string coherent words together and he can feel orgasm barreling down on him like a runaway freight train. Blaine, because he is an amazing ruthless bastard, dives back down again, jacking hard and sucking harder, pulling Kurt in by the hip with his free hand to encourage him to give tiny thrusts into his mouth. It only takes three before Kurt is shuddering and seizing up, and then coming and coming and coming.
Kurt doesn't swear much, because he tends to find it unimaginative when there are so many more interesting ways to communicate, but he gasps, "Fuck" at his bedroom ceiling when his body has finally gone limp and he's starting to go soft and too-sensitive against Blaine's tongue. Blaine pulls back and laughs, low and rough and tender and shaky, and Kurt feels at sea.
Which, he abruptly realizes, is probably because Blaine has laid his head on Kurt's thigh and drawn his knees up and is stroking himself hard and fast enough that the entire bed is shaking like a ship in a storm.
"Blaine, Blaine," Kurt says, grabbing at his hair with one hand and his elbow with the other and weakly tugging, and Blaine gets the point. He scrambles up in the bed and Kurt comes face to face with Blaine's desperate about-to-come face, which is somehow both ridiculous and the hottest thing he has ever seen.
This is not a situation that calls for finesse. Kurt fumbles and grabs his silky-hot damp erection, and Blaine makes a choked grateful noise and throws a leg over Kurt's hip. He hides his hot face in Kurt's shoulder and groans, "Ah, ah, ah" and thrusts into the tight circle of Kurt's fist while Kurt mouths at his neck and twists on every upstroke. Within a few seconds flat, he gives a sharp cry and spills across Kurt's stomach and hand, shaking. Blaine slumps, his arm tightening around Kurt's waist, and they lie together in breathing-hard sticky silence.
"Fuck," says Blaine's muffled, scratchy voice, and Kurt chuckles and kisses every available inch of him until Blaine finally lifts his bleary-eyed head from Kurt's shoulder. "That was amazing," Blaine tells him. "You're amazing."
"Maybe next time, we'll both be amazing for more than five minutes," Kurt says, and Blaine, thankfully, takes it in the spirit in which it was intended and cracks up laughing.
* * *
By the time that keys rattle, they're half-decent; they'd cleaned up and started getting dressed again, since Blaine had promised to meet Matt to help him go over the presentation of his MA dissertation that he's giving tomorrow, except they have this problem where they keep getting distracted by kisses. Kurt can still barely believe that this is something he can do now; that when he wants to reach out and kiss Blaine, he can.
They're back in bed again, on top of the duvet, Kurt with pants on and Blaine's cardigan half-buttoned, when they hear it.
Blaine raises his head and blinks at Kurt as they hear the front door open. Kurt shakes his head and says, "Wait for it."
There is a long moment of silence, Diana Ross's tinny voice barely audible.
"--Oh, crap," says a distinctive mutter; the keys drop noisily, Finn swears, shoes scrape on the floor, the keys fall again, and then the door shuts.
Blaine laughs while Kurt strokes his sides and uses the opportunity to start buttoning his own shirt. Blaine makes a sound of protest.
"I will need to put clothes back on eventually," Kurt points out.
"Not yet," Blaine says, content. "I get to look at you a little while longer."
"A little while," he agrees, smiling, and he lets Blaine roll off of him only because he replaces the position by curling up at Kurt's side. They watch each other quietly; Blaine reaches out and gently brushes his cheek. Somewhere in the apartment, Kurt's phone rudely beeps, and he frowns. He lifts his head. "What time is it?"
"Uhh." Blaine checks his watch, because the two items of clothing that Kurt never quite managed to get off of him, in their rush, were one sock and that watch. "Six."
Kurt shuts his eyes, and he hears and feels Blaine nestle closer. "You've got to go, don't you?"
"I'm sorry," he says, without opening his eyes. "I have a casual dinner meeting with prospective clients in an hour."
"It's okay," Blaine promises, hand sweeping in long, slow strokes up and down his back. "I was originally supposed to meet Matt a half an hour ago anyway."
Kurt looks at him. He's tucked in close, watching Kurt with those gorgeous brown eyes under long eyelashes, face content. "This is going to be hard, Blaine," he says. "Wedding season is upon us, and your schedule, and my schedule -- I can't slow it down."
"I know," Blaine says; "we'll make it work," and he leans in and kisses him on the mouth with a silly audible mwah.
And the thing is, Kurt believes him.
* * *
"No," Kurt says two months later, and then: "no, what do you think you're-- Fold left, then, right, then -- yes, that's an improvement; thank you."
"Kurt," says a voice from behind him, as the waiter scuttles away with a now-properly-folded napkin; "terrifying the servers is not an efficient use of your time!"
"It was a hideous attempt at napkin origami, Rachel," Kurt says, glancing down at his clipboard and checking off 'napkins.' "It had to be done."
Rachel stomps around to his front, when it becomes obvious that he isn't going to turn to face her. "You're a terrible boss," she informs him. "The movers want to know where the wedding party's table goes."
"Did they not even look at the itemized table map that I drew them?" Kurt asks, and then he sighs. "No, of course they didn't." He points with his pen. "To the left of the stage, to the right of the ice sculpture."
Rachel whistles, shrill and impressively loud, and shouts the directions to the two men carrying one of the longest tables. Kurt presses a hand to his near ear. Rachel's enthusiasm and ability to project have made her a very useful temporary assistant thus far, but he's fairly certain he is going to go deaf by the end of the night.
"Crisis handled," Rachel says firmly, and he doesn't bother pointing out that it wasn't a crisis. "The guests are going to start arriving soon, aren't they?"
"Don't remind me," Kurt groans. "We're still setting the tables."
The gleam in her eye is a warning that Rachel wasn't thinking about what still has to be done to get the ballroom ready. Kurt turns a wary eye on her. "Rachel Berry, you aren't going to confess your undying love to Barbra Streisand, are you?"
"No. Your instructions were very explicit," Rachel says. "And four pages long, and I signed them, like you said that I had to."
He studies her for a long moment. "You brought copies of your resume, didn't you?"
"--No," Rachel says, clutching her stack of to-do lists and programs and various papers closer to her chest.
"Rachel, anything that you do will reflect on me. You cannot use this as an opportunity to network."
She fixes him with an unimpressed look. "I know that," she says, and she leans up and kisses him on the cheek.
"What was that for?" Kurt drawls warily.
"Look at this place, Kurt," Rachel says, gesturing outward, and he does look. It's still in chaos, but he can see the beginnings of something that will be, if he dares say so himself, brilliant; the 'classy nightclub with hints of the 1960s' feel that he first pitched to Robyn and Patrick a year ago. "It's beautiful. Everything is going really well and you're doing an amazing job. Breathe, okay?" She smiles up at him, and, after a few seconds, Kurt smiles back.
"Okay," he says. He lets a few seconds pass. "You look lovely."
Rachel beams (she does look lovely, dressed in simple black Milly Justene with her hair pulled back off her face, the only ostentatious pop of color a bright red lip) and wipes his cheek clear of lipstick with her thumb. "They're going to be really happy with what you've put together for them," she promises, and they smile at each other. Then the moment is broken. "All right, people!" Rachel shouts, flouncing toward the men who are moving in the tables and chairs. "Let's go, chop chop!"
Kurt watches her go, bemused and fond, and turns away to go check on the catering.
"No," Lauren says, the second that he steps into the kitchen. "Uh uh. I don't do micro-managing."
"I'm not micro-managing," he says, craning his neck to get a look at the team that she has putting together plates of appetizers all along the counters. "I'm checking on your prog--" He squawks as she none-too-gently gives him a push toward the swinging double doors.
"You're micro-managing," says Lauren flatly. (He isn't.) "And tell Puckerman that the next time he comes in here and gets in my way, I'm going to rupture something that he really doesn't want ruptured, mmkay?"
" 'Rupture someth--' " Kurt repeats incredulously to himself, the doors swinging shut behind him, and then the hotel's events coordinator is calling for him and he goes to compare notes. By the time that they finish discussing schedules and timing and the bartender that the hotel is providing, the tables are nearly all ready; the movers are putting up the last of the (gorgeous) chairs, and Rachel and Finn are directing the hotel staff in straightening tablecloths and the proper way to display the centerpieces.
Tina sweeps in just then, several bouquets of flowers in hand; the person walking behind her is hidden behind the enormous armful of lilies of the valley that he's carrying, but Kurt is 85% sure that it's Mike. He'd volunteered to help out at the wedding after overhearing Kurt tell Blaine that Mercedes wasn't going to be able to make it thanks to a gig, and he and Tina haven't been more than a foot from each others' sides since first making eye contact at Kurt's come-to-Jesus six A.M. team meeting. Kurt will be very happy for both of them, he's sure, once the day is over.
"Kurt!" Tina calls. "The church looks great, so we're switching over to set-up here." He flashes her a thumbs up and ducks around the movers to go to the table where the baker and her assistants are putting the cake tiers together.
The cake is stunning. Neither Patrick nor Robyn are fans of the twee or the over-designed, so it's among the most simple that Kurt has ever commissioned; enormous, but simple. Six broad Valencia orange layers frosted in perfectly smooth (white) orange-flavored buttercream, not a flower or a filigree to be seen, with two midnight blue fondant-and-gumpaste ribbons each ringing a layer. If Kurt hadn't known better thanks to consultations with Marina, he would swear that they were actual ribbon. Marina is currently on a stepladder and -- with the help of two taller women -- is slowly lowering the second-to-last layer onto the support pole running up through the center of the cake.
Kurt double-takes at the leggy blonde assistant. "Brittany?" Brittany S. Pierce is one of the bakers who he had considered before ultimately hiring Marina; Brittany's cake designs were breathtaking, but whimsical, complex, and strange far beyond what Robyn and Patrick wanted. Her attention span, from what Kurt remembers from that bewildering consultation, is much the same.
"Hi," Brittany says cheerfully over her shoulder, while Marina tells her to hold her hands steady. "I really like your wedding; the penguin at the door was awesome."
It takes Kurt a half a second to realize that she's probably referring to one of the hotel staff members, who are wearing tuxedos.
Marina finally exhales once the layer is in place, and dusts off her hands. She's a cheerful, short Asian woman in her mid-40s who never seems to wear anything but chef's coats and Crocs. Her cakes are beautiful and elegant enough that Kurt overlooks it, but seriously: pink Crocs. "This sweetheart offered to give me a hand when a few of us met for drinks and I was complaining about how damn big this cake is for just me and Anushka to carry," she says. "Hi Kurt; we're just about ready to go here."
"It looks incredible," he says, sincerely.
"Tell me the same thing when it makes it through the reception without cracking the cake board," Marina says wryly. "Come on, next one." Brittany and the other woman -- apparently Anushka -- carefully pull the topmost layer out of a cardboard box.
"Is that a serious concern?"
"Probably not," grunts Marina, the three women slowly lifting the circular layer. "But I can't stay to keep an eye on it -- play at my kid's school tonight -- so Brittany's gonna stick around just in case."
"I have emergency buttercream," Brittany tells him seriously.
"Steady hands, Britt-Britt!" Marina orders, and Kurt is pretty sure that watching them is going to give him an aneurism, so he leaves them to it.
The band is hard at work on the process that Kurt has never quite gotten a handle on, tuning and moving drums and juggling dozens of cables and amplifiers and instruments. He allows himself just a moment to stand back and self-congratulate on how amazing they look. The boys are in charcoal skinny-leg suit pants with midnight blue jackets that catch the light beautifully. From a distance, the jackets just look like they have a hint of a sheen in the material, but up close, one can see the subtle, intricate patterns winding through the brocade. They're paired with white dress shirts and thin matte black ties; not enough to look like costumes, but more than enough to invoke the Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons vibe that Kurt had been aiming for. Sugar, meanwhile, took to her full-skirted blue vintage dress like a duck to water as soon as she figured out that the bodice was fitted and she had enough room to pound the foot pedals of her drum set. She likes it enough that she happily added a pair of white wrist-length gloves on her own initiative. Kurt isn't sure if she plans to drum in the gloves, but if he can, he figures, more power to her.
Sam got the haircut that Kurt ordered, Sugar's hair and makeup are flawless (though he'd had to order a tone-down on the cats-eye liner), Puck trimmed the mohawk so that it looks less like something died on his head, Artie is wearing what look like a new pair of glasses, and Blaine-- Kurt devotes several precious seconds to smugly admiring Blaine. His boyfriend looks like heaven, hair slicked and shoes shined to a tee; a sixties crooner come to life. All together, they look every inch the eye candy that Kurt had envisioned. Blaine meets Kurt's eye as he bends over an amp to check a cable, and he smiles brightly.
"Puck," Kurt says, taking the last few steps to bring him to the foot of the stage. "Stop harassing my caterer. She has threatened to rupture something that is very dear to you if you go in that kitchen one more time."
All of the guys wince, Sam going so far as to -- instinctively, Kurt thinks -- shield his crotch with his guitar.
"That's bull! I wasn't harassing her!" Puck defends. "I was trying to get her number!"
Kurt lifts his eyebrows.
"She's smokin' and she won't give it to me," Puck says sulkily, like constantly bothering the woman is the obvious solution.
"Shocking," says Kurt in a deadpan, though he is actually shocked -- and not in an unpleasant way -- to hear Puck describe Lauren as 'smoking.' "She has a job to do and she isn't falling for your dubious charms. Leave her alone." He turns to the rest of them. "You look fabulous," he says, careful not to let his gaze linger on Blaine any longer than the rest of them.
They all smile; Sugar says, "I know, right??" from where she is dressed like a perfect lady while sitting like a 275-pound man, knees splayed, behind her drums.
"You have the set list, right?"
"We've totally got this, Kurt," Artie says. "It's gonna be baller!" He fist-bumps Sam.
"We're very prepared," Blaine assures him, warm. "The set list is perfect, and we've learned just about every Broadway hit of the last 50 years for when drunk guests start wanting to sing."
"Miss Saigon is really depressing," says Sam.
"And the band name?" Kurt asks.
They all glance at each other, and Kurt immediately feels suspicion crawl in. "You're going to like it," Blaine promises, and this time, Kurt does maintain eye contact for too long. Puck starts making kissy noises while Sugar laughs, and Kurt rolls his eyes as he steps away. Behind him, he can hear Blaine starting to earnestly lecture Puck on how important it is that they keep his and Kurt's relationship under wraps while they're performing here, for the sake of Kurt's professional reputation. Kurt smiles and, the next time that he has a moment to himself, texts Blaine a heart.
* * *
Kurt's favorite part of every wedding reception is the magical twilight hour in which the guests are fed and drunk enough to be dancing and happy, but not drunk enough for the bridesmaids and groomsmen (or bridesmaids and bridesmaids, and groomsmen and groomsmen, or bridesmaid-bridesmaid-groomsman -- Kurt has seen it all) to start pairing off. They're not there just yet at this wedding, but it's coming; he can feel it.
The wedding itself, held at a gorgeous UU church in Brooklyn, reportedly went off without a hitch. Kurt wasn't there thanks to being hard at work on the reception, but he saw the church this morning and it was stunning, and he's hearing talk of tears among the guests.
The ballroom is packed now, the guests having trickled in from Brooklyn over the course of an hour or two, and the wine and champagne are flowing freely as the place roars with conversation and laughter. It's going spectacularly well so far, with the only exception a brief tense moment wherein Kurt realized that a server had accidentally swapped two placecards, putting Sean Penn and Madonna at the same table, but he switched the cards before anyone was the wiser.
Lauren's appetizers are a smash, the cool-blue mood lighting on the white cake has drawn a steady stream of ooh's and ahh's and cameraphone pictures, and the band is playing quiet music, nobody singing just yet. Because Blaine and Artie are both ridiculously talented multi-instrumentalists, Artie has taken over piano duties while Blaine plays violin. Kurt listens for a half a second and is fairly sure that they're playing a Coldplay song; not a bad -- if a ballsy -- choice, given that Chris Martin is in this room somewhere.
This is by far the biggest, most star-filled wedding that Kurt has ever put together. He actually fits in and looks like a guest here, though the iPad and the fact that he never sits still probably give him away; most of the time, he's very overdressed -- and sometimes, depending on the two people getting married and where their families travel from, very conspicuously gay -- at his weddings. But among a room full of the New York arts and music scenes' finest, an impeccable burgundy tuxedo with a black bow tie: not so strange.
He's leaned against the wall by the kitchen doors, Lauren allowing him access now that the initial rush of appetizers is over with. She only let him stay if he took the glass of very expensive wine that she shoved at him ("nobody can micro-manage when they're drinking Château Margaux 1995; stand there, look pretty, and don't tell me what to do"), but Kurt was just pleased to be able to get a look at the dinner plates before they went out to the guests.
(They looked unbelievable.)
It's a good vantage point to take in the room from. They're not quite at his favorite part of the evening yet, but this isn't half bad -- everyone clearly enjoying their meals, the grooms deep in conversation at their table. Robyn laughs at something that Patrick has said, and Patrick looks like he almost might smile. Flitting in and out in a floaty green dress, Quinn snaps a photo of the moment and then ducks out of the way again, two cameras hanging from their straps around her neck.
Kurt doesn't, frankly, have much to do anymore. He's primarily here to smooth things over in case of an emergency; the wildest (most exhilarating, but also worst) part of his job is over with now that the vendors are hired and wrangled, the venues are set up, the guests are here, and the grooms look happy.
A gorgeous ballroom filled with people whose autographs he would beg for if he met them in any other setting is a pretty wonderful place for him to twiddle his thumbs, though, he thinks.
And Lauren was right; this wine is amazing.
Robyn is tapping his wine glass with a knife, and the band stops in the middle of their voiceless rendition of "The Scientist"; the room quiets down expectantly, and Kurt throws himself into action, scrambling over to the stage.
"Mic, mic," he hisses to Blaine, who blinks at him for a second, then says, "Oh!" and twists his microphone out of its stand and hands it down to him.
Robyn and Patrick have risen out of their seats, the best man and maids of honor looking up at them from the table the five of them are sharing. (Kurt really, really wants the autograph of one of the maids of honor.)
"Patrick and I wanted to thank you for being with us today," says Robyn, and then Kurt speed-walks over and hands him the wireless microphone. "--Thank you, Kurt," he says, shooting him a bemused look, and Kurt smiles and sidles back out of the way. Robyn taps the foam, the sound echoing through the ballroom. "Is this thing on?" A few rowdier guests catcall. "Wonderful. As I was saying -- today has been a long time coming," he says, glancing at Patrick, "and we're very happy that you were all able to share it with us. Even if you are only here for the very fine free booze, you greedy fucks."
Kurt leans back against the stage, conscious of Blaine standing just over his left shoulder, and he laughs along with most of the room.
"We've just got a few things to say before we go back to letting you get tanked in peace."
"You mean before you let us take the microphone and embarrass the hell out of you," says the best man, and the two maids of honor beam in agreement as three tables in the front -- Robyn's four brothers, three sisters, their spouses and kids, and his 90-year-old mother, from what Kurt remembers of his seating charts -- applaud with particularly raucous approval.
"Yeah, whatever," says Robyn, drawing more laughter. "Like I was saying -- we wanted to say thanks to the First Unitarian Congregational Society in Brooklyn, for letting all your sorry asses darken their door, and because I don't think either of us ever figured we'd get married, legally, in a church."
Oh, God, Kurt is not going to get choked up at this. He's not; he doesn't do this. He hasn't cried since the very first wedding that he planned, when he was 16 and thought it would be the epitome of romance and class to have a cage full of glitter-pooping doves. He takes a long drink of wine.
"And thanks to everybody who made this so good; the food, the decor, the drinks -- just wait til you taste the cake and see our first dance. None of you dicks are gonna have a wedding that's anywhere near as good as this one."
Kurt smiles over the rim of his wine glass, so hard that he feels like his face might split. The six-figure paycheck was an amazing motivator, it's true, but this is the true payoff; this lovely foul-mouthed moment, right now.
And then it gets surreal.
"We wanted to thank one person in particular, too," Robyn says, and Kurt nearly drops his wineglass when Robyn turns and looks directly at him. "Kurt Hummel over there planned every single inch of today, and most of you know what it's like to work with Patrick and me."
There's a ripple of knowing laughter. Kurt is very, very aware that he looks like a deer in the headlights and probably has wine stains at the corners of his mouth, as 400 very important people stare at him. He stands frozen.
Patrick leans in to the microphone and says, "Anything particularly stylish or innovative that you see tonight was Kurt's idea."
Continuing to be the greatest boyfriend that Kurt has ever had, Blaine somehow realizes that Kurt is in danger of splashing wine all over himself, and he reaches down and gently pulls the glass out of Kurt's limp fingers. Kurt is fairly sure that it's Blaine who does it, anyway, since he physically cannot move to turn around.
"Thank you, Kurt," Robyn says, tossing him a wink, and then he turns back toward his captive audience and starts telling a raunchy story about the first time that he and Patrick met, while Patrick looks increasingly embarrassed.
"Kurt?" murmurs a voice from just over Kurt's shoulder.
"I didn't know that Patrick could get embarrassed," Kurt says dimly.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm--" He takes a deep breath; a few guests at the nearest tables are still looking at him, and he draws himself up and forces a smile past his shock. "I'm fine." He glances back. Blaine is crouched on the edge of the stage, Kurt's wineglass in his hand and a concerned expression turned on Kurt.
"It's not really normal wedding etiquette to thank the planner," Kurt tells him. "My job is primarily to make everything so smooth and effortless that no one knows that I even exist."
"So," says Blaine, slowly, "what they just did was a really big deal?"
Kurt can't even bring himself to answer sardonically. "Can I please have my alcohol back now?"
* * *
After Robyn and Patrick's speech (and after the wedding party do, in fact, manage to embarrass the hell out of the grooms, much to the delight of the guests), Kurt finds it very, very difficult to keep an eye on the proceedings from the background. Every time he tries to slip from place to place, someone manages to corner him to ask about the centerpieces, to praise the flowers, to demand to know where he found the baker, or, most overwhelmingly of all, to say that they're throwing a party/getting their daughter married/going to the moon (that last one was Brittany, still keeping vigil over the cake) and want to discuss with him.
He has so many business cards tucked into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket that he's fairly sure they could stop a bullet.
"Somebody's a busy boy," says a familiar voice, when he finally manages to escape behind the bar. The bartender shot him a sympathetic (interested, and Kurt isn't leading him on on purpose, since he does have an incredible boyfriend who is about 30 feet away, but he really, really wants a martini and a moment to himself) glance and let Kurt hide while he fixed a jack and coke at the other end of the bar.
Kurt, straining gin and vermouth into a chilled cocktail glass, barely spares Santana a glance. "If you're standing here talking to me, you're not doing the job that I hired you to do."
"Easy, Mr. Wilson," she scoffs. "Quinn's on the grooms gettin' their first dance on, and I'm totally capable of multitasking." As if to demonstrate, she snaps off a quick shot over her shoulder without looking.
"Did you seriously just make a Dennis the Menace reference?" Kurt asks incredulously.
"Whatever," she says, which he's pretty sure means yes. "Listen, who's the honey guarding the cake?"
"Seriously?"
"Like I said," Santana says, half a purr and half confrontational, "I can multitask like a mofo. What's her deal?"
"That's Brittany," Kurt says sharply. "She bakes incredible wedding cakes and she's making sure that this one doesn't crack and fall to pieces before anyone can actually cut into it." He puts the strainer down, realizes that the bartender is now shooting a dubious look down the bar at him, and hurriedly slides out from behind the safety of the bar with his misbegotten drink in hand.
"Huh," says Santana, glancing over at the cake, where Brittany is standing by and having a conversation with an increasingly bewildered-looking woman. "Okay. I can work with that."
"Santana," Kurt says, as the soft instrumental strains of "At Last" come to an end and the guests applaud Patrick and Robyn's first dance as husbands. "Brittany, she's -- unique."
"I know," she says, softer than he has heard her yet. Then she seems to realize what she has just said, and she tears her eyes away from the cake. "Uh, yeah, Hummel. I kind of figured that out when she asked m--"
"Hi!" says an amplified voice, and Kurt's eyes snap toward the stage. Blaine is standing in front of the mic stand, harmonica in its cradle around his neck, handsome as ever. When he adds, "I hope you're all ready to get your dancing shoes on!" he's greeted with cheers.
"Your assistant, huh?" Santana asks, grinning obnoxiously.
"Many happy returns to Patrick and Robyn," he continues; "we are Rough Around the Edges, and we'll be here for the rest of the evening!"
Santana takes a picture right in Kurt's stunned face; then she condescendingly pats him on the side of the face, laughing quietly, and slinks away toward the cake.
The band launches into the opening bars of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," the Lauryn Hill version, with all of them singing the backup vocals. Blaine comes in, strong and gorgeous, on, "You're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you."
"Wow, they're -- surprisingly good," says a man standing in a small knot of movers and shakers a few feet away.
"I would hit the lead singer like the fist of an angry god," adds a 50-something woman who Kurt knows he recognizes from the back of a playbill somewhere, and the group dissolves into hoots of laughter.
Kurt shoots the woman a startled, scandalized look, but as he keeps eavesdropping -- and keeps listening to Blaine singing a love song, in a band that he named after something that Kurt said -- and listening to their praise, he lets himself give a small, slow smile.
* * *
This wedding slides very quickly from the 'everyone buzzed and happy' to 'everyone drunk and happy' stage, and honestly, Kurt loves the hell out of it. He's going to keep his mouth shut because he knows what's good for him, but he has witnessed so much hilarious behavior from famous people in the last two hours. He can't wait to tell Carole what he saw her favorite soap star doing on the dance floor with a bottle of whiskey and a scarf.
So when he opens the coat closet -- because helping to find Sutton Foster's wrap isn't part of his job description, but it's an excuse to talk to Sutton Foster -- and finds two people making out in it, he rolls his eyes and slams the door on them.
Then his eyes widen. He reopens the door.
Finn and Rachel stare back at him, red lipstick smeared all around Finn's face.
"Uhhh," says Finn.
"What!" Kurt manages.
"Kurt!" Rachel, thank god, doesn't lose the gift of speech even in incredibly awkward, bizarre moments. "We -- we should have told you, but we weren't certain at first that it was going to work out, so we didn't want to drag other people into it, and we didn't know if you would approve--"
"And then it was really hot sneaking around," Finn says, like a dumbass, and Rachel elbows him in the ribs.
"How long has this been going on?" Kurt demands.
"Um."
"Five months, one week, and three days," Rachel says matter-of-factly, and both men stare at her.
Well. Now Kurt knows why the two of them have been so incredibly weird for the last few months. He probably would have figured it out, he thinks, if he hadn't been so stressed out, and so wrapped up with Blaine.
"Okay," says Kurt. "I'm -- happy for you, really, but I'm going to close this door now, and you can stop sneaking around tomorrow. Does that sound reasonable?"
"Very," Rachel says, as Finn blankly nods, and Kurt shuts the door on them and goes to find another drink and watch his boyfriend sing the hell out of Britney Spears.
He knows from experience as a spectator at many, many wedding receptions that there is truth to the old cliché about people getting lonely and hooking up at weddings, but between Puck still doing his damndest to impress an unimpressed Lauren, Tina leaving with Mike to get coffee after finishing with the flowers, Santana following Brittany around like a puppy in spike heels, what Kurt had seen happening on the dance floor between two female Gossip Girl costars, and now Finn and Rachel, this is getting ridiculous.
* * *
By the end of the night, Kurt may be a little drunk. Might be. Only a little bit.
Patrick and Robyn left an hour ago, and Robyn definitely was drunk, because he hugged Kurt (and, fine, Kurt knows he was drunk even then, too, because he allowed it to happen) and then smugly went on his way out to the car while Patrick long-sufferingly shepherded him. Robyn was very aware, Kurt could tell, of what they did for Kurt with that speech, and of the business cards burning a hole in his pocket.
("Thank you," Kurt had said, quiet, while his face was smushed into Robyn's shoulder, and that was the extent of the discussion.)
The reception has devolved into a general party, with most of the more-staid guests now gone. Someone on the dance floor apparently brought a supply of glowsticks, because there are an awful lot of them being worn as crowns and necklaces over fancy hairstyles and thousand-dollar gowns. This is the most absurd wedding that Kurt has ever planned. He loves it.
"I love it," he says to the person coming up behind him, and there's a chuckle.
"Not that you aren't very charming right now, but I thought the whole idea was professionalism?" Blaine asks, leaning against the table beside him.
"Screw professionalism," Kurt says. "Robyn Gantry and Patrick Tucker publicly declared their love for me. I'm never going to be short on clients again. I can hail every taxi in this fucking city."
Okay, Kurt may be on the very drunk side of drunk.
Blaine looks like he thinks Kurt is the most adorable thing on the face of the planet, and also like he's trying not to start laughing hysterically.
Kurt frowns. "Wait. You're here." Leaning against the table with his hip cocked, Blaine thumbs over his shoulder at the stage, and Kurt realizes that Puck is rapping a spirited duet of "Fat-Bottomed Girls" with Lin-Manuel Miranda.
"Oh," says Kurt, "my, god."
"If he thinks that's going to win Lauren over, he's probably got another thing coming," Blaine says.
"Did he--?"
"He dedicated it to her."
"Oh my god," Kurt says again. "This is my favorite wedding ever."
Blaine laughs. Kurt loves the crinkly thing that the skin around his eyes does. Loves it. "It's definitely the most amazing one I've ever been to," he says, and Kurt preens at the blatant compliment. "So this is the first time I've seen you without any admirers all night."
"Jealous?" Kurt flirts.
"No," Blaine says. "I have this amazing boyfriend who I know cares about me."
They smile enormously at each other. Kurt says frankly, "I think all of my admirers are shitfaced now."
Blaine, because he is the best boyfriend, doesn't say anything about how shitfaced or non-shitfaced Kurt himself may be. "I think you're probably right. It's their loss."
"Also," Kurt says, starting to wind his arms around Blaine's neck, and Blaine looks surprised and then tries to gracefully slide out from under the grab but Kurt persists, "I have a boyfriend with a very interesting band name."
"Kurt," says Blaine, suddenly serious, "you were really clear about us not broadcasting our relationship at this reception; you thought it could damage your image if you canoodled with vendors."
Kurt thinks it's sweet that Blaine listens to him closely enough that he can repeat exact phrases like that. "Blaine," he says, tone equally even. "We are now in the stage of the reception where everything turns into a big drunken rave; apparently literally, at this wedding -- did you see the glowsticks?"
He doesn't crack a smile, or let Kurt pull him in, and Kurt sighs. "Nobody's going to notice," he says, "and even if they do, I don't care. I'm with you; it's not like I'm going to run around making out with every caterer or napkin folder that I hire," (napkin folder? Blaine mouths), "or like you got the job because we were sleeping together."
"I did get the job because you stalked me on YouTube, though," says Blaine, starting to smile a little bit, and Kurt narrows his eyes and says, "Finn is a dirty traitor."
"You're really okay with this?" Blaine asks. "It's not just the--?" He gestures discreetly at the nearly-empty martini glass in Kurt's hand.
Kurt spits him on a look that is only slightly unfocused. "Blaine," he says. "It's one in the morning, all of the really important people have gone home and left their 20-something kids here, the most stressful event I've ever planned in my entire life is finally over, and I want to dance with my boyfriend."
Blaine reaches out and takes the martini from him, downs the last sip, and puts it on the empty table behind him. He holds his hand out to Kurt, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "May I have this dance?"
"Yes," Kurt says, smiling too hard to be properly haughty as he takes Blaine's hand. "Yes, you may."
He makes a strange gesture over Kurt's shoulder, and the music abruptly shifts to a very familiar slow guitar introduction, someone onstage tapping their foot to the beat.
"Do you want...?" Blaine looks toward the seething mass of sweaty humanity that is the dance floor, which is making complainy noises about the sudden slowdown in the musical tone.
"Not even a little bit," Kurt says firmly. He wraps himself around Blaine, the brocade of his suit jacket lovely under Kurt's hands, and Blaine presses his cheek against the side of Kurt's jaw and sways from foot to foot with him. They dance alone, way in the back, between empty tables.
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," Artie croons. He really does have a beautiful voice, Kurt registers distantly. "Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise."
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," Kurt sings along softly, and he feels Blaine stiffen against him in surprise, "take these sunken eyes and learn to see." Blaine's arms tighten around him. "All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free."
He lets Artie go on alone, and Blaine draws his head back so that he can look Kurt in the eye. Kurt can't quite make sense of his expression, and he doesn't think it's the martinis that are giving him trouble; it's -- complicated. Open and soft and wondering and a little wounded, like Kurt just knocked the breath out of him.
"Kurt," he says, quiet.
On the other hand, Kurt knows that it is the martinis that make him want to demand, 'What?' so he keeps his mouth shut.
Blaine blinks several times, his eyes looking almost wet, and then he says thickly, "I just really love you."
Kurt feels his smile curve up shakily, and he leans in and presses it against Blaine's mouth in a chaste kiss. "I love you, too," he says softly.
A shutter clicks. "Gag me," announces Santana, and then she stalks away toward the dance floor.
He rolls his eyes, and Blaine smiles, looking more like himself again. "You're sure I can't convince you to come sing something with me onstage?" Blaine asks. "Your voice is just..."
"Built for taking the female half of duets?" Kurt suggests.
He exhales a soft, faintly amused whuff, shaking his head. "I was going to say 'amazing.' "
"No," he says, "thank you. I love singing, but I also love what I do." He pats Blaine's shoulder and smiles at him, flirty and genuine. "I'll leave the stage to you, maestro."
* * *
In the afternoon, after about 10 hours of sleep and several excited rounds of we-aren't-going-to-be-interrupted-by-texts-from-Patrick sex (and then another few hours of sleep), they sit in Kurt's bed and stare at the quilt that Kurt has made out of the business cards that he was handed last night.
"Does that say Rockefeller?" Kurt asks, stabbing a finger at one of the cards.
Blaine leans in and peers at it. "Yyyyes," he says.
"It was a rhetorical question, Blaine." Overwhelmed, Kurt flumps onto his back.
"This is a good thing, right?" Blaine asks, lying back and staring up at the ceiling with him.
"Yes," Kurt says firmly. "It's amazing. It's just a lot at once."
"Then I'm sorry, because I'm definitely about to add even more."
He frowns and rolls toward Blaine, dislodging business cards. "What?"
Kurt has no idea where Blaine got that business card from; it isn't one of his, and Blaine isn't exactly wearing a lot of clothing underneath the covers for him to have been hiding it somewhere. He hands it over. "I met him last night."
"--Oh my god, Blaine," Kurt says, eyes snapping up from the card. "Interscope Records?!"
"What?" yelps a familiar voice, and then the door bursts open and Rachel flings herself onto the bed.
"So not only are we not pretending that you and Finn aren't together anymore, but we're also not pretending that you don't eavesdrop?" Kurt asks, pointedly holding the covers up to his armpits to keep himself (and Blaine) covered.
Rachel says, "Too many double-negatives" absently as she looks through all of the business cards.
"I'm too hungover to manage double-negatives," Kurt mutters, and Blaine squeezes his arm sympathetically. He raises his voice. "And for you to be in my bed without pants on, oh my god, Rachel."
"Were you really approached by an Interscope scout, Blaine?" Rachel asks, still pantless (she's wearing a long T-shirt that clearly isn't hers and just barely covers everything that needs to be covered) and ignoring Kurt.
"Uhh," says Blaine. "Yeah, at the bar while I was on a break."
"He wasn't a simple scout," Kurt says, rereading the card and starting to bounce under the covers. "He was the vice president of A&R. He was the king scout. Blaine!" He hugs him, hard.
"Blaine!" Rachel echoes excitedly, and she can't get her arms around both of them, but she tries very hard. Rachel can have her selfish moments, but Kurt really, really loves her in ones like these. Even if he wishes he didn't now know what color panties she wears to sleep.
"What the crap is going on?" asks Finn from the doorway, leaning heavily on the doorjamb and clearly barely awake.
"Blaine's band has a record deal!" Rachel exclaims from within their cuddle pile.
"No, we don't," Blaine says; "we just have an appointment to talk with them, that's all."
"That's awesome," Finn says, and he sounds like he means it, as sleepy as he is. "Rachel, you ... maybe wanna put some pants on?"
"Thank you," says Kurt vehemently, giving her a light shove.
"Fine." Rachel hops out of the bed, fully destroying Kurt's business card organizational system. "I'll put pants on, since you all clearly need to work on your comfort with expressions of female sexuality, and then I'll call Mercedes and we'll all have celebratory wholegrain vegan strawberry-banana pancakes."
"They're actually delicious," Kurt confides to Blaine, and Rachel beams and leaves the room in as huge of a burst of energy as she'd entered it.
"Awesome wedding, guys," Finn says, and then he pulls the door shut behind himself as he leaves.
Kurt turns the business card over and over in his fingers, studying it.
"Kurt?" He glances up, and finds Blaine tilted all the way toward him, watching him. "What are you thinking?"
"That I'm in love with a bona fide rock star," Kurt says, and Blaine shakes his head, smiling, modest as always. Kurt leans in. "And that all of those groupies will keep their hands to themselves if they know what's good for them." Blaine is laughing when Kurt kisses him. "And that as long as Finn didn't down it, there's still a half a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator for mimosas."
Kurt isn't actually as hungover as he's been claiming; not as hungover as he was the first time they woke up this morning, anyway. He hops out of bed nimbly, and is about to go to his bureau for a pair of underwear when Blaine scrambles after him and grabs his elbow.
"Kurt, seriously," he says. "This is huge."
"I know," Kurt promises. It's impossible not to smile at him, not when Blaine looks so worried and so sleep- and sex-disheveled, and so gorgeous, standing there in the warm light streaming in through the open window. "I know. Everything's about to change. But we'll make it work."
From the immediate look that Blaine shoots him, he recognizes that Kurt is using his own words against him. He starts to smile back, though, and leans in for a kiss when--
"Kurt, where do you keep th--"
"No," Kurt calls sharply, too late, and the door opens.
"Oh my god," says Rachel, sounding both shocked and like she's starting to laugh, and she slams the door. "I'm sorry!" she shouts from the other side.
"This is not going to work," Kurt says, probably wild-eyed, given the way that Blaine looks like he's trying not to laugh at him. "She can't be here like this all the time."
"For what it's worth, neither of you has anything to be ashamed of!"
"Rachel!" says Finn's agonized voice, and Blaine laughs on Kurt's shoulder for what feels like forever.
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And then I remembered I only like yours.
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That is the BEST ICON, omg.
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What the blueberry fuck muffins are you doing awake it is like 5AM over there don't you have class or something
/being your mom
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YES
AND RACHEL AS THE WORST YENTA HAHAHAHA
...are you the one who used to not write sex or something?
SAFE SEX FTW
"Maybe next time, we'll both be amazing for more than five minutes," Kurt says, and Blaine, thankfully, takes it in the spirit in which it was intended and cracks up laughing.
I LOVE THIS
MIKE AND TINA
LAUREN AND PUCK
Who's Marina? Anushka? /tries to think who else's name maybe wondered about, in earlier sections...
"She's smokin' and she won't give it to me," Puck says sulkily, like constantly bothering the woman is the obvious solution.
I made a laughing sound that sounded like crying, here.
A UU CHURCH IN BROOKLYN
(ftr these comments are being taken down in a stickynote as i read because i didn't like having to remember my comments as I went last time, and YOU KNOW WHAT I FORGOT - ELTON THAT ASSHOLE OMG BEST EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR)
this lovely foul-mouthed moment, right now.
a raunchy story about the first time that he and Patrick met, while Patrick looks increasingly embarrassed.
"My job is primarily to make everything so smooth and effortless that no one knows that I even exist." <3 AND TRUER WORDS WERE NEVER SPAKE ~stagemanager!kat
AHHHHH BRITTANYSANTANA
"I would hit the lead singer like the fist of an angry god," OMG AMAZING WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT this is up there with my personal favorite bang you like a screen door in a hurricane, where is it from omg
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! RACHEL/FINN PAYOFF. Well foreshadowed, friend. <3
ahahahahahahaha gossip girl costars
("Thank you," Kurt had said, quiet, while his face was smushed into Robyn's shoulder, and that was the extent of the discussion.)
<3
I LOVE GLOWSTICKS. there are some in my room i wonder where...
I can hail every taxi in this fucking city.
(napkin folder? Blaine mouths)
FINN IS A DIRTY TRAITOR AND WE HAVE REACHED THE STAGE WHERE I QUOTE EVERYTHING IN SIGHT
They dance alone, way in the back, between empty tables. <-- I love images like this.......... One's going to find its way into something of mine soon I bet <3 you are a life ruiner
BLACKBIRD
KURT SINGING
SO WELL LAID IN MY FRIEND
<3
several excited rounds of we-aren't-going-to-be-interrupted-by-texts-from-Patrick sex
leaves the room in as huge of a burst of energy as she'd entered it.
I'm in love with a bona fide rock star
"For what it's worth, neither of you has anything to be ashamed of!"
"Rachel!" says Finn's agonized voice
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Marina and Anushka are random originals! The only Glee characters in this one are all of the kids. Well, they're not kids here. But you know what I mean! I can't handle writing sex. I find it really difficult, and generally not as fun as, like, sticking two characters in a room and making them talk. It is a thing that I do very, very rarely.
I cannot remember where "hit that like the fist of an angry god" is from. All I remember is that I laughed until I cried the first time I read it. I think maybe it was a Yuletide fic one year?
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Haha, I am with you. Hence my massive caveat on the Porn Battle thing! <3
I think I like them better as not-annoying-teens, tbh...
Ugh, amahzing.
I forgot to say, I know a Robyn and a Patrick who have the same surname! I don't think? they're related, though. And one's a girl. But anyway.
GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP
or write me origific
but probably better if you do the former since it's almost 2 AM and I have eaten almost nothing to do and done literally nothing.
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Do you know, early on I was sure Blaine's job at the shipping company was a plant for some sort of fourth act mad dash road trip farce, in which they had to transport 250 Ming vases across the country in 48 hours. Glad I was wrong about that, actually, because I am so much the bigger fan of Kurt's dazzling competence. Seriously, I have a huge competence kink, and you just whaled on it. I was glowing with as much pleasure as Kurt when all his awesome work paid off.
You cameos were all delicious. I love the way you write Rachel in particular. That last scene! Heeheehee! Perfect ending, so warm and -- look, I have a friendship kink, too. Basically, today you are my favourite.
I've been having a lovely time daydreaming what-nexts for this verse. Do you think Kurt and Blaine get married? I think they elope. Kurt is less fascinated with planning his own wedding than he was back in 2011, but their friends would kill them if they just snuck down to the clerk's office in secret. So they skedaddle out of town, which their friends will be forced to find romantic, and then return so they can be "persuaded" to rent out their favourite bar and throw a ridiculous "Kurt and Blaine got hitched without us, the scallywags" bash with karaoke and lobster bisque and cupcake trees.
Oh, also! You said up above that you hate writing sex, so I wanted to say that your sex scene is awesome. It's funny, charming, about the characters, and doesn't take up too much space, unlike quite a lot of fanfic sex that seems to exist mostly because the author's worried nobody will stay interested if they don't swing NC-17 at regular and frequent intervals.
Good job! *clap clap clap* Ta for writing.
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As for what-next -- my idea is that it's a bit of a struggle in the beginning, as Kurt bites off more than he can chew with all of the new business and new jobs that he accepts, and Blaine is first recording with the band and then touring, first in the tri-state area and then farther as the band starts to hit it big, and all of that combined makes it rough for them. But in the end, they work it out (Kurt hires staff and learns how to
not obsess over the perfection of every time detaildelegate, and what the right balance of jobs is; they make deals about Blaine being home for at least [x amount of time], every [x amount of weeks or months]) and it gets easier, especially after Blaine moves in. And also, a few years down the line, when the band becomes popular enough that they really don't have to tour constantly.That's when they start talking more seriously about getting married. Kurt begins planning the wedding, and he's sort of enjoying it in a tyrannical-Kurt way, but he's also not; this is something that he does on a daily basis, which means it's work and really not as fun and romantic as it was when he was a teenager, and it's a lot of stress and is becoming a Big (Expensive) Thing. They're in Boston on a long weekend when they spontaneously decide fuck it and get married. The witnesses are Blaine's brother and sister-in-law, who they were visiting, and Burt and Carole, since Kurt was sad about the thought of them not being there, and Blaine secretly called them in (and tried to pay for their plane tickets, but they weren't having any of it) as a surprise.
Everyone yells at them when they get back to New York, but they get over it and YES, everything about your party scenario, forever.
Christ, now that I have rambled at you for pages and pages -- your comments have been so lovely; thank you so much!
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This would make such a delicious meme, don't you think? Take your favourite story, the one you slaved over and completed triumphantly, and scribble out the sequel in not!fic, daydream form. Of course I could only condone this in cases where it wouldn't be stifling any actual sequels -- but I loved reading your ramble, and I think about these things for SO MANY of the stories I've lived in -- mine and other people's.