1992, Seattle Washington

It was late afternoon in Seattle, the light in Kurt’s little house spilling gold through the blinds. You’d been here more and more lately, your sweaters draped over the back of a chair, your toothbrush next to his. He didn’t comment on it, not really, but sometimes when he caught you folding a shirt of his or setting a mug in the cupboard, he’d smile like it was the most natural thing in the world.

On the couch, Kurt leaned forward, chin tilted toward the mirror, his fingers prodding at a spot on his cheek.

You padded over, sitting beside him. “What is that on your face?” you asked softly, squinting. He groaned, dropping his hand. “Pimple. Zit. Ulcer. Take your pick. I always thought I’d grow out of this crap, but nope. Acne Superstar forever.” His voice was dry, but there was a flicker of self-consciousness under it.

You tilted his face toward you, your bangs falling into your eyes as you leaned close. “It just looks like… skin. You’re human. You know that, right?”

He smirked. “Barely.”

You brushed the ginger-tinted strands of your hair out of your face, and he caught them, twirling one around his finger. “I love these little copper streaks,” he murmured. “You’ve got blue eyes too, like me… but yours are weirder. Darker and lighter at the same time. I get lost in them.”

He leaned back, and you settled against him. The smell of cigarettes clung to his sweater, but beneath it, there was something softer—soap, faint, like he’d tried today.

Later that night, the two of you were in bed, your things stacked in the corner like you were slowly sneaking into his life. Kurt lay on his back, hair fanned out, while you traced a fingertip over his cheek where he’d been picking earlier. He closed his eyes, letting you touch the roughness, the little scarred spots, the imperfections he tried to shrug off.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” you whispered.

He opened his eyes then, pale blue in the low light, and for once, he didn’t deflect with a joke or a shrug. He just reached for your hand, pulled it down to his chest, and held it there, where his heart beat quick under your palm.

“Good,” he said quietly. “’Cause I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”

And in the dark, tangled together, you knew you were already home.