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Coming Home

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“This is your fault!” 

Blaine adjusts his grip on his quilted grocery bag and looks around at the apartment hallway behind him, assessing his surroundings to make sure he hasn’t been blacked out for five minutes and missed whatever the hell Santana is talking about. 

Nope; Blaine has only been at the loft for 10 seconds, in the doorway for 3, and all he has said so far is “Hello!” 

“Excuse me?” he asks, raising his thick eyebrows and blinking lush, innocent eyelashes at Santana, waiting politely for the daily nonsense, of which he is almost certain he had no part of. 

She steps closer, and he can see now that her annoyance is a filter for the concern underneath. “Kurt won’t come out of his room,” she whispers. “He’s been in there since he got home from class and he’s just… I don’t know, he’s not a middle-of-the-afternoon nap kind of guy. We were supposed to keep going with our Netflix binge until it was time to start dinner for the potluck, but he’s all gross and mopey and I can’t snap him out of it. Whatever. I tried yelling at him, but that didn’t work.”

“Imagine that,” Blaine mutters dryly; his attention shifts to the dimly-lit area behind Kurt’s bedroom curtain, behind Santana, his heart aching. Kurt has been nothing but sweet with him today, and only his usual level of snarky in his running commentary about others. Actually, he’s been more sweet and sappy than normal, come to think of it. They’re both being extra careful with each other since the fight. 

No, not a fight. An adult conversation in which they discussed their issues and made adult decisions for their relationship and had the best make-up sex of their lives afterwards.

Santana lowers her voice even more. “I know this is about you because he likes to rant about shitty stuff happening at school or at work or wherever. He keeps you private and I can’t get anything out of him.” 

Except with Elliot, Blaine thinks, before he pushes the resentful thought away, reminding himself that Elliot is a person they both can trust in this regard. Santana is… well, she means well, in her way. “Thanks, Santana. I’ll see what I can do.” 

To Blaine’s surprise, Kurt is upright and staring at him when he carefully opens the curtain and peers inside. He looks relieved when he says Blaine’s name, pulling the sleeves of his oversized sweater up a little to plant his hands on the bed. He’s gripping the comforter tightly in his fingers, Blaine notices. He’s looking Blaine up and down, or rather, looking Blaine in the eye and looking away again, but his anxious hands rarely reach for what they actually want. It’s hard for Kurt. It always is. 

Blaine shucks his jacket and lays it at the foot of their – of Kurt’s bed, slipping his shoes off before he crawls up and wraps his arms around him. He doesn’t have to ask what’s wrong for Kurt to know that Blaine knows something is wrong, even if he hadn’t heard Santana. 

“I didn’t think you moving out would be like this,” Kurt says, his fingers finding their grip again in the back of Blaine’s sweater. 

Blaine can’t help but ask, because they’re supposed to be communicating better: “Why didn’t you say anything? We’ve been texting all day. You seemed okay…”

“Everything was fine until I came home without you. I don’t know. It’s just… hitting me now, I think.” He sighs, eyes closed, as Blaine cups his hands behind his ears and pulls his face up for a kiss. “Our normal keeps changing. We had a routine going.” 

“Not without its issues, though, hmm?” Blaine has to remind himself of that as much as he does Kurt. He knows he was the one to suggest the move, and he feels mostly confident about it, but only time will tell if they’ve made a mistake. It’s not like either of them have any experience with this.

“Yeah. I love my alone time, but…” 

“I get it.” Blaine understands that Kurt has a unique relationship with his routines, and a shake-up that he initiates versus one that he agrees to are two completely different things. “You know, I walked here for three blocks today on my way home before I remembered and had to turn back. Old habits die hard.” 

Kurt frowns and laughs at the same time, shaking his head. “We are ridiculous. We didn’t even live together that long, why is this… this?” He’s still laughing at himself when he presses his cheek to Blaine’s shoulder, his hands in Blaine’s sweater loosening from something slightly desperate to something more secure, the tension leaking from his body as Blaine holds him tight. 

“Well, I think it’s because we’re going to be a fabulous old married couple, eventually.” That much, Blaine knows for sure. He gave Kurt a ring to prove it. “We can see the future and we’re already kind of settled, so we just want to… get going, you know?”

Kurt takes a long, deep breath, rubbing his hands up and down Blaine’s back. “Yeah…” 

They sit in silence for a little while longer before Blaine asks, “Anything you need help preparing before the potluck? Santana said you’d been in here since you got home, so…” 

“No. I made the pasta salad last night, it’s fine until everyone gets here.” Kurt pulls Blaine down so that they’re both laying on their sides, kissing him full with intent, a statement of I’m better now and thank you. “I need a little more us time, now, if that’s all right. Alone time didn’t do what it normally does.” 

Blaine rubs a thumb over Kurt’s cheek, a little spark lighting up in his chest at that rare, blatant statement of need. He knows, then, more than ever: It will never matter which doors his keys open unless Kurt is behind them. Home is not an apartment. Home is Kurt.

“I’ll be here whenever. Just say the word.”