#bacchibacchi

Kurt hopes his father and brother won’t mind him getting into his own world for a moment, focusing on his phone and his blog to get some rest for his eyes.

Yes, black and white photos, muted designs that look all the more impress--

“Aaaaah!”

Either the ceiling just opened and it’s flooding outside, or someone.

Just.

Dropped.

A.

Drink.

On him.

“Aaaaaaaaaah!”

Something is happening on the court, but Kurt couldn’t care less.

He thought he had reached the least of his care before, but now that he’s soaping wet with--oh my God, is that beer dripping down his back, he’s going to cut the bitch who did that to him--with a yet to be identified beverage, he has reached the proverbial rock-bottom.

“Oh my God I am so, so sorry, here,” someone says urgently, climbing down to be next to Kurt and offering--

“A handkerchief?” Kurt asks dejectedly, taking it all the same to wipe at his neck and shoulders.

“Just for starters,” the same man offers, and Kurt has yet to look at him, he’s so pissed off. “I’m not that clumsy usually, I don’t--I just got very enthusiastic.”

“About grown men moving a ball across a wooden floor, congrats,” Kurt snarks back, finally looking around to the culprit.

Oh.

Speaking of Kurt’s fondness for red and navy …

“I suppose,” Atlantaficionado replies with a small shrug. “I do get very excited about Broadway. Brooks Brothers too.”

Ah? Not entirely unredeemable after all.

“Speaking of which, I have in a locker downstairs a new shirt I could give to you to replace the one I decided to beer-wash,” Cute Atlantaficionado offers and Kurt starts smiling.

“I’m not one to refuse an offer for free clothes,” he replies, gathering his coat and phone before leaning towards his father. “I’ll be right back Dad.”

Burt looks away from the court to frown at Kurt, then at the man standing behind him, looking guilty and apologetic.

And then, to Kurt’s absolute horror, his dad smirks at him. “Have fun, kiddo.”

Kurt can tell, his dad is this close to wink at him, and Finn is getting distracted from the game too, oh sweet baby Jesus have mercy.

Still patting his shirt dry-ish, he decides to take the high road and huffs haughtily as he passes them by, followed by the Atlantaficionado.

“I’m Blaine,” the man says as they climb out of the arena, offering one hand to Kurt.

Kurt completely blames the weirdness of the whole situation for the couple of seconds it takes him to shake it, long enough for a look of embarrassment to start taking over Blaine’s handsome face.

“Kurt.”

---

The shirt Blaine lends Kurt fits, more or less--it’s a bit short but Kurt prefers that to wearing something wet and smelly for the rest of the evening--and very trendy, in spite of being on the neutral side.

“Thank you so much,” he tells Blaine when he comes out of the stall where he changed.

“The least I could do after showering you in beer,” Blaine replies with a curt nod.

“Still, I don’t want to steal it from you,” Kurt insists.

Blaine smiles at him. “Alright, let me give you my phone number.”

“Excuse me?”

“So we can arrange a meeting and you’ll give me back my shirt?”

Kurt wants to smack himself on the head. Of course Blaine is not asking him on a date.

“Of course,” he replies as neutrally as he can manage. “Here, give me your phone I’ll give you mine too.”

They type their phone numbers in each other’s phone, and stand awkwardly in the restroom for a whole minute.

Have you ever noticed how, sometimes, minutes feel like hours?

“We should …”

“Yeah.”

With a shy smile, Kurt walks out of the restroom and they both return to their seats.

After a moment, Blaine’s enthusiasm returns--minus the beer shower--and for the rest of the game, Kurt tries to get interested in the game, if only to provoke more shouts from Blaine.

---

They do meet afterwards, and Blaine does get his shirt back.

But the thing is, they keep arranging meetings. First, it’s for the aforementioned shirt.

Then Blaine talks about a revival of “The Sound of Music” he had two tickets for, and would Kurt be interested.

Then Kurt needs to go and pick an audition song for a small part in a musical adaptation of Frank Sinatra’s life, and the two of them end up practicing together.

Neither of them gets the part, but they have fun anyway, singing duets and kind of, sort of dancing around together.

And before Kurt can realize what is going on, he’s spending more time with Blaine than he does with his roommates. Oh, he still has a crush bigger than Jupiter itself, but Blaine’s friendship--it’s precious, and he wouldn’t trade it.

Well.

He would, if it meant getting to hold Blaine and kiss Blaine and fuck B--

No, not going there.

That friendship is more important than something that could destroy them if it ended.

---

It’s all good and swell until Kurt gets two tickets for another basketball game as a tip at the dinner.

The Knicks versus the Cleveland Cavaliers, and as much as Kurt is glad to have found a new home in New York, Ohio will always keep a part of his heart.

Besides, red and gold is far more aesthetically pleasant than blue and orange, end of story.

Blaine’s smile when Kurt shows him the tickets makes Kurt’s heart go through a rumba and a chacha, and he has to look away to work on his composure.

Which means that he misses the softness that takes over Blaine’s eyes as he keeps on looking at him.

The game is not that riveting, and Blaine and Kurt share a plate of nachos and a soda as they talk over the loud shouts and comments around them.

What a difference a couple of months can make, Kurt notices privately as he looks at Blaine carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin. He sips on the soda, looking around them, startled when he looks back at Blaine and finds him staring at him intently.

“What?”

“You know,” Blaine says slowly, as if picking his words carefully, “I apologized for dousing you in beer when we met.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not actually that sorry.”

“Oh really?” Kurt teases back.

“No. I wouldn’t have met you if I hadn’t.”

Kurt’s heart skips a beat, but he nods anyway, his hands clutching the soda a little bit harder.

“And I can’t even conceive my life without you in it now,” Blaine continues, scooting closer to Kurt on the seats. “You’re, like, essential to me.”

“Wow.”

“Please,” Blaine says, voice lowered but still loaded with intent, “don’t get me wrong, if I’m … misreading all of this, somehow, I won’t bring it up again, but I just … I …”

“Yes?”

Kurt bites on his lower lip, like it can bring the word back, but it doesn’t. It makes Blaine look into his eyes, and reach for Kurt’s hand around the cup.

“You move me, Kurt,” he says, voice going stronger, “and I would pour a dozen cups over you to spend more time with you.”

“Would you no-hmmm,” Kurt starts replying, cut off by Blaine’s lips pressed against his.

It’s not a big, romantic kiss. It’s relatively short--more than a peck on the lips, but nothing PG-rated--but it still burns Kurt’s lips like a hot rod.

In the best of ways.

For a couple of seconds, it’s like they are in their own private bubble in the middle of the stadium, their own world where only the two of them exist.

Until a couple of supporters wolf-whistle behind them, enthusiastic and easy-going, and the charm is broken.

They exchange a smile and Blaine sits more properly in his chair, his hand still wrapped around Kurt’s.

“We should show a little more enthusiasm,” Blaine whispers and Kurt leans in.

“I thought we were.”

Blaine doesn’t know him, and just for that he’s going to strangle Tina because he saw her kissing the stranger’s cheek before the beginning of the race and how many times does he have to say that he has it up to here with his celibacy?!

So Blaine runs, making sure that the Tall Stranger with the red shorts doesn’t get too far ahead.

But every time Blaine manages to get back to his level, Short Shorts quickens his pace.

It’s as if he doesn’t want to lose to Blaine either.

See? They’re soulmates, it’s obvious.

Or it’s the endorphins talking before Blaine collapses.

Short Shorts runs faster and away, and Blaine definitely blames the endorphins on what comes out of his mouth just before he trips over his own feet.

“Hate to lose to you, but glad to see you go ahead!”

Short shorts shakes his head, but he turns around when he hears Blaine’s whine of pain when he hits the ground.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Blaine looks up, and the man is kneeling next to him--and yes, Blaine totally notices the way the short red shorts are bunching up higher on his thighs--, one hand extended towards Blaine’s ankle.

“Except for my ego, I think so,” Blaine replies, blushing like a fire-engine.

“I’m sure your ego can take it,” Short Shorts says, getting back to his feet before holding up his hand for Blaine to take.

Blaine straightens up, brushing dust off his legs and ass. “Thanks for your help,” he tells his good Samaritan, but when he claps his hands to clear them off the dust and looks up, the man’s eyes are directed at the area he just brushed repeatedly.

Alright then.

“How can I ever repay you for dropping off the race?” Blaine asks and Short Shorts smirks at him.

“Well, let me be the second to last, for starters,” he replies and Blaine sighs. “And then we can get an energy boost in the shape of caffeine together?”

The man has a sheepish look on his face as he adds his second “condition”, and Blaine can’t help but beam at him.

“I’d love that.”

“I’m Kurt.”

“Blaine.”

“See you on the finish line!”

Blaine nods and smiles to himself as Kurt starts running the final portion of the marathon.

For the man in the bed next to his, as handsome as he may be, keeps on complaining.

About the food, about how his cast itches, about the early awakening by the nurses, about their TV not working, about pretty much everything and anything--the man is cute, sure, but his tendency to throw a tantrum for the smallest thing does nothing for Blaine.

Argh.

But now that the TV is back on, Blaine can hope for some quiet to return to the room.

Except that he’s the one who’s going to complain if the man does not switch channels in a nanosecond.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, sitting up as much as he can in his bed without hurting himself, “could you change the channel?”

The man slowly turns his head towards him, blue eyes sharp and laser-like. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I really can’t stand the 13th season of America’s Next Top Model,” Blaine replies, “so if you’d just zap it away that would be--”

“No.”

Wow, rude.

“Come again?”

“I happen to love this season of the show,” Rude yet Cute explains, muting the TV for discussion’s sake. “The fact that they picked smaller models …”

He pauses there and gives Blaine an appraising look--in any other given circumstances, Blaine would preen under such a look.

But not in this situation, no.

“As a matter of fact, I would think that you of all people would love this particular season,” RYC adds with a smirk, turning the volume back on.

“Now wait a minute here,” Blaine starts hotly, before deflating like a chocolate soufflé as the words fully register. “Are you saying that I could have been a contestant?”

A pink hue invades RYC’s cheeks and ears--oh shit he’s adorable. “Well, I--I have eyes, ya know.”

Blaine definitely preens at that. “You flatterer.”

“Only stating the truth.”

The man looks up from his hands fiddling with the remote and in that moment, he looks pretty honest.

And vulnerable.

And really, really cute.

“I suppose we can deal with some of Erin’s poison,” Blaine finally says, leaning back against his pillow.

RYC beams at him and leans over the rail of his bed. “I’m Kurt.”

“Blaine.”

Kurt sits back in his bed, looking at the screen and snorting at the ridiculousness of the new drama between the models before giving Blaine a side look.

“If you want, you can--you can pick what we watch next.”

“Really?”

Kurt’s smile turns slightly cocky, but not as rude as it used to be--or maybe that’s just Blaine seeing things differently.

“Really really.”

--

“I don’t know,” Britanny muses, almost tapping the curler against her cheeks, “did you play with his peacock?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’re the one who asked if he came last week.”

Kurt opens and closes his mouth. “To the salon, Brit, to the salon, not--never mind.”

A closer look--still hiding behind the curtain that separates the waiting area from the actual working area--reveals that yes, Blaine’s haircut is just as fresh as last week, when Kurt took care of it.

What the actual Hell.

“Kurt, if you may,” Mercedes calls him in her most professional voice, but when he does push the curtain, there is a definite teasing tone to her smile.

Shit.

“Ms. Jones,” he says coolly, and tries not to lose his composure when Blaine looks up and beams at him. “Mr. Anderson, what a surprise.”

Yep, that’s definitely a blush creeping up Blaine’s collar, covering his neck and reaching his jaw.

His delicious, tempting jaw--no, nope, not happening.

“I, um,” Blaine clears his throat as he neatly folds the magazine back to the table and stands up, “I have an appointment later today, and I thought I could use a fresh haircut for it.”

Kurt is tempted to let it slide--Blaine is just so cute--but, no, teasing is much funner.

“I don’t really see what more I could cut,” he says gently, a crooked smile on his face as Blaine’s eyes widen and he puts his hand on the back of his neck.

“Ah, um, true, very true.”

And then Kurt takes pity on him--he’s not a monster after all.

“I could give your sides a little trim I suppose, and blow dry everything?”

A cackle comes from behind him, and Blaine’s blush darkens, but Kurt somehow manages to keep his dignity intact.

When Blaine nods and follows him, he does hipcheck Santana on his way to the basins.

---

Blaine knows that he’s being ridiculous, and that he should grow some balls and ask Kurt out already before he becomes bald.

But every time he builds up the courage to ask the hairdresser out, for a coffee or lunch or whatever, someone else asks for Kurt’s assistance in this or that, and Blaine just leaves the salon with a polite smile and more breeze against his skin.

But this time, it’s ridiculous, and he knows that he has to do something if he wants to be able to just come back to the salon at all, let alone see Kurt again.

The problem is, right now, Blaine is completely speechless.

And more than a little aroused.

Because Kurt is washing his hair, and from his extensive experimentation, Blaine knows that Kurt has never washed his hair so thoroughly.

Like he’s enjoying it as much as Blaine does.

Well, “as much” … Blaine can’t be sure that Kurt is getting hard just from washing his hair, but he is, that’s for sure.

Trying to get his mind off the gutter, Blaine clears his throat and wiggles in his seat.

“Is the temperature okay?” Kurt asks, voice closer than Blaine expected--he almost can feel Kurt’s breath on his skin, holy shit.

“F-fine, it’s fine, it’s great,” Blaine babbles, digging his fingers in the arms of the chair to keep himself from doing something stupid.

Like lean back and take Kurt’s lips with his own in a sneak attack.

Because that would be just dumb.

Or would it …

No it definitely would.

Maybe it would be romantic …

Or Blaine could be officially classified as a weirdo and a pervert, no thank you.

“Follow me?”

One more opportunity wasted, Blaine

Why does his inner voice sound so much like Wes?

Kurt sits him down and looks at their reflection while he passes his fingers through Blaine’s curls, pulling there and digging here, until he puts his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and leans closer.

Ohdeargodhesmellssogood

“Tell me Blaine,” Kurt says, voice low enough that the chitchat and the machine’s noise around them cover it, “do you really need a trim?”

They look at each other in the mirror, and Blaine has a newfound respect for “Eyes Wide Shut” and its mirror scene.

“Uh …,” he hesitates, before clenching his jaw, taking a leap. “No, not really.”

“I see. Do you really have an appointment later?”

“Just with my baker.”

Kurt lifts one eyebrow at him. “Your baker?”

“I felt confident enough that I would be able to, to, to speak to you today about, maybe, the possibility of, um--”

“Yes?”

“Going on a date with me?”

“I fail to see the connection with the baker,” Kurt says, and Blaine would feel disheartened if it weren’t for Kurt’s hands relaxing on his shoulders, and maybe sliding closer to his collarbone--his chest.

Oh.

“Well, if you agreed on a date, the least I could do would be to prepare a decent basket,” Blaine says, feeling a surge of confidence and courage go through him now that the prospect of his endeavor is a little bit more obvious.

“What a gentleman.”

“That’s me,” he replies with a grin--hopefully it’s not too dorky.

Hopefully Kurt will think it’s charming.

The soft smile on Kurt’s lips, the pink hue that has taken over his cheeks, would lead to that conclusion, in any case.

“Lucky me, then.”

Good things come to those who wait, right?

Blaine smiles and returns his eyes to the stage.

It really looks like they’re having fun.

—

Four years later

“Mooom!”

Elizabeth smiles as she arranges Kurt’s bow tie. “Let me just arrange your tie, honey bunny.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Mom, it’s fii-iine!”

She swears she can hear Burt snorting in the hallway as he takes pictures of them.

“Are you sure?” she asks, putting her chin in her hand. “Because you know that Blaine is going to be here, and I would hate for you to lose to him because of a crooked bow tie …”

Kurt’s eyes widen. “Fix it! Fix my tie, Mommy!”

Elizabeth bites on her lips to keep from smiling too widly.

Her little competitor hates losing to Blaine, just as she knows that Blaine can’t stand losing to Kurt.

Losing to anybody else is apparently fine, but to each other?

Drama, drama, drama.

She laughs about their sour losing attitudes with Pam Anderson over their respective glasses of apple juice.

Six years old, and already a massive competitive strike–Elizabeth is almost sad that she will only get to see Kurt in beauty pageants for four more years.

Well, unless Kurt continues to Mr. America or Mr. Uni–no, actually, no, it’s better if they all enjoy those four remaining years.

She would hate for her baby to turn into a mass of muscles.

—

Two years later

Blaine fidgets in his tuxedo and Pam doesn’t even bother trying to tell him to stop–she knows why he’s so agitated.

Kurt isn’t here yet, and there is only a couple of minutes before the 8-10 years olds are supposed to start walking down the runway.

Not for the first time, Pam wishes that she had been closer to Elizabeth Hummel and gotten her phone number. That way she could call and check if they are coming, if something happened, and appease her son.

Despite being each other’s number one competition, she knows how the two little boys are becoming friends in this ruthless environment.

“Anderson, showtime!” the assistant calls and Blaine straightens up, arranging his waistcoat.

He looks up at her with a shy smile before turning on his “show face.”

“Do you know if the Hummel boy is competing this year?” Pam discreetly asks the assistant while Blaine charms the jury with his smile and impeccable pose.

“Haven’t you heard?” the assistant replies with wide eyes. “Mrs. Hummel passed away last May.”

“Oh goodness,” Pam gasps, her hand covering her mouth. “Poor Kurt.”

“Cleared the way for your boy to win though,” one mother says nearby, loud enough for Pam to hear.

“How dare you,” Pam says, quiet fury taking over as she walks towards the woman who spoke, “Elizabeth was as close as friend as two mothers can be in this … world,” she says, making a gesture to encompass their surroundings. “Don’t you dare think that her death makes me happy.”

The woman looks properly chastised and mutters an apology just as Blaine returns backstage, applause following his retreat.

“Is everything alright Mama?” he asks sweetly, taking her shaking hands between his.

“Yes Blainey,” she replies, eyes filling with tears.

Blaine smiles up at her before looking around with a small frown. “Has Kurt arrived? I need to show him my tie, I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Pam can see the other mothers looking at her in sympathy. “I’m sure he would, dayong, but he’s not coming today.”

Blaine’s eyes widen. “B-but … why?”

“I have something sad to tell you,” Pam says, picking him up and struggling a bit to seat him on her hip like she used to. At eight, Blaine is not as easy to hug as he used to.

Blaine puts his little hand on her shoulder. “Something sad?”

“Yes, baby,” she says, taking a moment to find her words, “and it’s about Kurt’s mommy …”

—

Fourteen years later

“Come on, Kurt, it will be fun!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Kurt …”

“Rachel, I said no.”

Rachel huffs and puffs, but Kurt will not change his mind.

But why is Santana smiling at him like that? And what are those pictures she’s fanning herself with?

“You used to love beauty pageants, Kurt,” Santana says sweetly–too sweetly. “The least you could do would be to wear that sash back, for charity.”

Kurt can actually feel the colors draining from his face. “Wha-what are those pictures?”

“You know exactly what they are, Mister Sunburst.”

Oh no.

“And after all, it’s only showing your stuff on stage for a teeny tiny pageant,” Santana continues, holding up the pictures for Rachel to see. “Did I say that it was for charity?”

Kurt closes his eyes. “Yes you did, but Santana, I haven’t competed in ten years.”

“I know.”

“Not since my mom died, Santana.”

That makes the smile disappear–only for a moment. “Then it’s a good way to honor her memory–only once, Kurt, come on!”

Kurt wants to be annoyed, he really is, and he wishes they would stop pestering him into entering this … Mr. Bushwick pageant to help the local teenager shelter, but he can remember how much fun it used to be.

“Alright,” he finally says with a sigh, “but you better make sure that I win.”

“Consider that ballot yours,” Rachel says, clapping her hands. “Oh it’s going to be so much fun!”

“Speak for yourself,” Kurt mutters, already wondering what outfit he should wear for the event.

–

Blaine frowns at his roommates. “You did what?”

“We entered you along with us to the neighborhood’s pageant,” Mike replies with a disarming smile. “You’re the only one with the … hands-on experience, and it will be fun?”

“For whom?” Blaine asks, rolling his eyes away from Mike–his puppy eyes are too much to resist, but he meets Sam’s instead and it’s frankly not helping him stand his ground.

“For all of us, bro!” Sam exclaims, putting his arm around Blaine’s shoulders. “You know that it will be fun.”

Blaine huffs and sighs. “… Is it a talent show?”

“You bet your sweet ass it is!”

Blaine raises one eyebrow. “Got something to share with the class, Samuel?”

Sam shrugs. “Don’t have to be gay to have eyes, bro.”

Blaine feels the laughter building up as he blushes at the compliment. “Fine, I’m in,” he finally says, “but don’t come crying to me when I leave you two in the dust.”

Mike and Sam wolf-call after him, but Blaine smiles as he walks to his room.

Now what to wear, and what to do …

–

Kurt almost chokes on his gulp of water when he hears the name of the first man called up to the stage.

“Anderson?” he repeats as Santana pats a tissue to the drop of water that fell on his lapel. “Blaine Anderson?”

“Yep, that’s what she said,” Santana says before snickering at her involuntary joke. “Baby got back, too,” she muses, peeking behind the curtain. “Hey!”

Kurt doesn’t bother with an apology as he pushes her out of the way to have a look.

It’s Blaine alright, wearing a beige suit that truly highlights his body in the best way as he moves across the stage, singing his heart out.

Kurt does his best to tune him out, because holy rollerblading cheesecake did Blaine grow up fine.

I mean, capital F fine.

“Would you look at that,” he whispers in spite of himself, smiling–probably like an idiot–as Blaine sings “Teenage Dreams”, and seriously who does that without being completely ridiculous?

Blaine Fucking Anderson, that’s who.

Hot damn.

“Looks like the pocket-sized prince has it in the bag,” Santana says, leaning her chin on his shoulder, and that’s all Kurt needed to gather his wits.

No way is he going to let Blaine win without a fight.

He never did when they were kids, and he’s not about to start now.

“Oh, I love that fire in your eyes, Hummel,” Santana purrs, arranging his tie. “Go get him.”

Kurt raises one eyebrow.

“It. I mean, go get it.”

“Sure you did.”

–

Blaine is backstage when he hears the name being announced, and at first he doesn’t believe his ears.

Is it possible?

After all these years?

They’re both in Bushwick?

Blaine goes to the curtains to look at the stage, and he momentarily forgets to breathe.

No doubt about it–sure, he changed, and he grew (and would you look at how well he did grow), but that profile, that bearing and that confidence, that’s Kurt Hummel’s signature.

Oh my.

Kurt is singing, too, and Blaine is moved to his core by the purity and the mastery of his voice as he pays his tribute to the Beatles.

I’ve been looking everywhere for you, he thinks with a soft smile, and there you are.

“Careful with the drool, Hobbit.”

Blaine tears his eyes from Kurt to frown at the brunette who just talked to him. “Excuse me?”

The young woman eyes him, giving him a seizing look with a smirk. “I guess you’ll do.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Our table is the number 21, near the bar,” she continues, not paying attention to Blaine’s interrogations. “Treat him well, or I’ll find you.”

“Uh?”

“Wow, thank God you’re pretty,” she says, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him towards the room. “Table 21, and my boy loves a good Haute & Steamy, just FYI.”

Blaine stops to smile at her. “Thank you.”

She seems startled by his words, and a blush appears on her cheeks. “Make sure you treat him well,” she repeats, and Blaine nods.

–

Kurt returns to their little table, elated by his performance and impatient to watch the other contestants–and trying to keep his mind of Blaine–but he freezes before reaching it.

Because Blaine is sitting at his table, eyes glowing in the soft light basking the room, and there is a very appetizing glass on the table apparently waiting for him.

Though Kurt doesn’t quite know what is the most appetizing element at the table right now.

“Hello Kurt.”

Kurt smiles before he can stop himself and takes a seat next to Blaine. “Hello Blaine.”

Blaine lets out a breath. “I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.”

“It’s the tie,” Kurt says, nodding at it. “I remember how your mother favored the half-Windsor knot.”

Blaine reaches for said-knot with a small smile. “What a memory.”

“You did remember me,” Kurt points out before reaching for the glass. “Is it for me?”

Blaine raises his own glass. “Yes it is,” he replies, “to celebrate old friendships.”

“Hopefully renewed.”

“Hopefully.”

They clink their glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes.

They don’t even notice when Sam is announced as the winner–then again, the burgundy sash was his the moment he took his shirt off.

(For their joined bachelor party, two years later, Sam organizes a new beauty pageant, and the Warblers all participate–wearing a very peculiar underwear, for the grooms’ delight.

Kurt and Blaine are ex-aequo in this pageant, for the first time in their lives.