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Eight Rules to Proposal

By skwirelygurli


Eight Rules to Proposal

Eight Rules to Proposal, a Glee fiction

I do not own Glee. Thanks to all my reviewers and readers!

It's a perfectly sunny Friday afternoon, and you're still in school because Rachel insists the acoustics in the choir room are better than out in the yard. And Mercedes is wearing a new shirt that she doesn't want slushied. So you agree to stay inside, the top button of your shirt undone.

Mr. Schue is teaching a lesson about love, because he's still in that honeymoon phase with Emma. They're still planning their wedding, so Rachel takes the opportunity to volunteer her expertise on love songs. You get that they had insisted on a glee wedding, after the Hudmel wedding had been a success, but it's the third day she's had a song prepared. In a row.

She's going on about her undying love, and you're giggling. You shouldn't because you know it's rude, very very rude, but promises are being whispered in your ear. The kind that will be fulfilled and be very fulfilling. Your boyfriend lists all the things he plans to do to you this weekend, in great depth and detail, and you wish that this song would end already so you can get up and perform, just to get away from the images forming in your head.

She catches your eye for a moment, and Kurt pulls back into his own chair. She continues without stumbling. You grin, and pretend it's for her. Her flawless performance. Not the flawless human next to you who is counting how many more minutes until the end of the day.

Thirteen. There are thirteen minutes left.

You busy yourself with other thoughts. Like how much fun the wedding will be. You think back to the proposal, and wonder what you would have done differently. You spend the rest of the meeting making a mental list. Eight rules to the perfect proposal.

Rule One. Don't tell anyone that can't keep a secret - yes Rachel Berry, we're talking about you.

You're in the jewelry store with Finn. You're not sure why you brought him along. But you do plan on asking him to be the best man if, make that when, Kurt says yes. Your hands are trembling, enough to be noticed. You point to a simple band in the case.

"Finn, what do you think of this one?" He's looking at a heart pendant for Rachel's anniversary gift.

Now you remember. You needed an excuse to get out of the house this afternoon. More importantly, an excuse to go to the jewelry store without Kurt or Rachel. Because it's obvious that Rachel can't keep a secret. And you want this to be a secret. A surprise so you can see the look on Kurt's face and remember it forever.

"Can I help you with something?" The sales attendant approaches the two of you. You point once again to the ring on display.

"May I see that one?" It's on display next to a diamond ring, one so large you could seriously hurt someone with it. She reaches for it. You shake your head. You want the band.

Her hand hovers over the ring you want. "You are aware this is a ring for a man?"

You nod, leaning forward to examine it out of the case. Finn leans forward too, and your heads almost butt against each other.

"He's going to love it dude." He pats you on the back. The lady coughs, covering up her gasp. She doesn't get paid to express her opinions. She gets paid to sell.

He ends up getting a bracelet for her. You share the bag to store your purchases. Once out of the store you slide the ring box into your coat pocket. You button it away.

"Now remember, don't tell anyone. I want this to be a surprise." You order Finn. Your tone is definite, so he doesn't hesitate to agree.

Rule Two. Don't do it in public as you may get disturbed - or get in trouble for causing a disturbance.

When Mike proposes to Tina, they're sitting at a table at Breadstix. You're sitting two tables over, hiding behind a propped up menu. Kurt's beside you, reading over your shoulder, even though he has his own menu. You've already agreed that you're going to split the chicken alfredo, but it's the only way to keep your eyes off the two of them. Finn is trying to sneak peeks over his shoulder. Rachel has out a compact mirror, trying to angle it to see the look on Mike's face. No one at the table can see Tina.

At another table sit Puck and Quinn. Puck is stuffing ravioli in his face. Quinn is acting disgusted, and most likely is by the sauce dripping down his chin. She has her phone poised under the table, sending updates about Tina.

A waitress comes to take your order. You set the menu down, hoping that Tina doesn't turn around and see you all sitting there. You get through your order, begrudgingly handing back the menu.

"Tina, will you marry me?" You hear your cue. At this point you're all supposed to jump up and start singing. You've spent all week practicing the song, making sure everyone was spaced out well enough in the restaurant to make sure she didn't notice. You spent three hours coordinating outfits for the event.

Rachel is the first to make a move. She stands, and sidesteps a waitress. She belts out the first note. Now you're having second thoughts. Not about performing, because you were born to do it. No, it's the fact that Tina turned around, and you can't hide behind a menu anymore. And the look on her face is pure shock.

Finn joins in, and you reluctantly stand up. You all make your way to the table, where Mike and Tina are sitting. The other diners eye you curiously.

At the end of the song Mike looks to her expectantly. She pushes aside her water glass to take his hand.

"I need time to think about it."

His face drops. You feel awkward. It's at this point you promise never to put Kurt in this situation.

Don't do it over dinner – because your dining partner may choke in surprise.

You're sitting at Breadstix again, because there seems to be nowhere else to eat in Lima, when you notice who's in the booth next to you. It's Tina and Mike. You seem to be the only couple from New Directions there. Rachel and Finn are back in New York for their second year. So instead of it being the four of you crammed into one booth, it's you and Kurt. He's across from you, his back turned to their booth.

You twirl a string of pasta around your fork. It piles up into an abnormally large ball. You try to stick it in your mouth. It barely fits, so you take a bite and pull the rest back.

Kurt leans across the table to wipe sauce off your lip. You swallow, and it's a good thing you do, because the next words you overhear shock you.

"I''m pregnant."

Kurt's thumb stops wiping. He recognizes the voice. It belongs to Tina.

Mike chokes on a meatball. You can see his face turn red, and you want to get up and help him. But she doesn't know you're here, and you'd rather it stay that way. You don't need them thinking you're there for every landmark in their relationship.

Kurt turns around at the coughing. Tina gets up from her seat and rounds the table to hit him on the back. It's not helping.

"Would you two stop staring and help me?" she asks. I slip out of the booth. In a matter of minutes he's back to normal. Well, as normal as a guy can be after learning he's going to be a father.

You catch the waitress as she's passing by and ask for takeout containers. Watching a meatball roll out of someone else's mouth isn't the most appetizing thing to watch.

You tell yourself not to make any big announcements over food to Kurt. You don't want any more balls being choked on.

Don't do it on a holiday – because they should have their own day to celebrate.

It's Christmas, and you've been standing under the mistletoe for so long that your lungs are exhausted. The world is working around you, turning sideways to get through the doorway. You pull apart.

You stick your hands in your pocket, because if you don't, they'll end up back on Kurt's waist. You fingers grace a small box. The same little box that you bought six months ago with Finn. The one that you're too afraid to open around him. Countless times you've opened it in private. The ring is still there.

You move out of the doorway, because this time they're bringing through a plate of cookies and you'd really hate to see the gingerbread men get decapitated.

Kurt sits down on the couch. You take a seat next to him. Boxes are underneath the tree. They're all sizes. One is really big. It's probably the new television Finn had asked for. The only one they had in New York was a black and white small screen.

All the boxes get unwrapped and opened. Kurt is bouncing on his heels, because he just got two tickets for Broadway. Of course he's taking you.

He's already so excited, and it'd be so easy to slip another box under the tree. One final small velvet box. Except you want this to be the day that he remembers getting Broadway tickets. Not the day where he got Broadway tickets, a wedding proposal and new socks.

Socks make for lousy wedding proposals.

Don't panic – because sweaty palms aren't very attractive.

Your heart is racing like a horse on steroids. It hasn't been this way since that day in the choir room. The one where you timidly laid your feelings out for Kurt before eating his face like it was a casino buffet. Except rather than tasting like grease and whatever else they pumped to keep you in there, it tasted like coffee and peppermints and pure bliss.

Now you're standing on Kurt's front porch. You haven't rung the doorbell. It's a whole twenty degrees outside, snowflakes getting caught in your eyelashes, and you'd rather stand in the cold than press a button.

Mr. Hummel opens the door. "When I said you don't have to knock Blaine, this is not what I meant."

You blush, embarrassed. You know that their door is always open for you. After two years, you know where the spare key is.

"Sorry. I was just thinking." You stuff your hands further into your pockets. They can only go so far before making a hole. You rest your fingertips along the seam.

"About proposing to Kurt?" he asks. You blush darkens, because you know Kurt is mere feet away from you. You hope that he is eating some really crunchy toast and cant hear you over his chewing.

He notices your face. Kurt enters, yawning and stretching like a cat. His shirt rides up, and you take your hands out of your pockets to hug him.

He accepts your hug. Then he backs away before you can kiss him. He says that he tastes of Fruit Loops and morning breath. You let him go brush his teeth.

"Is it that obvious?" You ask once you're sure he's out of hearing distance.

"Finn asked me when he phoned home. Said that you had already bought a ring?" His voice is low in case Kurt returns. You figure this means Rachel knows now. She's always nearby. The two are practically attached at the hip outside of school. Or so you've heard.

You pat your pocket at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. It ends up being Carole. Neither of you say anything. She looks between the two of you. She can tell something is up. She catches a glimpse of your hand patting the pocket and jumps to conclusions. Completely correct conclusions.

By the time Kurt is ready to go, all the words of encouragement they've given you fly out the window. Because he's wearing that sweater, the one that makes you want to tear it off and keep it on at the same time. You lose your tongue, and beads of sweat trail down your neck.

Now is not a good moment to propose.

Don't dress like a slob – because your future grandchildren are judging you, harshly.

You rummage through your clothes hoping to find something. Anything. Half of your wardrobe seems to be in the laundry. You're parents are out of town, and you've been too busy enjoying the freedom of the empty house to get anything done. You could cut down on other things, but everything is necessary. College, eating, showers, sleeping. Kurt. Yes, he is a priority, and you are not losing time with him to do laundry.

You look at the basket of dirty clothes at your feet and wonder if he wouldn't mind doing laundry with you. And then during the cycle you can enjoy as much quality time with him as you want.

You pull a clean shirt over your head. It's not your favorite. And when you propose you want to be in that tee shirt of yours that he so desperately adores. It gives you confidence, knowing that he thinks you're beautiful.

You woke up this morning from a startling dream. There was a fire, and Kurt was hurt. You realized then that you couldn't go on. So you decided, right there and then that you were going to propose today. Except you aren't going to propose in a pair of pajama pants, because one day you are going to tell your grandkids about this. Ones who will be fashion forward, because Kurt will most likely make sure they grow up to be that way, and will make fun of you for not looking good when asking him to marry you.

You can't propose today. Who else will set a good example for them?

Don't suffer through the pain – because the only tears running down your face should be ones of joy.

You'd get down on one knee, but you can't with your crutches. He deserves to hear this with no moans of 'Ow, my leg!', no tears running down your face. Unless they're happy tears. You wish you didn't have to be on these crutches. It's been like this since your accident two days ago. The one that you really should call an 'on purpose', but the memory's too raw and fresh.

The sight of his foot under the car tire was enough to give him nightmares.

The fact that it came along with some less than friendly calls about his sexuality out the window made it all the worse. Especially when he was in too much pain to read the license plate.

You drop onto the couch and prop your foot up on the provided pillow. He leans your crutches against the wall. You make room for him to sit, which results with your head in his lap. Not that you mind the fingers running through your hair. Or the vibrations of his chest as he sings along to the Little Mermaid.

He sings Kiss the Girl, and you want to stretch up to kiss him. But his arm is over your stomach, and you can't sit up. You settle for nudging his shirt up with your nose and kissing the exposed skin. His eyes break from the screen to smile at you.

His voice is so perfect. It's one of the million things you love about him. Maybe one day you'll make a list and read it to him on your anniversary. But first you have to get married. And that requires getting down on one knee, because it's the cliché thing to do. With you foot propped in the air, you'll most likely lose your balance. And thus, you will fall on your face and ask the floor to marry you. You don't want to marry the floor. You want to marry Kurt.

You cannot wait until your foot heals.

Do ask the one you love- because only then will you find happily ever after.

You're sitting at your table at the Lima Bean. The one that you always sit at, and will one day will have a little plaque that reads 'Here sat Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, the greatest lovers of all time.'

Correction. It will say 'Blaine and Kurt Hummel-Anderson', because today is the day.

The day where you accidentally open your big mouth and propose to him before you realize the words are coming out of your mouth. He's talking about how Tina and Mike finally had their baby, a little boy. How they'd have to go visit and bring her a muffin basket. He was going on about how her favorite were banana walnut, so they'd have to see if they could get more of those.

Somewhere between talking about nuts and volunteering to babysit, you start to wonder. If you and Kurt ever have a kid will someone be bringing you muffin baskets? Or better yet, baskets full of clean diapers and baby formula. You'll raise them to love music, and fashion, and to never take any slack from anybody. Nothing will stand in their way.

Like how nothing is standing in your way now.

"Marry me?" His eyes widen. You're not on your knee. The ring box is in your sock drawer at home. You're in a coffee shop, and the barrista is grinning from ear to ear, trying to count out change and watch for his answer. She's been waiting far too long for you to gather the courage to ask him. And now here's the moment.

"I've imagined you proposing to me I don't know how many times, but I've got to say, this is one possibility I never dreamed up." He takes a slow sip of his coffee. You swear he's doing it to make you squirm.

You hang your head. You should have done better. You could have done better.

A finger curls under your chin. It lifts your head to look him straight in the eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was going to make it the most perfect proposal ever. I've had a ring for a year now. And now I've completely messed up and I am so sorry." He stares at you. He's still taking it all in, but you can't wait. "Please say something," you beg. You can't stand not knowing.



"Yes, Blaine Anderson, I will marry you." He moves the finger from under your chin to along your cheek. It wipes away a tear making it's way down.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have had a better proposal." You apologize again. You should be leaping across the table, devouring him in the moment of excitement and lust. Instead you're telling him how you've royally screwed up at giving him the best proposal in the world.

"Stop saying that. This is better than all those dreams I had. You know why?" A tear drips down his own cheek. You're both sitting there teary eyed in the middle of a cafe, and nothing is wrong with the world.

You shake your head.

"Because this is real."

He leans across the table and kisses you. It doesn't matter that the barrista is watching, or that there's a couple breaking up at the table by the window, because you two are permanently together.

That's how it should be.

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