i will be pretty bummed if season four doesn’t involve kurt and santana sharing a tiny slummy apartment in NYC, working crappy day jobs, and trading snarky barbs on a daily basis as they try to get their big breaks.
arguing over whether the curtains kurt sews are homespun chic or so hideously tacky the von trapp kids wouldn’t deign to wear them on laundry day. kurt being touched that santana was actually paying attention when he tried to force a sound of music sing-along roommate bonding session. fighting over who deserves the last ramen noodle packet. settling to split it as long as kurt works his kitchen voodoo and turns it into some kind of stir-fry or stroganoff. quietly showing up at each other’s little gigs and performances and clapping the loudest.
that one time kurt sympathetically brings up lesbian bed-death as a possible explanation for her bad mood and santana falls off the couch and rolls around crying with laughter for twenty minutes.