Author's Note: I accept thy challenge and give you this! Prepare thy barf bags people!

*** A lot of people ask me how in the hell Kurt and I became a couple. Sometimes they just stare as we walk by, Kurt holding onto my arm with his head on my shoulder. Other times, it's the other way around, with my arm around his waist.

Either way, people can't bloody stop staring at us as we walk the streets.

I guess we can't really blame them for staring at us, but it would be nice if they didn't do it so obviously. A few times they just walk right up and ask us on the street how we got together. When that happens, Kurt usually gives one of his lop-sided smiles and turns to me to answer for him. ***
I remember hearing him sobbing in his room that night. I had the room just below his in the Lighthouse and his sobbing was so loud it was a wonder that no one else had gotten up and gone to see what was the matter before me.

When I knocked on his door, he wouldn't answer it, so I just opened it and I found him perched on the balcony on the porch near his window, his shoulders shaking as he wept softly, the light from the stars shining around him in a shimmering outline.

I walked up slowly and rested a hand on his shoulder, asking him why he was crying so hard. Kurt wouldn't answer me at first, turning his head away to hide his tears as his shoulders still trembled from his suppressed emotions.

I placed my arm around his shoulders next, squeezing them lightly as I asked him again what was the matter.

He finally gave up, turning to me with his watery yellow eyes. They were the only things I could really see of him in the dark; they seemed to really reflect his soul in that instant. I think it was then that I realized that I loved him.

He told me that for the past two weeks he had been having dreams about his friends whom had died back in America. He said that his dreams were always the same too, and they scared him.

It was always his old friends, covered in gore with their heads bashed in and their limbs torn and bloody pointing long and curled fingers at him, accusing him of being a coward and a failure for not being there when they needed him. They were always taunting him and condemning him for being one of those who survived when everyone else perished in Texas that day. He said that he always begged them to forgive him, saying that he didn't mean to fail them, but they always attacked him in the end, ripping him limb from limb for failing to be with them when everyone was really needed.

His sobbing had renewed while he was telling me this, and I couldn't stop my own eyes from stinging. He rested his head on my shoulder when he was finished, letting his tears flow freely down his smooth cheeks.

I'll never know where I got the courage from, but I remember gently cupping his chin in my hand and making him look at me while I kissed his tears away. He could have easily socked me in the mouth for that, and I wouldn't have blamed him, but instead he just stared at me for a long time before he kissed me on the lips lightly.

The rest gets a bit blurry after that. I think we made love because when the memories come back, we're lying on his bed together, my arms holding him tightly as he rests his head on my chest, playing with my chest hairs lightly. When he looked up at me, he was smiling, his teeth glittering in the light of the stars and we kissed for a moment.

When we parted, he said four simple words that I still hold dear to me this very day,

"I love you, Brian."