Kurt Hummel walks into his first class of his first day of senior year. It feels fantastic to be at the top of the heap, even if he isn’t the top in comparison to the assholes who still eye him in the hallway, ready to make some wise crack or vulgar statement regarding his sexuality. After three years, though, Kurt has become mostly immune to them. He can ignore them as long as they’re not physically harassing him. He has hardened his heart to high school boys and has resigned himself to the fact that he won’t get the chance to experience love until college.

The jocks are already congregating at the back of the classroom, as per usual, so Kurt seats himself on the front row in the corner, just near the window and in front of the teacher’s desk. He’d rather be scolded for texting in class or something than be taunted all class period. His belly is full of coffee and a slice of low-fat coffee cake, thanks to his trip to the coffee shop during his off period. He got lucky this year; the first period for the rest of the school is actually his off period, meaning second period is really his first class of the day. Kurt is extremely thankful for the break it allows him, meaning he doesn’t have to rush to get ready in the morning and he has time to stop and the nearest coffee shop before class.

The room fills with students, all of them loud and obnoxious. Kurt sighs at the fact that he has to take regular English rather than AP English. The only AP English class had been offered in the last period of the day, the same time slot as Glee class. Kurt had to make a choice: give up Glee or give up AP English. Considering Glee was probably the only thing that would keep him sane this last year, Kurt had opted for the latter choice.

Just behind three other students, another boy walks in, mug in one hand and balancing a stack of books in the other. Kurt doesn’t recognize him and he definitely would have noticed a short, starry-eyed, adorable guy if he had caught a glimpse of him before. Dark hair slicked back with gel, he’s sporting a light blue shirt and a cream colored cardigan along with a pair of dark, fitted jeans. The entire effect is mesmerizing to Kurt and his eyes automatically follow the boy as he shuffles over to the teacher’s desk in front of Kurt.

Kurt’s eyes widen in shock, lips parting to emit the tiniest gasp. This is his teacher?

Well, regular English just got a lot more interesting.

The boy, well, the man slides the books from his hand onto the desk and takes a long drink from his mug.

And then he looks at Kurt.

“It’s not alcoholic, I swear,” the man says with a small smile.

Kurt has to shake himself out of his thoughts, realizing he probably still looks completely shocked and possibly somewhat confused.

“N-no, I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking tha-”

“It would probably make teaching high school easier, though,” his teacher remarks, followed by a wink.

Clearing his throat, Kurt finally attempts to speak a real sentence but the bell rings and cuts him off. The class is still talking as everyone settles into their seats but Kurt is immediately attentive when his teacher walks around the desk and perches himself on it, feet swinging as he waits patiently for everyone’s attention.

When he doesn’t receive it, Kurt sees him roll his eyes.

“You know,” he says loudly, “I was going to bring donuts for everyone in this class for the next week, but if you can’t stay quiet for five minutes while I do the roll call, I’ll have to rethink that.”

The mention of food catches everyone’s attention, of course, just as Kurt assumed it would.

“Thank you,” the teacher says graciously. “I’ll call roll and we can get to introductions when that’s done with.”

Reaching around behind him, their teacher snatches a sheet of paper off his desk and begins to rattle off everyone’s names, waiting for the appropriate ‘here’ in response before moving onto the next.

When he finally says Kurt’s name, Kurt responds with a raised hand and the man smiles.

“Thank god, that’s out of the way,” the teacher sighs when it’s all over. “I’ll have a sign in sheet for the rest of the year so I don’t have to do this every class period. However, if I find more signatures on the sheet than the number of people in the room, everyone in the class will receive a point docked from their grade at the end of the grading period. So don’t screw each other over on this.”

Kurt internally grumbles at the new rule because he knows the class isn’t filled with the brightest of their grade but it’s definitely filled with people who only care about themselves.

“And onto introductions,” the man continues. “My name’s Blaine Anderson and this is my first year teaching high school English. I taught English to eighth graders for two years prior to my move to Lima. I graduated from Ashland University in Columbus, I just turned twenty-five, and I enjoy watching football, playing piano, and drinking coffee,” he finishes, holding up his coffee mug in demonstration with the slightest glance toward Kurt. “Now, I’d like you to take out a piece of paper. Write down your name, your age, what you want to do after graduation, and three things you either like or you think you do well.”

The rustling sounds of paper and unzipping of backpacks echo in the room, and everyone works silently as if this task might ensure Mr. Anderson’s promise of donuts for the rest of the week. Kurt silently hopes that they don’t have to share these aloud.

Kurt Hummel
17
After graduation, I want to attend a university somewhere in New York City and get a degree in musical theater or fashion design.
I like singing, cooking, and Broadway musicals. Also fashion. I love fashion. Even though that’s more than three things. But I like drinking coffee, too. So I guess that’s five things.

“You’ll hand these into me at the end of class,” Mr. Anderson says.

He continues to describe the books and plays they’ll be reading in class, types of homework assignments they’ll have, and other things pertaining to the class. Kurt hopes he’ll give them a syllabus or something because he can’t really focus on what Mr. Anderson is saying. All he hears is noise, but it’s fucking beautiful noise. His teacher has one of the most pleasant voices Kurt has ever heard and he thinks he could probably listen to it for ages. The guy could probably read the dictionary and Kurt would be just as interested.

“-but I’ll give everyone this information when I hand out the syllabus tomorrow. That being said, I know everyone hates when teachers start really teaching on the first day of class, so we’ll hold off on that until tomorrow as well. You’re free to use the rest of the class as a free period. And yes, you’ve earned your donuts.”

The rest of the class gives a little cheer and they all turn to their friends to chatter away while Mr. Anderson hops off his desk.

Kurt sighs. He isn’t particularly fond of donuts. He glances around, realizing just how alone he is in the class. None of his friends have English until later and he’s stuck here, removed from the rest of the class with no one to talk to. He should have brought a book or something.

Kurt’s phone vibrates in his pocket and he glances up at his teacher. Most teachers despise texting in class and Kurt doesn’t want to break a rule or something on his very first day if Mr. Anderson doesn’t approve.

He just – he needs to be a good student in this class.

“Mr. Anderson?” he asks as quietly as possible.

“Yeah?” his teacher asks, just as he settles behind his desk that looks comically large compared to his small body. “What’s up?”

“Is it alright if I use my phone? I just – I didn’t bring anything to do because I didn’t know we’d have a free period. But if you don’t want me to, I wo-”

“Hey, hey,” Mr. Anderson says calmingly. “It’s okay. I don’t care if you use your phone. Just don’t use it when I’m teaching.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says in relief, plucking his phone out of his pocket.

As soon as he responds to a useless text from Rachel Berry, he sets his phone down on top of his desk, waiting for her reply.

Because he has nothing to do.

“No friends in here?”

Kurt looks up, startled at the question, and watches Mr. Anderson take a long drink of his coffee. The action makes him crave a mug of his own.

“No,” Kurt tells him. “I’m usually in AP English, but it didn’t fit in my schedule this year.”

“Ah, that blows,” Mr. Anderson remarks. “Well, you could always make new friends.”

Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Kurt turns back and shrugs.

“I’d really rather not.”

His teacher eyes him with curiosity, a question in his eyes and Kurt really hopes he won’t ask it. At least, he doesn’t want him to ask it here in front of so many people, please he can’t stand.

“Yeah, you probably know these guys better than I do,” Mr. Anderson finally says.

Kurt nods and turns his attention back to his phone. They cease their conversation, though Kurt wishes they could talk more because at least talking gives him a reason to look at his teacher’s face. As it is, he’s forced to resort to sly little peeks from beneath his eyelashes. He can’t help it; Mr. Anderson is a really good looking guy.

Like, really good looking.

As in, Kurt’s pretty sure he’s going to have multiple fantasies about the man and all of them are going to feature Mr. Anderson in extremely sexy situations, probably complete with the image of him fucking Kurt over his desk even though Kurt has never actually had sex and oh god, he’s staring back.

“You okay?” his teacher asks.

“I was just wondering if it has to be donuts,” Kurt blurts, immediately wanting to slap himself.

“What?”

“The donuts,” Kurt says again. “What if – what if some of us don’t like donuts?”

“You don’t like donuts?” Mr. Anderson asks.

“Not really,” Kurt says flatly, thinking absurdly that he had somehow already disappointed his favorite teacher.

“I can bring bagels as well, if you want,” Mr. Anderson says. “Any specific kind you like?”

Kurt’s stomach does this unexpected little flip, giddy at the thought of this man willing to bring something different.

Just for him.

“Blueberry,” Kurt says shyly.

Mr. Anderson nods, smiling while he makes note of the exception on some small notepad on his desk. Just as he drops his pen, the bell finally rings and the rest of the class makes a loud racket as they gather their belongings.

“Don’t forget to turn in the things you wrote earlier!” Mr. Anderson shouts over the noise.

Everyone hurries up to the front of the room, dropping slips of paper on the corner of his desk. Kurt remains seated until the room is completely void of letterman jackets before finally standing and shrugging his bag on his shoulder. He places his assignment on top of the pile with reverence. He gives his teacher a small smile, and just as he reaches the doorway, he hears the man speak.

“See you tomorrow, Kurt.”

The next day, Kurt arrives at school before first period is even over. Luckily, his English classroom is empty and he sits in the same chair as the day before. Just as he drops his bag, Mr. Anderson stumbles in, arms laden with a stack of papers, two huge boxes of donuts, a bag of blueberry bagels, and a cup of coffee in each hand.

“Oh thank god,” he sighs when he catches sight of Kurt over the top of the bag of bagels. “Can you help me with-”

Kurt rushes over, snatching one of the coffee cups and the bagels to lighten the load.

“You could have just made two trips, you know,” Kurt says.

“Yeah, well, that didn’t occur to me for some reason,” Mr. Anderson says, placing the cup on the desk, followed by the boxes of donuts.

Kurt makes to place the coffee cup he had taken on the desk as well, but Mr. Anderson stops him.

“That’s, uh, that’s for you, actually,” he says, almost sheepishly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I read what you wrote for yesterday’s assignment thing. It said you liked coffee, so I just – I don’t know. I got another one on my way in.”

“Oh,” Kurt says softly, holding the cup closer to him. “Thank you.”

“And I hope you like the bagels,” his teacher adds, gesturing to the bag still in Kurt’s hand. “They’re my favorite brand.”

“Mine too,” Kurt says with a smile.

Their gazes hold for too long. Kurt’s heart races.

Blaine Anderson is so fucking gorgeous that it hurts.

“Right,” Mr. Anderson finally says, breaking eye contact. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“First period is my off period,” Kurt explains.

“Oh, mine too. It kind of sucks for me, though, because that means I don’t get a break later. But, I mean, I guess you guys don’t either.”

“Lunch is a godsend. Unless you actually eat the cafeteria food.”

Mr. Anderson laughs. He actually laughs which makes no sense because Kurt didn’t really think his comment was that funny, but his teacher’s still grinning like mad. Kurt smiles back. People don’t ever laugh at his jokes. Or his sarcastic comments. Or anything, really. Well, Mercedes laughs with him sometimes, but this is different.

Because this feels like flirting.

“You’re witty,” Mr. Anderson notes. “That’s refreshing. Really refreshing, actually.”

“Most people don’t appreciate my humor,” Kurt admits. “Or, you know, understand it.”

“Well I understand and appreciate it.”

“That’s – that’s nice to know,” Kurt says because he doesn’t know what else today.

The silence hits and Kurt busies himself by sitting back down and extracting a bagel from its bag. It smells divine, as does the coffee.

“Kurt, can I ask you something?”

“Um…sure,” Kurt replies, covering his mouth while he chews on his breakfast.

“Why did you not, well, I don’t know. Why’d you look so blank yesterday? When I asked you about making other friends in here, I mean?”

Oh. That’s definitely not the question he was expecting for some reason.

“…Well, the majority of people in this class either hate me or ignore me and pretend I don’t exist. So I’d really rather not interact with them.”

“What? Why would they hate you? You seem really smart and-”

“Because I’m gay,” Kurt says bluntly.

Mr. Anderson’s thick eyebrows nearly hit his hairline when Kurt interrupts him with his answer. Kurt prepares himself for the worst, as always. A second later, Mr. Anderson is frowning, eyes going hard and unfocussed as he seems to turn the idea over in his head.

“Is it really that bad here?” Mr. Anderson asks.

“…What do you mean?”

“Hate.”

“Yes,” Kurt states, not willing to mince words. “I sit across the room near the teacher’s desk for a reason.”

“Well. You don’t have to worry about anything bad happening in my class. I won’t allow it.”

“You can’t control everyone’s actions, Mr. Anderson, and I don’t expect you to.”

“Whatever you expect, it’s my job to look after the welfare of my students. If you have a problem with anyone, I want you to come straight to me.”

Kurt stares into his teacher’s eyes, searching for any kind of untruth or a sense of obligation to speak those words, but he finds none.

Instead, he finds sincerity.

“I will,” Kurt finally says.

“Good,” Mr. Anderson says with a nod.

Kurt wants to ask. He really wants to ask, but a teacher’s sexual orientation is definitely none of his business. But…he wants to know. Noticing the lack of a wedding ring on Mr. Anderson’s finger, he mentions it.

“So, you’re not married?” Kurt asks, attempting to be nonchalant in doing so.

“What? Oh. Ah, no,” Mr. Anderson tells him. “Not likely to be anytime soon, either.”

“Not enough time to date?” Kurt pries.

Mr. Anderson lifts a single eyebrow, followed by a quirk of his lips.

“Not legal in Ohio yet,” he says.

Internally, Kurt flails in excitement. He shouldn’t, of course, because it doesn’t make a difference, not really. But it’s – it’s just kind of nice to know he isn’t alone in this school, at least in that way.

“Well, you’re definitely in the wrong town for dating, anyway,” Kurt says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Or you’re in the wrong school, at least. Considering I’m the only out person here.”

“The only one? Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Wow,” Mr. Anderson whispers under his breath. “That’s rough.”

“Rougher than you know.”

At that point, the bell rings and suddenly they’re brought back to the real world. They’re in a classroom. They’re not friends. Blaine Anderson is his teacher, Kurt is the pupil, and they really shouldn’t be discussing things like this.

Even if Kurt wishes he could to talk to him for hours.

The weeks continue and nothing goes amiss. He isn’t physically assaulted by anyone and he doesn’t have any other inappropriate conversations with the man who quickly becomes Kurt’s favorite teacher. Beyond being ridiculously attractive, Mr. Anderson is actually a fantastic instructor. Perhaps it has to do with the passion he seems to have for the subject. Either way, he knows what he’s talking about and even though he has quickly gained the ‘cool teacher’ label, he still doesn’t take anyone’s shit.

One Monday morning, Kurt drags himself into the coffee shop, not fully awake due to lack of caffeine, when he runs into Mr. Anderson in the line at the register.

Literally.

“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry,” he says to the man in front of him before he sees who it is.

“Don’t worry – Kurt?”

Kurt almost gasps when he realizes exactly who he had bumped into. “Mr. Anderson! Sorry, I just – not fully awake yet, you know?”

“No worries,” his teacher says. “Do you come here every morning?”

“Just about.”

“Huh. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

“I usually get here a little later,” Kurt tells him.

“Ah. Well, what’re you having?” Mr. Anderson asks once they reach the register.

“A nonfat mocha,” Kurt rattles off his order. “Wait! No, you don’t have to-”

“Shut it,” Mr. Anderson chides. “It’s on me.”

“Really, you don’t-”

“Kurt. It’s just coffee.”

Ducking his head, Kurt blushes before giving a tiny nod.

“One medium drip and a nonfat mocha, please,” Mr. Anderson says to the barista, handing over a ten dollar bill. “I get the impression you’ve never had anyone buy you a cup of coffee before.”

“…Your impression would be correct.”

“Shame,” the man says, accepting his change. “That blush looks good on you. If I were allowed to notice such things, of course.”

“Of course,” Kurt squeaks out as they shuffle over to wait for their coffee.

“It works out for both of us,” Mr. Anderson says. “I haven’t had the chance to buy anyone coffee in a long time.”

Kurt has to wonder if the comment was made to hint at the fact that Mr. Anderson is single, but that would be silly. That would mean that Kurt was beginning to look for alternate meanings to his teacher’s words and that could be dangerous. For both of them.

“Sit with me?” Mr. Anderson asks, handing Kurt his coffee.

“Sure,” Kurt says meekly, following Mr. Anderson over to a table in the corner, mind already reeling with fantasies and things he shouldn’t be hoping for. “So,” he asks as they sit, “do you live near here? Is that why you come to this specific place?”

“I live a few blocks over in an apartment, yeah. You?”

“It’s about a five minute drive from here to my house,” Kurt informs. “There’s another coffee shop closer to school, but the coffee isn’t as good.”

“They do make fantastic coffee here,” Mr. Anderson agrees. “Great atmosphere, too.”

Nodding, Kurt takes a sip of his mocha, willing himself to think of some topic that would be appropriate for conversation, but nothing comes to mind because he only wants to know more about his teacher. He doesn’t want to talk about school. He wants to ask where he’s from, why he’s in Lima, or what he likes to do in his spare time.

Oh.

“On the first day of class, you said you played piano,” Kurt says. “Anything in particular you like to play?”

“Not really. I just…play whatever. I like making acoustic versions of songs on the radio. I do that a lot, I guess.”

“How long have you played?”

“Since I was six,” Mr. Anderson says. “Do you play?”

“I used to,” Kurt says fondly. “I’m really out of practice, though. I spend more time singing these days.”

“But you can sing while you play,” Mr. Anderson suggests.

“We don’t have a piano at my house,” Kurt sighs. “I wish we did. We used to have one, but when my – when my mom died, my dad only kept it around for a few more years. He sold it, eventually. I think it just really reminded him of her. He always looked at it…sadly.”

Head down, Kurt clutches his cup with both hands. When another hand reaches out and settles over one of his own, he almost jerks away in surprise.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Mr. Anderson says softly.

“It was a long time ago.”

Mr. Anderson nods, hand lingering atop Kurt’s for a bit longer than necessary before finally pulling away. Kurt instantly misses the warmth.

“Why don’t you play on a piano at the school?” his teacher suggests.

“Brad’s really possessive of the piano,” Kurt says. At Mr. Anderson’s blank look, he adds, “He plays for us in Glee club.”

“Oh, you’re in glee?”

Kurt enjoys how surprisingly pleased the question is asked.

“Since I was a sophomore, yeah. It’s…basically the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“Do you guys ever compete?”

“Every year.”

“Have you ever gone up against a school called Dalton Academy?”

“The Warblers?” Kurt asks. “Yeah, we were up against them last year. We’ll probably see them again this year, too.”

“I graduated from Dalton,” Mr. Anderson tells him. “I was in the Warblers for three years.”

“Did they have the same, awful blazers?” Kurt teases with a sly smile.

It’s too easy, Kurt thinks. It’s too easy to flirt with this man and it’s too easy to get lost in his eyes and it’s too easy to glance down at his lips and wonder.

“They weren’t that bad!”

“They’re pretty bad,” Kurt says, scrunching his nose in disdain. “Though I’m sure you made the preppy, school boy look work well in your favor.”

“I rocked that blazer,” Mr. Anderson says primly, straightening the tie around his neck. “I’ll have to show you a picture some day and prove it.”

“You might have to. Otherwise I’ll always be dubious.”

His teaching laughs lightly, leaning back in his chair, and he appears to relax in Kurt’s company.

Until he looks at his watch.

“Shit,” he mumbles and the swear hits Kurt straight in the chest in the best way possible. “We should probably get to school. Second period starts in fifteen minutes.”

They both stand, unfinished coffee in hand, and head out through the doors of the coffee shop into the chilly autumn air. Just as Kurt is about to make a beeline for his car, Mr. Anderson’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“I’ll make you a deal,” his teacher states.

“…What kind of deal?”

“Piano lessons,” the man says. “I’ll give you piano lessons in exchange for your help with some grading. I have one freshman English class and I really don’t have the time to check for simple things like grammar and spelling on the essays they’re about to turn in next week. It would be nice to have some help.”

“I – I mean, yeah, that sounds great. I just really don’t think piano Brad will let us-”

“We can use the piano at my place,” Mr. Anderson says. “It’s beautifully tuned. You’ll fall in love.”

Naturally, Kurt doesn’t say that he probably already is.

“Okay. Yeah.”

You’re one crazy motherfucker, Blaine Anderson’s mind shouts at him on the way to school.

He has a strained, internal argument with himself. Kurt is – Kurt is lovely. He’s smart and driven and he just wants to relearn how to play the piano. And Blaine’s already his teacher, so what’s the harm in a few extra lessons? Not to mention, he’ll get an assistant to help grade freshmen essays, so it’s really a win-win situation.

You invited him to your house. To your house. Multiple times! Lessons, plural! Multiple lessons at your house!

I have a piano!

He’s your student!

And now he’s my music student as well!

You shouldn’t have paid for his coffee! You shouldn’t have brought him coffee on the second day of school! You’re not supposed to play favorites!

Teachers always have favorites, he tells himself. If they say otherwise, they’re lying. Students are still people and people make connections. Blaine doesn’t plan on – on tearing away Kurt’s innocence or anything nefarious like that. He just…wants to be his friend. Okay, so even that is still frowned upon, but Kurt seems like one of the more lonely students at McKinley. He’s been ostracized by most due to his sexual orientation and Blaine remembers what that was like. He just wants to be a friendly mentor, that’s all.

And if Kurt has the most beautiful blue eyes or the most graceful gait, Blaine doesn’t notice because he doesn’t.

The road to hell might be paved with good intentions, but Blaine could never relate Kurt to such a horrid idea.

Kurt doesn’t meet Mr. Anderson after school to offer his assistance for another week. His heart is pounding loudly in his ears, possibly at an unhealthy pace but he’s learned to deal with it. It isn’t something he can help, not when he’s around his teacher.

Okay, so yeah, Kurt has a crush. He can freely admit that, at least in his own head. But Kurt’s crushes never become anything more.

He isn’t that lucky.

“Mr. Anderson?” he asks, knocking softly on the open door.

“Kurt, come in,” Mr. Anderson greets distractedly, thumbing through a stack of papers on his desk. “Sorry, I’m just – aha! Finally.”

Kurt takes a seat at his usual desk. Mr. Anderson stands, rounding his desk, and comes to linger at Kurt’s side, dropping a pile of papers in front of him. One of his hands grips the back of Kurt’s chair and Kurt feels a slight brush of knuckles against his spine as Mr. Anderson leans over, pointing at the essays.

“Okay, so don’t worry about content or anything like that,” he explains. “Just focus on basic spelling and grammar. Circle the misspelled word or the mistake with a blue pen. If it’s an obvious mistake, don’t write out anything next to it. If you have no clue what they’re trying to say because it’s that bad, ask me first but then circle it and put a question mark next to it.”

“No red ink?”

“Ugh, no, I hate when people grade with red ink.”

“Noted,” Kurt says with a nod.

“Thanks for this,” Mr. Anderson says, patting Kurt on the shoulder as he straightens up. “You really don’t know how much you’re helping.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Kurt says shyly before Mr. Anderson sits back behind his desk once more.

They work mostly in silence for the next hour. Kurt occasionally asks his teacher about a horribly phrased sentence or a word he never knew existed, and those usually turn out to be nonexistent. Beyond that, the only sounds in the room are the turning of pages or the scratch of their pens. It’s nice, Kurt thinks, that they can be so comfortable with each other in silence for so long. The majority of his friends are always nattering away, especially Rachel and Mercedes who like to compete against each other when it comes to getting the last word in. He’s used to incessant chatter; thus, the peace and quiet are both welcome changes.

Eventually, Mr. Anderson groans and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his hands.

“My eyes hurt,” Kurt comments. “But I can’t tell if it’s just from reading or having to decipher some seriously bad writing.”

Mr. Anderson barks out a laugh. “Welcome to my life.”

“Yeah, but you chose this career.”

“I know,” Mr. Anderson sighs morosely. “Some days I think I really am crazy.”

“At this point, I’d say you are.”

Kurt caps his pen when Mr. Anderson begins re-stacking papers on his desk.

“So, piano lesson?” Mr. Anderson asks with a smile.

“Yes, please. Anything to…not do this for a while.”

“Agreed. Can I see your phone?”

Kurt pauses in the process of placing the essays back on his teacher’s desk. “Um…why?”

“So I can read all of your dirty text messages,” Mr. Anderson says, rolling his eyes and grinning broadly. “I’m going to put my number in your phone. You’re going to have to follow me to my apartment and if I lose you, you should have a way to contact me.”

“Oh, r-right. Yeah, here,” Kurt stutters out, handing over his phone.

“I won’t go through your text messages. Promise.”

“Nothing juicy in there anyway,” Kurt mumbles, waiting patiently for his phone.

When Mr. Anderson hands it back, Kurt attempts to suppress a smile when he sees ‘Blaine Anderson’ in his contact list rather than ‘Mr. Anderson.”

Mr. Anderson’s apartment is fairly small, but tastefully furnished. Kurt immediately feels a sense of home as soon as he steps inside, taking in the sight of a worn sofa, an old wooden coffee table, and a fluffy, cream-colored rug on the floor.

“Just drop your bag anywhere,” Mr. Anderson says, sidestepping Kurt after he shuts the door behind them.

Kurt does so, slipping his bag off his shoulder and dropping it onto the floor by the door. His teacher rounds a corner, and Kurt takes the opportunity to gaze at the large bookshelf in the corner, nestled next to a beautiful upright piano. Books are stacked with no rhyme or reason, no categorization at all. For some reason, it makes Kurt smile, like it gives him a glimpse into the mind of Blaine Anderson the person, rather than the teacher he is to Kurt. He turns, focusing on the piano, fingers brushing over the keys gently, sighing at the feel of them beneath his fingertips.

The place seems quaint and lived-in, despite knowing that Mr. Anderson hasn’t lived in Lima that long. Kurt feels…special, like he’s being trusted with a secret or being welcomed into some kind of sanctuary. He’s been to Mr. Schuester’s apartment a couple of times, of course, the entire Glee club has.

But this feels different.

“Do you want something to drink?”

Kurt whirls around to face his teacher, unable to stop his eyes from raking over the man in front of him. He had apparently changed; gone was the tie and the cardigan and in their absence, Mr. Anderson is wearing a plain, white t-shirt. His socks and shoes have disappeared and he looks even smaller than normal. Really, he’s not that much shorter than Kurt, only a couple of inches, but the t-shirt and the bare feet making him look younger than his twenty-five years.

“A dirty martini, obviously,” Kurt quips, forcing his gaze back to Mr. Anderson’s face.

“Obviously,” Mr. Anderson snorts in amusement. “Lemonade?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Mr. Anderson pads into the kitchen adjacent to the living room and Kurt follows, taking note of the small, two-seater kitchen table as he passes.

“I like your place,” Kurt says, attempting to make conversation. “I’ll be lucky if I can find a place like this when I move to New York.”

“Oh, that’s right, I read that on the information sheet you turned in. Musical theater or fashion design?” Mr. Anderson asks, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator.

“Yeah,” Kurt says. “I just – I need to get out of Ohio.”

“You and me, both.”

“...Why are you still here, then? If you want to get out, I mean.”

Mr. Anderson goes quiet for a few moments while he pours two glasses of lemonade. Kurt takes it as a bad sign, as if maybe he overstepped some sort of boundary, which he probably had.

“I-I’m sorry,” Kurt apologizes. “I shouldn’t have even asked. It’s none of my-”

“I wanted to get out,” Mr. Anderson interrupts him, handing him a glass. “I had big dreams, same as you. I wanted to go to New York, maybe to NYU or something and major in music education instead of English. But my dad, he-” he pauses to clear his throat, “my father didn’t approve. He didn’t approve of the majority of my choices in life. So, to make him happy, I went to Ashland instead.”

His teacher looks pained, the memory itself obviously disturbing him, but Kurt wants to know more. He wants to know everything, he wants to ask every question, but he can’t.

And he hates that he can’t.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Kurt says. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Anderson.”

“Oh god, don’t call me that here,” his teacher scoffs, making this hilariously adorable face that Kurt hopes he’ll see again someday. “At school, yeah. But not here.”

“Oh, um, okay,” Kurt says bashfully. “What should-”

“Call me Blaine,” he says.

Oh god, Kurt’s insides twist up into his throat because he did it. He has permission to call Mr. Anderson – Blaine – by his first name.

Blaine.

Kurt wants to sigh in happiness.

“Blaine it is,” Kurt says, finally taking a sip of lemonade.

“Come on.” Blaine (Blaine!) claps him on the shoulder, guiding him back to the piano. “Why don’t you show me what you remember?”

Blushing, Kurt places his glass of lemonade on the coffee table before taking a seat on the piano bench, fingers hovering over the keys. He stretches his fingers and begins to play a simple tune, one his mother had taught him years ago, the only one he really clung to after the piano in their house had been sold. Kurt can imagine his mother humming along as his small, childish fingers hit the keys with as much grace as a seven year old can muster. He can play with more ease now, of course, but it feels stilted and jerky to him.

“You have natural talent,” Blaine tells him when he finishes.

Kurt places his hands in his lap, ducking his head at the compliment.

“Not as natural as I’d like,” Kurt says.

“You just need more practice,” Blaine says, settling on the bench next to Kurt. “May I?”

Gesturing to the piano, Kurt gives him the go ahead and Blaine immediately begins to play a beautiful, slow, eerie song that Kurt has never before heard. His fingers glide over the keys gracefully, like the music lives inside him rather than the upright piano. With a quick glimpse, Kurt sees that Blaine’s eyes are shut and he’s playing completely by memory, fingers having memorized the placement of the keys and it’s one of the loveliest things he’s ever seen in his life.

Oh yeah.

He definitely has a crush.

“Teach me everything,” Kurt breathes when Blaine pulls his hands away from the ivory keys.

Blaine angles his head toward Kurt, a smile on his lips. Kurt wishes he could see that smile every day.

They settle into a simple routine: every Tuesday and Thursday, Kurt assists Blaine with his grading for an hour and when they’re done, Kurt follows Blaine to his apartment and they have an hour of lessons. Blaine breaks out his old piano books, reminding Kurt of the basic skills he needs to play better. They don’t delve into any other personal topics after that first day. Instead, they keep their conversation light and relevant to their lessons.

The problem, however, lies in the fact that Kurt is actually falling for Blaine Anderson. Mr. Anderson, the teacher, is a great person, but he’s different from Blaine. Blaine hates wearing socks. Blaine likes old movies. Blaine prefers the left side of the piano bench to the right when they sit together and Blaine smells like flowers and spices. Blaine teases and nudges Kurt in the shoulder and by the time October rolls around, Kurt thinks he’s nearing that head-over-heels stage.

It thrills and terrifies him at the same time because he should distance himself. He should take a step away and explain that he’s beginning to have inappropriate feelings. He should apologize profusely and keep some sort of wall up but he can’t.

Because Blaine Anderson is magnetic and Kurt can’t force himself out of that field long enough to escape his feelings.

One evening, they cut Kurt’s piano lesson short because Kurt develops a headache. Blaine offers him a couple of pain killers and a glass of water, urging him onto the sofa for a while until his head stops pounding.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says. “I should have asked-”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Kurt brushes him off, letting his head rest against the back of the couch. “It’s just a headache, I’ve had it all day.”

“Just relax for a bit,” Blaine says, plucking a book off the shelf and settling down next to Kurt on the sofa.

“I’m perfectly capable of drivi-”

“You’ll stay there until the medicine kicks in,” Blaine orders. “I don’t want it turning into a migraine or something while you’re driving home.”

Kurt smirks, allowing his eyes to fall shut. “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to make a joke about my height for months.”

“Too much coffee as a kid?”

“No,” Blaine says and Kurt cracks one of his eyes open to see him pouting.

“Aw, don’t look like that,” Kurt coos. “You’re just compact. It’s cute.”

Blaine glares at him, laughter behind his eyes, before he seems to make a decision and whacks Kurt in the arm with his book.

“Hey! I’m the feeble one here!”

“It’s just a headache, you brat.”

“You’re the one insisting I sit here and recuperate.”

“Maybe I’ve just decided to keep you hostage,” Blaine says airily. “My closet is really spacious. I’d feed you well. I mean, come on, I live on a teacher’s salary. If I held ransom for one kid, I’d be banking.”

“If I agree to stay, can we forgo the closet?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can I take the bed?” Kurt asks brightly.

“You’d be a hostage, it wouldn’t be a bed and breakfast.”

“But I’d be a willing hostage.”

“The bed is mine,” Blaine says lowly with a grin on his lips.

“Not if I get there first.”

With that, Kurt jumps up quickly.

“You little-”

But Kurt ignores him, darting down the hallway. He passes what he knows to be the bathroom and shoves open the only other door he sees, snickering to himself when he hears Blaine’s footsteps behind him. He throws himself into the room and leaps on the bed just as Blaine rounds the corner of the doorway.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Blaine says, lips spread in a wide grin as he shakes his head.

“I can rest on the bed,” Kurt says defiantly, scooting up closer toward the pillows. He sinks into the mattress and one of the fluffy pillows, eyes falling closed and mouth parting slightly. “Oh my god,” he very nearly moans. “If you come home one day and your bed is gone, I didn’t do it.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“It even smells good,” Kurt sighs, rolling over and shoving his face into the pillow.

“So that’s why you agreed to take lessons,” Blaine says and Kurt feels the edge of the bed dip. “You’re just a mattress thief.”

Kurt turns his head away from the pillow and says, “I’m not a mattress thief. I’m a bed thief. I take it all. All.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Kurt jolts up, eyes the wide as saucers, but as soon as he’s up, Blaine smacks him in the face with a pillow. The pillow falls into his lap and Blaine dissolves into a fit of laughter at the look on Kurt’s face.

“You – you can’t-”

“I think I just won,” Blaine says in between chuckles.

“You cheated!”

“I was tactical.”

“I’m an ailing soul!”

“Obviously,” Blaine says with a roll of his eyes when his laughter finally dies down.

An awkward silence ensues and Kurt places the pillow back where it belongs. Blaine hangs his head down, focusing on his hands in his lap. Kurt climbs off the bed, the carefree excitement of the moment over, and adjusts his shirt.

“I should – I should probably go,” Kurt mutters. “I’ve got to get home for dinner.”

“Of course,” Blaine replies, standing as well. “Tell your dad I said thank you for letting me borrow you for grading and everything.”

“I will,” Kurt promises.

“I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. He simply nods and walks out of the bedroom, picks up his bag by the door, and leaves the apartment. He feels like he screwed up in a major way. Teasing a teacher like they’re old friends is definitely not appropriate, but he can’t – he can’t help it. It just happens naturally, like it was meant to be this way between them. But then Blaine – Mr. Anderson – had to mention flirting and why would he do that?

Thoughts muddled the entire time, Kurt drives home with a crease of worry on his forehead.

Blaine can’t slap himself hard enough, even if he were to try. When he hears the front door close, he falls back onto his bed and rests an arm over his eyes, silently cursing his stupid, young heart for allowing any of this to happen. What on earth is he doing? How can he let himself act so – so freely around one of his students? There are lines. Kurt is seventeen years old. Seventeen! He’s practically a child.

Okay, so he’s not really a child. The legal age on consent in the state of Ohio is sixteen. But as Kurt’s teacher, it is illegal for anything to happen before Kurt is eighteen.

Not that he’s thinking about the possibility.

Because he’s not.

He isn’t.

Okay, so he’s had dreams. But dreams are harmless. People have sexual fantasies all the time and no matter how…bizarre or whatever they may be, dreams can’t get you put in prison.

Acting on those dreams will, though.

Blaine groans aloud into his empty room. Why does Kurt have to be so smart? Why is he so easy to talk to? Why does he look so good in those jeans he was wearing and why in the hell is Blaine thinking about how he looks in a pair of jeans?

He needs to cancel the lessons. He needs to end their relationship outside of school and he needs to force himself to stop thinking about Kurt.

Of course, everything he needs to do is nothing he wants to do. Blaine has been waiting for a long time for someone like Kurt, someone who drinks as much coffee, someone who enjoys music and witty conversation, someone who prefers bagels to donuts, someone who radiates life and love.

So why does that person have to be embodied in one of his students?

The lessons do not stop, however, because it seems like neither of them have the heart to speak up on the matter. They continue their routine on Tuesdays and Thursdays and it becomes more difficult for Kurt to pretend like he doesn’t know Blaine – Mr. Anderson – as well as he does when they’re forced together in class. The most he can do is make sure he stays a model student. He does all of his homework, turns every assignment in on time, and aces every test Mr. Anderson gives out. He’s attentive in class and participates in class discussions, much to the chagrin of the rest of the class considering their teacher always approves of Kurt’s theories.

He quickly gains the title of ‘Teacher’s Pet’.

Which, he supposes, is a title he can’t dispute.

“You’re doing very well,” Blaine tells him one afternoon when they’re both perched on the piano bench. “You just lock up when you have to play quickly with both hands.”

Kurt sighs in frustration and drops his hands. “What’s the point, then? I’ll never be able to play like you.”

“Yes you will,” Blaine assures, placing his hands over the keys. “It takes repetition. It has to become a habit. Now put your hands on top of mine.”

Hesitating, Kurt shoots him a look, as if to say ‘I hope you’re sure about this’, but does as he’s told. He covers Blaine’s hands with his own, resting them lightly, feeling the heat radiate from Blaine’s strong fingers.

“I’m going to play and you’re going to follow,” Blaine instructs. “I’ll start out slowly and then we’ll speed up.”

Kurt nods, swallowing thickly as Blaine begins to play. His fingers move deftly, easily, and Kurt does his best to follow along.

“See?” Blaine asks.

“Yeah.”

“Good, now I’m going to go a little faster. Try and keep up.”

They play the same four measures of music over and over again. With each round, Blaine speeds up the tempo. Kurt watches their hands, surprised at how pretty they look together, like they’re meant to be touching.

“Now close your eyes,” Blaine directs quietly. “Take a deep breath.”

Kurt does so, sucking air into his lungs and releasing it slowly before his eyelids close. He feels Blaine’s fingers beneath his, feels his smooth fingernails and his knuckles, feels them stretch to reach the chords, and soon enough they’re playing at the correct tempo. Kurt’s fingers begin to play just as easily, never slipping away from Blaine’s hands.

“I’m going to slide my fingers away but I want you to keep playing,” Blaine whispers. “Okay?”

“Kay,” Kurt nods, engrossed in the music they’re making together.

They play the measures together once more before Blaine begins to slide his fingers away. Kurt continues to play, but as Blaine pulls away, he turns his hands up, palms brushing over Kurt’s skin. He drags them down, slightly roughened calluses barely touching Kurt’s wrists, and lower still, until his fingers are pressed against Kurt’s pulse point. Blaine holds his hands still, but he allows the pads of his fingers to caress a vein under Kurt’s skin and Kurt’s breath hitches. Kurt never stops playing, but he can sense Blaine all around him, even with his eyes still shut. Blaine’s fingers are so smooth and steady on his wrists and he can feel the heat from Blaine’s arms hovering over his thighs.

“Beautiful,” he hears Blaine say, barely a breath, barely a word at all. “You’re beautiful.”

Kurt freezes, almost not believing he heard it, and his hands drop down onto the ivory keys loudly, destroying the melody and the moment.

“Blaine-”

Blaine snatches his hands away, as if he’d been burned, and nearly falls off the bench in his haste to put distance between the two of them. He stumbles back, completely shocked at himself and begins to stammer his apology.

“Oh my god, I – Kurt, I’m so sorry. I – that was – oh my god, I can’t believe-”

“Hey, hey,” Kurt says, attempting to remain calm even though his heart is beating fifty miles per minute. He stands and crosses over to his teacher, who backs up even more and nearly knocks over a lamp in his wake. “It’s okay, it’s – just – sit down.”

“You should – you should leave and-”

“I’m not going anywhere when you look like you’re about to have a panic attack,” Kurt states, taking Blaine’s arm and guiding him to the sofa. “Sit.”

Blaine falls hard onto the sofa, head falling into his hands. Kurt darts into the kitchen and flits through a few cupboards until he finds a cup and fills it with water from the tap. When he returns, Blaine hasn’t moved. His arms are tense and he’s gripping his gelled hair with tight fingers.

“Here,” Kurt says, forcibly removing one of Blaine’s hands from his face and shoving the glass in his hand. “Drink.”

Almost as if he’s working on autopilot, Blaine drinks as instructed. Kurt takes note of his blank stare and the way his knees bounce in anxiety. They remain silent while Blaine finishes the glass of water, swallowing it down like a dying man in a desert. When the glass is finally empty, Kurt plucks it from his fingers and places it on the coffee table, waiting for Blaine to speak again.

He doesn’t.

So Kurt decides to ask, “Did you mean it?”

“What?” Blaine croaks.

“What you said,” Kurt reminds softly. “Do you – do you really think I’m beautiful?”

“I shouldn’t have-”

“Just – do you?” Kurt asks again. “Do you?”

Blaine takes a deep, shuddering breath, almost like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Yes.”

Kurt has to fight his instincts and he stops himself from flying at Blaine and enveloping him in a hug. Instead, he nods once and gives a faint smile.

“I think so, too,” he admits. “You, I mean. I think you’re beautiful, too.”

“Please don’t,” Blaine moans miserably. “I’m crazy. This is crazy. I can’t believe I let myself – fuck. You’re a student.”

“I’m a person,” Kurt amends.

“You’re a child.”

“I’ll be eighteen in December,” Kurt informs.

“Don’t – stop trying to make this right,” Blaine begs. “You don’t need to justify my actions.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Blaine,” Kurt says forcefully, gripping Blaine’s chin and turning his head to make sure that he’s listening. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Blaine’s face crumbles, hand coming up to entwine his fingers with Kurt’s, like it’s painful for him to resist touching Kurt. He squeezes Kurt’s hand and pulls it away from his face and into his lap.

He doesn’t let go.

“I invited you here,” Blaine argues. “I let you – I let you come here and I let you use my first name. I crossed every single line.”

“You invited me here for piano lessons because we needed a piano to use,” Kurt points out logically. “We grade papers together and you teach me how to play the piano. And you didn’t let me use your first name. You told me to. So why did you do that?”

Sighing as he rubs a thumb over one of Kurt’s knuckles, Blaine hangs his head.

“I hate being Mr. Anderson,” he admits. “It’s fine in school because everyone has to call me that. But not – not here. Not in private. It just reminds me of – of-”

“Of your father?” Kurt assumes.

“Yes,” Blaine says, throat dry.

“Well, there you go, then. You didn’t tell me to use your first name to give me some sort of – of advantage or something. You did it because you don’t like to be reminded of your father. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I flirt with you,” Blaine whispers.

“And I flirt back,” Kurt states. “It’s just what we do. We’re people, Blaine. We’re just people. If it’s natural for us to flirt, where’s the harm?”

“I’m your teacher. It’s illegal, Kurt.”

“It’s illegal for us to engage in sexual relations,” Kurt tells him. “We haven’t even – we’ve barely touched.”

Blaine stares down at their hands. Kurt can see tears on his eyelashes, clinging for dear life, and Kurt wishes he could kiss them away.

“I want to touch you,” Blaine admits sadly. Kurt can hear the pain in his voice. “Not like – I just - want to hold your hand and I want to hug you. I want to kiss you when you stumble in behind me at the coffee shop some mornings when you’re not really awake yet. I want to hold you instead of watching you mark essays and I want to cuddle with you and watch a movie. I want to tickle you and I want to make you laugh and I want to talk to you and – and I want to know you.”

“I want to know you, too,” Kurt whispers. “I always – I want to ask you things and hear stories about your life. But I don’t because it’s – because we’re not supposed to.”

“I know,” Blaine mumbles slipping his fingers away from Kurt’s.

“But I want to,” Kurt says again. “I want everything with you.”

“We can’t.”

“Not while I’m still seventeen.”

“I’m still you’re teacher.”

“And you’re still a person that I – that I like. That I want to get to know.”

“Kurt-”

“I’ve never experienced anything,” Kurt informs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never been on a date with a guy. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never done anything. I’ve never felt this way about another person and I can’t just – just let it drop. Maybe that does make me a child. Maybe my inexperience makes me young. But maybe it – maybe it just means I haven’t had the chance to try.”
Unable to stop, Blaine’s hand finds Kurt’s again and he brings it up to his chest, holding it to his heart.

“I want to give you the chance,” Blaine admits freely. “I really, really want – god, you have no idea. But I can’t lose my job. If anyone found out-”

“So no one will find out,” Kurt says decisively. “We won’t let it happen.”

“It’s never that easy,” Blaine says with a tiny laugh. “Not in the movies, anyway.”

“Thank god we’re not in a movie, then.”

“This is a really bad idea,” Blaine groans.

“I turn eighteen on December second,” Kurt reminds, scooting a little closer to Blaine on the sofa. “Until then, nothing more than holding hands.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you while you’re still my student.”

Kurt flushes a pretty shade of pink and lowers his head.

“That’s, uh, that’s fine. I’m not – not ready for that yet, anyway,” he says bashfully. “But I would…like to kiss you. When I’m eighteen, I mean.”

Blaine emits a wretched whimper, bringing their hands up to his forehead.

“I shouldn’t find your innocence so endearing,” he says.

“Well, I’m definitely innocent. So I’d rather you find it endearing than disconcerting.”

“You’re going to kill me, Kurt Hummel.”

“It’ll be a sweet, sweet death, though.”

“I’m going straight to hell.”

“It’ll be a party.”

Snorting in amusement, Blaine puts their hands to his lips and kisses Kurt’s fingers. Kurt’s eyes sparkle as he watches the action, butterflies fluttering around in his belly. Blaine looks up and him, a smile on his face. He sits up quickly.

“Nothing can change at school,” Blaine says.

“I know, Blaine.”

“And no – no hanging around after classes or anything. We can still grade together but-”

Kurt places his index finger against Blaine’s lips to shut him up.

“I know,” he says. “Nothing will change. I’ll help you grade on Tuesdays and Thursdays and we’ll come back here for lessons. But, you know, if you wanted to extend the lessons…and by extend I mean let me stay for a little bit longer so we can just talk or something, that’d be…nice.”

Grinning when Kurt lowers his finger, Blaine nods at him with the sweetest look on his face, as if he’s glad they’re on the same page and pleased at Kurt’s suggestion.

“I think we can do that.”

The next morning, Kurt loses his mind. He’s digging through his closet, tossing aside shirts that don’t compliment his skin tone as well as others. He tries on seventeen different outfits before finally settling on a pair of tight jeans, a quarter-sleeve, white shirt, and a plain black vest. It makes him look a little older, but it doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.

He rushes out the door, but not before kissing his dad goodbye on the forehead, and speeds to the coffee shop. It’s early, still, and Blaine’s car isn’t here yet which is just fine, because he wants to make their meeting look natural. Well, it’s going to be natural anyway because they didn’t plan on meeting this morning, but he just wants Blaine to catch sight of him and maybe join him at a table for a few minutes.

When he finally has a cup of coffee in his hand, he settles down at a table that’s just in sight of the door, but not the window. Kurt taps his foot impatiently, eyes cutting to the door every minute or so, until he realizes how silly he’s being and pulls a magazine out of his school bag. He forces himself to be engrossed in a Vogue article discussing this year’s boot trends, purposefully ignoring the door.

He can’t help but brush his fingers through his hair and adjust his vest, hoping he looks at least remotely attractive for his boyfriend.

Oh damn.

Boyfriend?

Are they boyfriends?

“I hope you’re working on the essay for my class.”

Kurt’s head snaps up, golden, hazel eyes greeting him with a sparkle.

“Of course,” Kurt says, closing the magazine. “Because that’s all we do outside of class, you know. We only ever do homework.”

“Mind if I join?” Blaine asks.

Shaking his head, Kurt gestures to the open chair and Blaine takes a seat. He can feel the happiness radiating from Blaine in waves as he smiles at him from across the table. It’s fun like this, all secrecy and play-acting, pretending they didn’t just hold hands yesterday, pretending they hadn’t discovered a mutual attraction.

“So, are you enjoying Hamlet?” Blaine asks, dipping a biscotti in his coffee.

Kurt does his very best to not notice the way Blaine’s lips stretch around the long cookie when he takes a bite.

“About as much as one can enjoy Hamlet,” Kurt replies. “I prefer Shakespeare’s sonnets to his plays.”

“Understandable,” Blaine says with a nod. “I’m sure you’ll like Beowulf when we study that. And I think you’ll definitely like what else I have on the curriculum for you.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Just…a little something extra during our piano lesson on Thursday.”

Kurt’s heart skips a beat.

“Well, it looks like my education is entirely in your hands, Mr. Anderson.”

Blaine’s eyes grow slightly darker at the use of his last name, almost like he enjoys it.

“See you in class, Kurt,” he says, leaving Kurt behind feeling giddy as ever.

During class, Kurt forces himself to be just as attentive and intrigued as he usually is. He’s definitely intrigued, but it’s for an entirely different reason now.

Because now he’s allowed to notice things.

He notices how often Blaine sits on his desk when he lectures, probably because he feels taller and more authoritative. He notices how, as many times as Blaine tries to straighten his tie, it’s still perpetually crooked. He notices how often he gestures with his hands because he just gets so excited about everything, like every line of Hamlet is a revelation that he wants everyone else to understand.

Blaine is just a very excitable person in general, apparently.

“Any questions?” Blaine asks at the end of class.

Kurt stops himself from blurting, “How are you so adorable?”

The afternoon brings about nothing of importance, and Kurt’s groans when he collapses face first on his bed at home. Finn’s at football practice and his dad and Carole are both at work. Their house is eerily empty and quiet, and Kurt is immediately bored.

And homework just doesn’t sound appealing at all.

What he really wants is to be at Blaine’s apartment. He wants to sit down and talk with him, maybe have a cup of hot chocolate while they cuddle together on his couch or listen to Blaine play the piano.

Instead, he’s stuck at home. So he decides to make a batch of cookies because that’s just what Kurt does when he’s bored. He pads downstairs and dons an apron, refusing to dirty his brand new shirt, and begins gathering ingredients for pumpkin spice cookies when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

What’s up, buttercup?

Kurt grins at the text message on his screen. Rather than texting back, he presses ‘call’ and dials Blaine’s number.

“Hello?”

“I’m baking,” Kurt says through the receiver, putting the call on speaker and placing it on the counter. “It’s too difficult to text.”

“You bake?”

“Mhmm,” Kurt hums, measuring out his ingredients and tossing them into a bowl.

“Whatcha makin’?”

“Pumpkin spice cookies.”

“Oh my god, can I have some?”

“I’ll bring you some tomorrow,” Kurt says. “If you want.”

“I definitely want.”

Kurt laughs, sticking a spoon in a mixing bowl. “What’re you up to?”

He hears a sigh. “Nothing. I just got home. I’m supposed to be grading a pop quiz, but I really just couldn’t care less.”

“Question. If you hate grading pop quizzes, why do you assign them in the first place?”

“Well, we have to give out grades. And pop quizzes are like, the easiest thing to do.”

“Pop quizzes are cruel,” Kurt says.

“I’d rather grade pop quizzes than essays.”

“I hear that,” Kurt mumbles.

“You don’t have to keep helping me grade if you don’t want to, you know.”

“Of course I do. You’re giving me piano lessons. I’m repaying you for your kindness.”

“I guess.”

“Plus, it means I get to spend more time with you,” Kurt adds. “And that’s definitely something I don’t mind.”

“Glad to hear it,” Blaine replies softly.

Kurt begins to hum to himself, imagining what Blaine looks like at the moment. Has he already changed out of his usual teaching attire? Is he sitting on his sofa with his phone in his hand, smiling at the sound of Kurt’s voice?

Does he miss him?

“I keep forgetting I have your number,” Kurt remarks. “I’d have texted you earlier if I’d remembered.”

“Well you can text me anytime you want.”

“Except for when you’re lecturing,” Kurt teases.

“You can always, you know, sneak it under your desk.”

Kurt tosses his head back and laughs loudly. “Are you really telling me that teachers don’t know we text when we’ve got our hands in our laps and our heads down?”

“Hey, some can text without looking.”

“I guess I’ll have to brush up on that, then.”

“You just gotta be sneaky,” Blaine says. “Like, super sneaky. If you make it obvious, I’ll have to call you out.”

“I’ll learn to be sneaky so I can send you texts while you’re lecturing so you can have something to look forward to when the class period ends.”

“You’re the best!”

“I know,” Kurt says in a high voice.

He hears another sigh on the end of the line. “I miss you,” Blaine says.

Kurt’s heart jumps into his throat.

“I miss you, too,” he says softly. “But we’ll see each other after school tomorrow and we’ll get to – to be all…couple-y and stuff.”

He waits on pins and needles for Blaine’s reaction to his chosen phrasing.

“Couple-y?” Blaine asks.

“Y-yeah. Like, as in…um, as in a couple. If – if that’s what we are. Which, I don’t know if we are or not. I didn’t really ask yesterday.”

“Do you want to be a couple?”

“Um, well…yes. I’d like to be. But if you don’t – if that makes you uncomfortable because of the whole – the whole thing, then-”

“Well, we have to determine something very important first.”

“…Oh?”

“Yeah. Which one of us is the better half? Because I have to say, you’re probably the better looking between the two of us, but I’m definitely the wiser.”

Kurt snorts loudly, limbs relaxing as the nerves and tension trickle out of his limbs and out of his fingers.

“Well, I am taller,” Kurt says.

“And cruel.”

Smiling as he drops cookie dough onto a pan covered in baking paper, Kurt feels his heart swell in size as he continues to speak to Blaine on the phone. He might be crazy for letting this happen, but if he's crazy, well, then so is Blaine. It's too hard to stay away, though. It's too hard to pretend like he doesn't feel anything for this man and it's too hard to pretend like Blaine doesn't make him happy.

This is either the best or the worst idea I've ever had in my life, he thinks to himself.