Blaine is casually handsome. He doesn’t have to try in order to look fantastic, even when wearing a cardigan with lobsters on it. He’s endearing. When he wakes up late and doesn’t have time to shave, he’s charmingly rustic. With his curls plastered in gel, he’s suave and debonair. Kurt hates him a little for it.
Oh, Kurt knows he’s handsome, too, but it’s certainly not effortless. Blaine screams ‘GQ’ five minutes after waking up, hair tousled and messy. For Kurt, there are nighttime skincare routines, endless moisturizers, carefully selected outfits. Everything accentuates his best features, draws attention to the sharp line of his jaw, the broad expanse of his chest, the strong muscles in his thighs. He’s long past thinking he’s as awkward as a flightless bird, now well into believing Blaine when he whispers sexy words in panted breaths against Kurt’s neck. He just wishes he could roll out of bed and look dashing, instead of like a teenager with flopped-over hair and permanently rosy cheeks.
(Blaine, of course, thinks Kurt looks handsome like that, too.)