"I could fall in love with you, you know."

Kurt feels the cool autumn air wash into the apartment and for the first time since he met Blaine, he feels naked. Exposed. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough to know that I could fall in love with you."

And Blaine walks out, closes the door with a soft click, leaving Kurt chilled. Vulnerable. And so completely wanting, he isn't sure how to move from that spot.

I'll be here waiting to catch you…

Kurt takes that feeling and pockets it for the remainder of the weekend. For the show that night where Blaine is not in attendance. For the next day – a simple Sunday – when Blaine never calls. Really, is the idea of having a nice brunch together so ridiculous?

For the following day when Kurt knows Blaine is back at his Columbus office and again the day after that when Blaine gets back on an airplane and goes god-knows-where to heal everyone else's frayed lives, totally forgetting about his own.

Because, it seems, that is what Blaine does.

And Kurt can't, for the life of him, figure out why he cares so fucking much. Why the utter defeat he saw flash in Blaine's eyes when his cigarette didn't light – for the simple fault of an empty lighter – struck Kurt's heart and didn't let it go. Why when he saw him sitting in the theater, relaxed and entertained, he was drawn to Blaine like a dissonant chord pulled to its most consonant resolution.

But, when Kurt remembers having his arms around Blaine, remembers the baritone of his voice when he spoke, remembers the weight of Blaine's body moving in synchronicity with his own as they coasted along the black box floor, then Kurt understands. Remembering Blaine's eyes springing to life when he strutted out in the ridiculous World War II airman's garb, catching Blaine staring throughout the remainder of the show, Kurt gets the attraction. That clinging, magnetic attraction.

But, after the show, Kurt feared he'd never see him again. He'd refresh himself, change and head home. End of encounter.

But then, there was more music that drew him back to the stage. And somehow – maybe because sometimes hope is bigger than reality – Kurt believed the pianist was his man. That man.

Yes, that man because Blaine isn't his, is he? He was for those 18 glorious hours, but it is clear in Blaine's subsequent silence that no, Blaine isn't Kurt's.

And Blaine isn't his own either.

Which brings Kurt's thoughts right back to where they began. Blaine's life isn't his own and Kurt cares. And Kurt doesn't know why.

I'm not some kind of school project, he'd said. And it hurt. It hurt because there is a really strong possibility that without thinking about it, that's exactly how Kurt is looking at it all. A cause to get behind. A life in which to make a difference. An opportunity to shine in someone else's eyes – someone whose eyes are real and intimate and will appreciate his special blend of coffee and that his Hollandaise is always perfectly emulsified and will appreciate the joke of his incredibly expensive Georgia O'Keefe hanging in his living room.

Someone whose fingers will make his skin burn, just as he'd wondered in the theater while watching Blaine play. Watching the deftness of each finger's motion, the strength for forte, the tender touch for pianissimo, the lilt and lift to pull music from each ivory key.

Someone who will not only find that he loves to have a tongue lave across the length of his clavicle but finds that truth, does it and relishes in doing it as much as Kurt relishes in having it done. Someone who knows the difference between making love and fucking – and even better? Knows how to do both when both are absolutely necessary. Someone who listens to his moans and cries and responds in kind and then later moans and cries so exquisitely that Kurt innately knows how to respond – to please.

And there it is.

Kurt doesn't want a school project. He wants a partner. A companion. A lover. A friend.

In a matter of eighteen hours, Blaine went from being that really hot guy with the whiskey-colored eyes to a sensitive, kind man who loves Peggy Lee and surreal art and Kurt's citrus-scented cologne. In eighteen hours, Blaine, even in his perpetual state of Eeyore-hood, strung twinkle lights all over the empty spaces in Kurt's life – empty spaces that Kurt so exquisitely tries to keep hidden from the world – and illuminated them with warmth and affection, pianist's fingers and dancer's perfect form.

And then, with great skill and aplomb, Kurt put the ball in Blaine's court and watched him walk out the door without any way of finding him again.

And clearly, Blaine isn't playing ball.

~~~**~~~

"Just tell me you have info access to all of the ticket buyers from Friday's show. Stop asking me questions."

Kurt can feel the bitchiness prickle up his back and instead of tamping it down – which is his modus operandi now that he is what is otherwise known as an adult – he's struggling with it. The man in front of him is not his subordinate. In fact, he's not even on staff at the theater. He's a fellow board member of the Men's Glee and the guy with the money. And, at the moment, the guy with the answers.

"Yes, Kurt. I do. But I don't think I can give you that without board approval."

"I'm the fucking president of the board." Kurt starts flipping through pages on his treasurer's desk, not even sure what the hell he's looking for, but figuring he'll never find it unless he tries.

"Kurt." Scott smacks his hand on Kurt's to stop his snooping. "You're being obnoxious. What is it you want so desperately?"

"I just need one. Just one, Scott. Can't you give me that?"

Scott deflates – which is quite a sight considering how huge Scott really is – and Kurt claps giddily. He'd have shame in that except he's spent the last five days moping around like a wilted flower and it is time to find a little joy, no matter how small. Giddy clapping is in order.

"What's the name? I'll look and see if we have anything. Why is this so important anyway?"

"Never you mind. Anderson. Blaine. He was here Friday night."

Scott starts to flip through receipts from Friday's show and his eyes light up. "Wait. He's that hottie you were practically throwing yourself at, isn't he?"

"Look for the receipt, Scott."

And before Scott gets to the final stack, realization dawns on Kurt and he tentatively squeezes at Scott's shoulder. "Shit. Never…never mind. I'm fucked." He sinks into the ratty chair in the corner of the back office and buries his face in his hands. "I'm completely fucked."

"What? Am I still looking? Are you…do you need some aspirin or something? You don't look so good."

"No. Stop looking. He didn't buy a ticket. And I'm fine. I'm just…the biggest idiot in central Ohio that's all. I can deal with that title." He splays out in the chair and stares at the ceiling deciding he needs to start clamoring for some reserve funds to get that gawd-awful suspended ceiling tile fixed. It's appalling.

"You didn't give him your number, did you?"

"I did. He hasn't called."

"Kurt…that might be—"

"I'm not listening to you, Scott. Don't you have some season ticket holders to cater to or something?"

"Yes, but you're in my office being an amazingly huge distraction."

"Ignore me."

"I can't. Your shirt is reminding me of a Spirograph and I’m having PTSD."

"I'm not even going to ask for an explanation. I'm leaving. You win. Thanks anyway." And Kurt moans and groans his way out of the chair that had suddenly threatened to swallow him and makes his leave. Almost. "For the record, the Spirograph shirt is Burberry and probably cost more than any PTSD therapy you might need."

"You're obnoxious when you're lonely, Kurt. Go get laid."

"That's what got me in this mess to begin with. I'm thinking of living a life of celibacy."

"And I'm thinking of finally getting therapy. Get out of my office."

Which Kurt does because he has to run thoughts through his head. It's not like he's been able to work at all this week. And tomorrow will be one week after he met Blaine. And one week where he lost one week's worth of productivity and probably gained five years' worth of gray hair and wrinkles. He'd know if he could bring himself to actually look in the mirror longer than it takes him to brush his teeth. He's a mess and he knows it and he's irritated with himself because for the love of god, it was one stinking night.

He's had one-night-stands before and from what Blaine said, that was pretty much his entire sexual existence. Blaine's were bar pick-ups, conference hook-ups, Kurt's sex life is more club hook-ups and casual dating experiences with friends of friends, but when you break it all down, it's all just nameless and faceless.

Why was that night – that glorious night – so amazingly perfect and wonderful and why in the world did he push the take control of your life storyline? No wonder the guy ran.

But, Kurt can't let that be the end of it, so he goes with facts. Numbered. Because it's controllable that way.

And with the common name of Anderson, it's not like calling all of the potential communities is even remotely reasonable.

Although, he considers it for about 5 minutes. And then he walks away from his notes to find something more productive to do. Like alphabetizing his spice cabinet.

By day nine of his mental anguish, he realizes:

Granted, the theater company option has potential, but there are so many little splintered groups that...

It all begins to feel like he's chasing a ghost. And chasing is just not something Kurt does.

Blaine – as much as he seemed to be into Kurt, now nine nights ago – obviously is no longer interested.

Of course, there is always the possibility that he never had been interested. But, that just means he's a better actor than Kurt could have imagined which leads him right back to the overwhelming desire to get him out of his father's grip and back onto the stage, into the arts, in control of his life and why…

…why is this so important to Kurt?

Because. After only eighteen hours, after only one night, he could see himself falling in love with Blaine too.

And he wants the person he falls in love with to be a whole person if that is going to happen. And the man he met nine nights ago?

Is not whole.

The problem is, Kurt suddenly isn't so sure he is either.

~~~**~~~

"Can someone tell me why we're not getting these resumes in order of appearance?"

"Because we have a new intern who is clearly illiterate. Learn to adapt."

Kurt sighs and fans through the 20 or so resumes and gives up, tossing them onto the table in front of him. "Who hired him?"

"That'd be me. Which is why you'll learn to adapt. Who do we have next?"

"How do I know? This shit isn't in order!"

The truth of the matter is, the quality of talent that is coming through is leaving much to be desired. And they're both irritated. Stuart, the director of the Men's Glee, simply wants someone who can play with or without music, can take direction, and can follow. Someone who knows when to be a showman and when to be an accompanist without being told.

Kurt wants someone so amazing that he'll forget he ever heard – or felt – Blaine Anderson play.

"Just call for the next one. We'll figure it out."

"Jesus." Kurt picks up the stack and starts casually putting them in alphabetical order as he calls for the next candidate. "NEXT!” He hears footsteps as he continues his alphabetizing. L-M-N-O – how old do I have to be to remember P comes after O? "Name…and one sentence that will make us want to hire you."

Stuart flashes Kurt a glare and Kurt sticks his tongue out at him and whispers, "What? If they can't articulat--."

"Blaine Anderson."

Kurt's head snaps up and there he is. "Oh god." And he's stunning. Casual. Simple dockers, rolled up at the ankle, a striped Henley t-shirt and curls crowning his head, lush and shiny and Kurt thinks that maybe there are diamonds in Blaine's eyes. Topaz? Jewels. They shimmer.

"And, um…a sentence." Blaine leans against the curve of the grand piano and Kurt tries to get his heart back into a normal sinus rhythm. It's not going well. "I thought I didn't know how to breathe anymore, but…I think I've found a way to start again; this is it."

"You…" Kurt gulped and swallowed down the rush of happiness, anxiety, joy, fear that are twisting through his system like a Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival. "You may begin." Kurt leans over to Stuart to whisper, "This is our man."

"We haven't even hear—"

"This is our man."

"You do remember you don't get the final say here, right?"

"You'll be telling me I was right in about two minutes."

Kurt turns his attention back to the stage as Blaine nods and takes his seat at the Steinway – The Steinway. He adjusts the bench and places his hands and as Kurt catches what might possibly be his own last breath on this earth, Blaine begins to play.

He starts with a 40's-style vamp and goes straight into popular swing tunes. String of Pearls seamlessly morphing into Begin the Beguine, Rhapsody in Blue taking them to a new section and unfolding, miraculously so, into Candyman, complete with the call and response that Kurt and Stuart join in on before they realize what they're doing.

Tarzan and Jane were swinging on a vine

Swing moves into classical with Vivaldi's Four Seasons (Spring, Kurt thinks) and then Mozart's Piano Concerto, No. 21. The finale of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony twirls them into a pop montage of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga and songs that Kurt and Stuart know from the current radio, but couldn't name if given the chance. Blaine ties it all up with a reprise of Candyman, slipping in the classical and pop stylings they'd already heard.

It is two solid minutes of musical genius.

"Write this down, Hummel because I'll never say it again—"

"You know what? Don't even say it. I'd rather hear it when I don't know it's coming." Kurt smiles to the stage, knowing Blaine can't see him, but also knowing Blaine sees him. And it feels amazing. "Thank you very much. We'll let you know by the end of business tomorrow."

Kurt watches Blaine leave the stage and fights every urge within him to run after him. He does, however, grab his resume, typing Blaine's number into his phone.

"Since when do you notify?"

"Since today. I'll tell everyone else to go home."

"Might as well. Do I want to know how you knew about this guy?"

"I've heard him play." And when he feels Stuart's probing glare, he amends as he leaves, "And that's all you need to know."

~~~**~~~

Ideally, Kurt should wait until Monday to notify their new accompanist of his position, but he is never one who goes along with convention – no sense starting now. He does have the decency to wait an hour. And to keep it somewhat professional.

To start.

"Do I start apologizing now or later?"

"Is this how you typically answer the phone, Mr. Anderson?" Kurt has to bite back a smiled lilt to his voice because truly, this man could not be more adorable. And, he made Kurt wait for two weeks; he was going to have to sweat it out a little.

Blaine chuffs and tries again. "Hello, Mr. Hummel."

"Hello. I'm calling on behalf of the Central Ohio Gay Men's Glee. We would like to invite you to join us for rehearsal next Sunday at 7pm as a final step to becoming our new accompanist."

"Oh. Yes, I'd be happy to be there. Do I need to bring anything with me?"

"Just your magical fing—" Kurt takes a deep breath and tries that again. "No. This will just be a formality with the group." Kurt finds himself physically reaching his hand out to touch. He's aching for this man. This man he has known for only hours, longed for for weeks. "You impressed Stuart. No one impresses Stuart."

"Thank…you?"

"You're welcome." Kurt imagines the pause looming between them wouldn't be as uncomfortable in person as it is on the phone. If nothing else, he'd be resting in Blaine's whiskey-colored eyes, but at the moment—

"Will you have drinks with me tonight?"

And Kurt decides a three-minute wait is a sufficient exchange for a two-week one, breathing out an answer faster than his mind can catch up with what his mouth is saying. "Meet me at Union in 45 minutes."

When Kurt sees Blaine standing with the host at the front of the bar, he fights every urge to run to him. To make a scene and throw his arms around him and scoop him off of the floor and spin him around like they are in some pathetic rom-com. In a field of daffodils. With blurred edges.

He doesn't do that, instead patiently watching as Blaine makes his way across the busy floor to the corner booth at the back wall of the bar. And after ordering drinks – Kurt, a vodka cranberry and Blaine, another whiskey sour – he kisses Blaine's cheek and begins.

"You didn't call."

"I know. I'm sorry. I needed time."

"Did you get enough?"

"Time?"

"Yes. I sort of made an ass of myself trying to find you." The waiter brings their drinks and they both toss back larger swallows than are probably proper, chuckling as they catch each other in the act.

"Wait. You actually looked for me?"

"Yes. I'm not particularly proud of it, but yes." Blaine's smile is genuine. And bright. And Kurt wants to kiss it right off of his face. "I never wanted to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry I made you think—I just needed—" Blaine sighs and scoops Kurt's hand in his. "I'm here now."

"I'm really glad." Kurt begins tracing the lines of Blaine's hand – the hands that make music pour out of not only an exquisite instrument made of wood and wire, but also a wanting man made of bone and heart.

But, as much as he'd love to feel those hands make music all over him again, he aims for business first, figuring the bar patrons would also appreciate that decision. "So, the gig. It's a weekly obligation for nine months, plus performances. Can you do that with your job?"

"I quit."

Kurt drops Blaine's hand. "I didn't think you needed to take control that drastically!"

"But see, I did. Which is why it was complicated. And I've hurt my mother – which I need to fix – but, I have my life back. Or, I'm working on it anyway."

"What will you do for work?"

"I have plenty of savings and…" Blaine smiles and scoops Kurt's hand up again. "I have an interview on Wednesday with CAPA – in development."

Kurt gapes, then smiles, then tries to speak and has to try two more times before he states the obvious. "Columbus Association for the Performing Arts. You gave it all up."

"I did. It's sort of why I needed some time."

"You know non-profits don't pay much?"

"I do. I don't need much – just enough. They pay enough."

Kurt smiles, disbelief still thrumming through him. "You also know they control most of my theater's funding?"

"I do. You don't mind me holding the professional purse strings, do you?"

"Just the professional ones." Blaine is trailing a finger up and down Kurt's arm, which he follows with his eyes until Blaine's gaze is too hot to ignore. Blaine hadn't forgotten. Or kissed him off. Or said goodbye. He is sitting here, touching him, ogling him, the air crackling and popping around them, building a bubble around their booth – and all Kurt can see is Blaine.

Blaine, whose demeanor is straighter, his smile brighter – so amazingly bright – his touch more assured. Blaine is free and Kurt doesn't want to do anything but journey right alongside of him. "So, now what?"

"Now, I try to make up these last two weeks to you. Ask your forgiveness one more time."

"Granted."

Blaine smiles and brings Kurt's hand up to kiss a fingertip. "And ask you to dinner."

"L'Antibes, tomorrow at eight."

Another smile, a kiss to another fingertip. "I'd take you to a show, but everything's dark on Mondays…"

"Rain checks work."

Blaine kisses a third fingertip and scoots just a little closer into the corner of the booth. "And then, I'll take you back to my place." A fourth fingertip. "And I'll order a tray of long-stemmed chocolate covered strawberries." Kurt watches as Blaine turns Kurt's hand in his and begins on his knuckles, the soft curves of his lips curling perfectly around each raised bump. "We'll take them to bed." Kiss. "Feed each other." Kiss. "And stay there all night." Kiss. "And maybe into the morning, because I'm sure you have some vacation days."

Kurt swallows thickly, hoping he has a voice when he opens his mouth. "Funny that. I actually do."

"Good. Because I really, really need to make sure I'm on a soft surface for when I land."

"When you land?"

Blaine smiles and starts to scoot out of the booth, tugging at Kurt's hand when he catches his questioning gaze.

Kurt follows without further question, and Blaine tosses money on the bar, pointing to their empty booth as they leave. They step outside and the crisp autumn air swirls around them, a few leaves spinning into a mini-cyclone at the edge of the neighboring alley. Blaine pulls Kurt into him and nuzzles a gentle Eskimo kiss, while Kurt waits on an answer. "When I land from falling, silly. Falling in love with you."

Kurt sucks in a rush of air, cold in his throat, warmed again as he exhales and relaxes fully into Blaine's arms. "Oh, yes. That."

"Yes. That." Blaine nudges another Eskimo kiss and presses a soft, dry kiss to Kurt's cheek. "I know when you're falling, they say don't look down but I've dared to look anyway."

"And?"

"And, I don't have much further to go."

Kurt closes the small distance between them, pulling Blaine in even closer as their lips meet, perfect and soft, another swirl of leaves rushing just beyond them, making them grasp tighter, kiss deeper, a quick sweep of their tongues before it's only the softness of their lips again. "Maybe…maybe you'll land a little early?"

"I think maybe I just did."