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Mystery fiction is a genre in literature that focuses on someone solving a puzzle, - partial definition of 'mystery' as found in

"So, — what's the final verdict, Kurt? Blaine? Nice slim-fit cashmere black long sleeve or nice slim-fit cashmere grey long sleeve, huh?" Sam's brow is furrowed as he peeks past the doorway, holding up both items in question.

Kurt is typically fast and certain with his answer, — "Go with the grey, Sam. Though all black is always a slick, sexy statement, that shade of grey really makes your eyes pop a ridiculous amount."

Blaine nods as he runs his thumb over Kurt's shoulder blade. Kurt happens to be wearing cashmere as well. Blaine likes the contrast of the lush softness of the fabric splayed across the hardness of Kurt's back. "I'm with my husband. Go with the grey," he offers.

Sam shifts the grey piece of clothing, holds it up and in front of his body for further inspection. He nods once before saying, — "Nice grey long sleeve it is." With that, Sam disappears back into his room.

Where he'll probably pick up another garment, a decision that'll lead down the path of true, hyper obsession, and fretting, and trying every drop of patience, love, and understanding from his friends.

Sam, however, reemerges a mere several seconds later, tonight's chosen cashmere draped across his torso while he goes about finishing buttoning up.

Blaine is helpless to keep from cocking his head slightly, wanting to catch Kurt's gaze. Kurt has the same instinctive reaction, a short look that is equal parts surprise and confusion passing between them.

Up goes Kurt's eyebrow as Kurt returns his focus to Sam. When Kurt starts speaking, though, his voice is pitched into one of his beautiful kind tones. "I thought you said you aren't seeing anyone?"

Sam smiles as Kurt poses the question, something about the gesture subdued, which proves successful in making Blaine's ecstatic mood lose some of its overwhelming bubbliness. "I'm not."

And up remains Kurt's eyebrow. But there's subtle kindness in his tone again when he goes back to speaking, — "... And you're aware that the lovely Miss Jones won't be bringing anyone to our little intimate soirée celebrating Artie's humongous achievement?"

Sam sighs before plastering another grin across his mouth, something about that gesture also subdued. "I know. I know. We're still working on our collaboration for the Darkest Forces Trilogy Soundtrack so I do know all about her single status, remember?"

"Ah," Kurt says, the lone syllable coming out short, happy, spontaneous, and thankfully so very far from complicated. Blaine finds himself thinking that, against every imaginable odd, Kurt must be trying for sainthood tonight with all the restraint and magnanimous carefulness.

He turns his head and drops a kiss against Kurt's temple.

Kurt shifts to level him a look, a return grin that is all bright curves and playful promise perking his lips up.

"Let's get going, guys. D'you think Artie made some eggnog? Because his eggnog is like, — "

"Holiday cheer wrapped around a rainbow and mixed in with that indescribable rush racing through your whole entire being when you finally slip into the very first designer suit you were ever able to afford, — " Kurt interrupts Sam eloquently.

"Which just happens to be sprinkled with purest Ceylon cinnamon manufactured so as to conform to the famously exacting Wakandan Organics seal of approval, — " Blaine puts in, performing his most sacred duty as lowkey absolute dork.

"All of which is saturated by alcohol that glides and sings through your bloodstream like the sweetest possible voice riding over a verse so tight it could only come to exist after time travel and the splicing of Sherlock and Tony Stark's genes," Sam elaborates, his voice lit up warm and a little bit hushed with exaggerate longing cadences.

They burst out laughing, Sam's New York apartment ringing, beating with it.

Blaine gets up, Kurt following his gentle tug as Blaine reaches back for him. Sam continues trekking towards the front door, that subdued quality persistently lingering around his features and the set of him but less striking now, bold colors splashed across a too pale canvas and successfully lighting it up.

How about that. Apparently with increasing age and a progressively widening spectrum of maturity comes a greatly welcome degree of chill in the face of the one who's (repeatedly) got away.

Blaine clasps Sam's shoulder as Sam finishes sliding into his thick, in-style, becoming coat, kind of predictably less settled at pristine contentment with his best friend's new disposition when met with the reality of Mercedes than he thought he'd be. But what can he do: he's a romantic right down to his last cell.