Blaine sat in the glow of the morning sun rising over the monumental city buildings. He had prints of those same buildings scattered across the surface of a tiny table. Sipping from his coffee mug, he examined the photos over his thick black glasses. This was always the hardest part of his photography projects. Taking the pictures was easy, explaining them was the tricky part. Words were never his forte.

The wordy half of the apartment came waltzing into the kitchen moments later.  He softly hummed his I just got laid song, which just so happened to be Waltz of the Flowers. An odd choice if you asked Blaine. Even without the song, it was obvious what had occured the previous night. Just one look at Kurt and his dishelved hair, a rare thing for him, and backwards shirt, which Blaine didnt fail to point out.

"I know." Kurt sighed, even though he didnt. He grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard, filling them both half way with vodka. Blaine assumed the second glass was for Mr. Nutcracker back in Kurts room and not for him. Because, surely his roommate has caught on to the fact that he doesnt drink. Especially not at seven in the morning.

"Are you really drinking vodka for breakfast?" Blaine inquired, with a much deserved judgmental tone. Kurt simply rolled his blue-hued eyes and grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge. He mixed it in with the clear drink and looked back to Blaine.

"Happy?"

"That cant taste good." Blaine then went back to expressing his artistic decision of photographing the 9/11 memorail upside down. To capture the way our nation was turned on its side that day wasnt exactly a paragraph.

Kurt hummed his tune around the kitchen for a little longer, gathering bowls and spoons and milk and Lucky Charms. Much to Blaines dismay, he set them all on their tiny table to create cereal, disregarding the pictures already there.

"Uh, Kurt, what are you doing?" Came the snarky protest of the short man with messy hair.

Kurt just shrugged, "making breakfast." He poured the milk hurredily, letting it slosh out of the sides.

"Damn it." Blaine grunted as some of it splashed onto his pictures. "Cant you do this over on the counter?" He rose from his creaking chair, frantically collecting his prints and moving them to a dryer spot. While Kurt dabbed up the milk with a red kitchen towel. 

"Im sorry, this isnt just your table." Kurt replied curtly.

And as soon as the disaster was averted, the roomates were presented with another one. Kurt attempted to balance two glasses and two bowls on a small tray. But, he failed, the entire breakfast clattering onto the hardwood floor and plastic table, soiling the notes Blaine had failed to grab. Now, the importance of a black and white Time Square was orange with tasty red balloons.

"Shit." Kurt muttered.

Blaine sighed in defeat, pushing his glasses onto his forehead and rubbing his eyes. Kurt picked up the notes, apologetically handing them to Blaine, who just dropped the soaked sheets on the counter.

"This is where messes belong, not on the damn table." He reminded his roomate. "You know for a dancer, youre pretty clumsy." Blaine yanked open a drawer and retrived a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.

"Yeah, well your pretty grumpy for a morning person. And Im pretty sure projects dont belong on the table either. They dont even belong in the kitchen, dont you have a desk?" Kurt retorted, setting to work on cleaning his mess.

"Doesnt matter anymore, does it!?" Blaine shouted back, lighting the cigarette. " because you ruined all of my notes!"

"Hey, didnt I say no smoking inside?"

"Whatever, Hummel." Blaine grabbed his coffee mug, now with cereal floating in it, and his jacket. Without another word, he climed onto the fire escape to smoke in bitter cold peace.

Blaine adored autmn, especially in New York. Leaves of auburn and apricot scittered across busy streets. Pumpkins of various volumes and emotions lounged on doorsteps. And wrapped in scarves, gloved hands hugging mugs of pumpkin and gingerbread lattes, people strolled. It was the one time New York wasnt in a hurry. Blaine liked to think they slowed down just to admire the weathers graceful tumble into winter. It was by far the most photographical season. And there was Blaine without his camera. 

Hed considered going back in for it, but that would mean putting out his cigarette and apologizing to Kurt. Blaine was done losing to his roommate. This time, he stubbornly remained outside. The icy metal stung his bare feet and the wind chilled his bones through his thin pajamas, his jacket offering little help. The only warmth he got was from the rapidly cooling coffee and his cigarette. Still he remained, peering at Kurt through the small window with a stoic expression.

Inside, Blaine saw the older man clean up his breakfast extravaganza. He then proceeded to pour himself more orange vodka, giving up on the lucky charms. Kurt made a move, like he was taking the drinks to his room, before reconsidering this. He stopped and put down the cups. Pulling his crimson shirt over his head, the smooth porcelain skin of Kurts body was revealed. Even though it was a few moments, while he turned his shirt the correct way, it was enough to send Blaine reeling. The beauty of Kurt Hummel never failed to amaze him. He finds nothing wrong with having beautiful friends, if you can even call them that after their daily tiffs.

And when Kurt leans in front of the toaster to check his reflection and fix his hair, Blaine has to look away, pretend his mind is elsewhere. Because, Kurt is right under the window and out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees him and he has himself convinced that Kurt looks at him, too. A conciliatory glance; a contemplation. Then, hes farther from the window and Blaine can look again. He sees Kurt pouring his morning vodka down the drain, not even bothering to save it. And he mumbles something to himself, probably about how bad he knows it wouldve tasted. Then he saunters out of the room entirely.

Turning back to face the city, Blaine leans against the buildings brick wall. Relishing in the warth it radiates, he watches a speeding taxi honk below. He hates the way it ruins the fall vibe, but loves the way it compliments the colors of the leaves rustling around it.

And like the return of an almost forgotten breeze, Kurt came sweeping back into the room. This time, he was accompanied by another man. He was attractive, yes, and shirtless. An emerald shirt wadded in his hands, so Blaine could only imagine how well it looked with his green eyes. His dirty blonde hair was mused in the finest of ways and on his face was a permanent smirk. Blaine knew him as Sebastian. Kurt brought him around pretty often, not always, but often.

The two had a very touchy good bye, with lingering hands and kisses that made Blaine feel like he was intruding. Technically, he was. But, Blaine wasnt one for technicalities. Pulling on a large black coat, Sebastian left out the heavy front door. Locking it Kurt disappeared down another hallway. Blaine assumed now was a safe time to return to the warmth inside. But, once his feet were numb and the wind had calmed a little, I didnt really seem worth the effort.

And when Kurt reappeared in the kitchen with a hair dyer, Blaine was glad he hadnt. Because, if he had given up and went back in, Kurt wouldnt have stood in the kitchen for five minutes blow drying Blaines orange stained notes for him. He also wouldnt have made Blaine a mug of Im Sorry hot chocolate.

"Hey, loser." Kurt called to the back Blaine had turned to him. When he realized Kurt was coming outside, he pretended to be watching the city so he didnt seem like a creeper. "Come inside, before you get a cold." Kurt beckoned, extending the mug to Blaine in exchange for his empty coffee mug.

"Thanks, asshole." Blaine put out his cigarette in the tiny ash tray he had set out many months ago, when hed first moved in. He climbed inside to find his pictures in a neat stack on top of his notes. The notes that Kurt had salvaged for him. They were still orange and reeked of vodka, the ink running a little. But they were dry and legible and were all he had, which was pretty good.

I guess you could call them friends, Kurt and Blaine. So, indeed Blaine had a beautiful friend. An annoyingly imperfect, beautiful friend. And he saw nothing wrong with that.