<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"a325;a331; 明朝"; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:128; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:fixed; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"a325;a331; 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"a325;a331; 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page WordSection1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} -->

The sky was just beginning to lighten up but there was still a hint of the previous night. The sun was just peaking over the endless skyscrapers that seemed to cover New York City. He looked at his watch, it read just a little over five in the morning, the night was melting away and a new day was starting and for Kurt Hummel, it was just his regular Wednesday.

The cab drove slowly down Fifth Avenue that morning. Kurt paid the fare and stepped out of the cab, and looked at the glass double doors in front of him with the numbers 727 placed right above it. His eyes wondered even higher and saw the copper-green statue of the man with a large clock upon his shoulders. It was like Tiffany’s knew they were bearing the problems of millions of people, Kurt being one of the people that borrowed their unknown services. He let out a soft sigh and made his way to the big window display, his eyes wondered over the words against the wall - Tiffany and Co. His hand snaked into the little pastry bag and fished out the Danish and held it with his mouth so that he can free the other hand to get his coffee out and pop off the lid. Standing in the early morning and sipping his non-fat mocha, he felt the caffeine working it’s magic into his body. With a dreamy expression, he gazed into the window, admiring the way the light seemed to dance off the diamonds and silver; it made everything better for Kurt, as if he took a bit out of the magic in movies and lived it - movies almost always had a happy ending, and Kurt was patiently waiting for his. If anything, it was his escape from the real world, even if it was just for a little while, it was still an escape.

Usually, after work Kurt would just head straight home and fall into bed, but then again, not every night at work ends up with him finishing the next morning. When it did, or when things got tough, he would make his way to Fifth Avenue and just soak up the magic it had to offer. Truman Capote had no idea that his little novella would spawn millions of dreamers to make Tiffany’s their site of pilgrimage, luckily none of them were really dedicated enough to make the trip during the early hours of the day, giving Kurt his moments of quiet - something that was rare in Kurt’s life and even more in New York. 

That morning, Kurt expected it to be just himself, his coffee and the famous store but unknown to him, there was something at work that day. For the first time since his move to New York after high school, someone was going join him in his little early trip at Tiffany’s. He heard quiet footsteps walking down the pavement and turned in the direction of the noise and saw a man. He was wearing a navy blazer, white V-neck, snug black jeans and brown wing tip shoes; slung on his back was a guitar case and the wind seemed to have freed the curls on top his head who looked like they could do with some air. He couldn’t really see his face because of the distance and that his head was down turned, almost staring directly at his feet. Kurt did a quick profile of him: he dressed too well to be a tourist or just a busker, on top of that, what busker would be up at this hour trying to earn some change? From this Kurt guessed that the man, now walking closer to him, had a much more interesting story than the one he made up in his head. Apart from the story, what Kurt wanted to know the most was why this stranger was roaming New York at this time - usually Kurt wouldn’t care, but the fact that Mystery Man managed to unknowingly weed his way into Kurt’s life, he wanted to meet him and know him. It was a strange reason, but Kurt was anything but regular so it wasn’t surprising to him.

The man looked up from the ground and his eyes met Kurt’s, giving him a quick nod before carrying on his way to wherever he was going to. If Kurt was slightly shocked at the man’s face he would have said something, but he was caught in one of his less eloquent moments so he just returned the nod and went back to his, now slightly cold, coffee and Danish. And that was the last time Kurt thought of Mystery Man.

The week flew by with the new issue of the magazine running to print and even Kurt, the insomniac and workaholic was drained. His head was filled with different instructions from his boss; from running to different shoots to deliver specific instructions to making sure everyone and everything was where they should be. After all, no one wanted to anger Sue Sylvester, and with his ditzy boss, Emma Pilsbury, Kurt basically ran their department for them. The woman was sweet and lovely, but not quite as direct as Kurt could be and stood no chance against Sue if she dared suggest anything. In a sense, Kurt gathers her ideas and makes sure she can say them quickly so Sue can’t shut her up. This worked most of the time, and Kurt secretly applauds his ability to make Sue listen when he’s alone.

With all that going on in his laugh, the beautiful stranger from last week was nowhere in Kurt’s thoughts; only when he passed by Tiffany’s one afternoon while walking back to the office with his afternoon coffee did he remember him. The face he had in his head was vague, but what he did remember was enough indication that the man was very attractive. He had a pair of hazel eyes, but that morning, be it the sun or Kurt’s fatigue but he could swear that Mystery Man’s shade of hazel was almost golden. And this was why he found himself smiling outside the jewelry store.

“Lunch at Tiffany’s too?” Kurt heard someone say behind him, he turned around, witty comeback ready until he saw the person who said it. There was Mystery Man in front of him.