::::

Ten hours, four pots of coffee and one much-needed shower later, Kurt's sprawled out on Quinn's couch with a rum and coke in his hand and Rachel curled up at his side. "Are you sure you don't want any wine, babe?" Quinn calls out from her tiny kitchen. "It's good, I actually bought some that cost more than ten dollars this time."

"No thanks, that shit always makes me sleepy," Kurt replies as he takes a rather ambitious swig of his drink. He cringes as it slides down his throat, but then he feels the familiar warm glow in the bottom of his chest and knows - thank the lord - he'll be tipsy soon. And he needs that - needs a distraction, any distraction, from the stupid memory of Starbucks boy that's been playing over and over again in his head all day. He's tried to shrug it off, but the blazer-wearing bastard keeps reappearing in the back of his mind, and he's not sure why. This doesn't happen; this never happens. Kurt doesn't daydream about boys, after all. Boys daydream about Kurt.

Quinn walks into the room with a half-empty wine bottle under her arm and a full glass in each hand and Kurt can't help but admire how graceful she is. With her shoulder-length blonde waves and naturally radiant looks, it's safe to assume she was close to the top of the social ladder at her high school in Connecticut. But Quinn doesn't talk much about her past, and it's easy to understand why - she got pregnant her junior year with her high school's resident bad boy's baby. They put it up for adoption and moved to NYC separately, but recently reconnected (at a bar, of course) and have been seeing each other again. Kurt's happy for Quinn, he can tell she really does have feelings for Puck, but he can also tell she keeps her heart under lock and key. And Kurt's certainly familiar with that feeling.

"I cannot believe how wasted I was yesterday," Rachel says as she takes a glass from Quinn. "Jesse said I looked like Snooki. I'm sticking to one type of alcohol only tonight." Both Kurt and Quinn raise a skeptical eyebrow, and Rachel laughs in response. "Fine, fine, three types of alcohol, no more than three!" she concedes with a grin, sipping her wine.

"That's my girl," Quinn laughs, plopping down in a retro-looking armchair across from the couch. "Wait, Kurt, you never finished telling the story about the guy you met this morning! What was his name?"

Kurt feels his heart sink - he really doesn't want to talk about this anymore - and takes a huge sip of rum and coke before he says, "That's sort of the problem, there's not anything to tell. I dropped my cigarettes, he handed them to me, then he walked away before I could say anything. Didn't even get his name. And you know me - normally I wouldn't give a shit, but for some reason I can't stop fucking thinking about him," he says, absentmindedly crunching an ice cube. "It's weird because normally I'd either throw my number at him and forget about it, or just ignore him completely. You know - I never give a shit about guys, even the ones I sleep with."

Rachel nods in acknowledgement and rests her head on her hand. "Well, I think this sounds like the perfect setup for a new romantic comedy," she says knowingly. "It's very 'Serendipity'. Maybe you'll meet again at some unexpected location and fall madly in love! This could be the guy you've been waiting for!"

Kurt smiles wearily, shaking his head. That's his Rachel. Always optimistic, always romanticizing everything - she's this constant fucking ray of sunshine, and even though that occasionally drives him insane, it's also one of the most incredible things about his best friend. "Rach, you know I'm not waiting for anyone. No one's coming," he says. "No one I'm interested in, anyway." He's struck with an intense desire to change the subject, because this is the last can of worms he wants to open - his lack of commitment, his many one-night relationships with random guys he meets at clubs, the loneliness he keeps bottled up because he has no other way to deal with it. This is the way it's always gonna be, and he's fine with that, but it doesn't mean they need to fucking analyze it.

Luckily, there's a loud knock at the door, and Rachel sets her wine glass on the coffee table and leaps up. "Sebastian's here!" she chirps, hopping off the couch with the enthusiasm of a sixth-grade slumber party host. She scampers to the door and flings it open, and in strides Sebastian, wearing a gray tailored suit with a light purple button-down. Kurt's not sure if he's ever seen the guy go anywhere not overdressed, but he doesn't mind - it's very Sebastian, and almost (almost) endearing at this point.

"Looking fierce!" Rachel squeals as she kisses Sebastian on the cheek and pulls him over to the couch, where she proceeds to sit him down, then sit on his lap.

"Did you expect anything less?" Sebastian says with a smirk, then waves to both Quinn and Kurt. "Hey bitches," he says. "You ready for this party? The house is supposed to be insane, the guy who's throwing it is crazy rich. Even more loaded than you, Kurt," he says, nudging Kurt's boot with his own foot playfully.

"Oh, shut up," Kurt snaps, but he's smiling. "Hope you didn't scuff your Manolos there, buddy," he retorts.

"I hate you," Sebastian chuckles as he reaches into the paper bag he's brought with him. "But because I'm such a kind soul, I'll let you have some of this." He pulls out an enormous bottle of Grey Goose vodka. The holy grail.

"Oooooh!" Quinn and Rachel squeal at the same time. They simultaneously finish off their wine, then Quinn reaches out and hands Sebastian the shotglasses that are stacked on the coffee table.

"So, Kurt, thanks for stealing my man candy last night," the taller boy says as he pours four rather generous shots. "I saw him first, you fucking… vixen."

Kurt bursts out laughing. "Vixen? Really, Sebastian?" He downs the last bit of his rum and coke, then picks up his shot. Yup, he's definitely tipsy. "You get gayer and gayer by the day."

"And we wouldn't have it any other way," smiles Quinn.

"A toast. To the fierce fearsome foursome!" Rachel says, raising her shot in the air.

They clink their shotglasses and down the vodka, grinning at each other. Kurt feels himself smiling - thanks, alcohol - but there's still a little voice in the back of his mind. Nagging. Persistent.

And the voice sounds a lot like stupid fucking Starbucks boy.

~

A few hours later, Kurt finds himself back in the Lower East Side, but this time he's in the huge yet insanely crowded loft of one of Sebastian's fuck buddies. There are probably fifty, sixty hot guys here (and Sebastian's already off in a dark corner with one of them), and Kurt's had enough alcohol to take down a family of four, but he still can't get the image of fucking Starbucks boy out of his head. This is ridiculous, he thinks to himself as he leans against the counter in the kitchen, which is packed full of people. Get a fucking grip, Hummel. Who gives a shit? Wasn't even your type.

"You ok, boo?" Quinn says, resting her head on Kurt's shoulder. She seems pretty sloshed, which is good, because Kurt's right there with her. "The guy running the bar is totally checking you out."

Kurt whips his head around - ooh, either the room is tilted or he's drunker than the thought he was. He spots a tall boy with cute glasses and choppy brown hair who's leaning on the fully stocked bar - and completely, shamelessly eyefucking Kurt. Kurt gives him a half-smile and turns back to Quinn. "Eh, not interested."

Quinn pops her head off Kurt's shoulder. "What?! You always go for tall guys! Go get him!" she says, hiccuping after she finishes, then laughing at herself. "Oh dear god, I'm drunk. Drunk, drunk, always drunk."

Kurt laughs too, but shakes his head. "Nah. I dunno. Not tonight." What is wrong with him? Under normal circumstances, he'd already be latched on to this dude's mouth. But not tonight. Not tonight, because he can't stop thinking about some random asshole who handed him his cigarettes on the street.

A cigarette! Maybe that will make him feel better. "I'm gonna go smoke on the deck," Kurt says. "You want in?"

"Nah, I'm good," Quinn responds. "Rach just texted me - she wants to do Bacardi shots. Meet us at the bar after you're done!" she says with a goofy, wide grin, and she's off.

Kurt nods at nothing in particular and heads for the sliding doors that lead out to a deck that's ridiculously large for New York City. It's completely deserted, and he realizes why when the icy air hits his face. It may not be snowing at the moment, but Jesus Christ, it's cold. Nonetheless, the air clears his head temporarily as he pulls out a cigarette and sparks it, looking out at the city lights. He really does fucking love this city, no matter how many shots he takes or how many stupid fucking blazer-wearing boys with slicked back hair he meets in front of stupid goddamn Starb-

"Hey man, mind if I bum one of those? Just un-quit smoking today, and I'm drunk and desperate."

Kurt doesn't even need to turn around to know it's him.

What are the fucking odds?