"What did you want to be when you were young?"

Kurt drums his fingers on the table, his eyes darting all around the dimly-lit café where the only other occupants are a skinny chain-smoking goth girl and a tattooed barista. "What makes you sure it's not what I'm doing now?"

The young man before him is completely relaxed in comparison as he leans back, his collar popped open and bowtie hanging lopsided and loose around. "You speak with the drive of someone who dreams with no confines."

"And you speak like an 18thcentury scholar sitting in a salon planning a revolution."

"Scholars don't plan revolutions. They're too stuck being skeptics. Their words are inspirations for the dreamers to plan revolutions," says the man, and downs the last of his coffee with a grin.

"No, sorry, this dreamer is more interested in earning a ticket to New York City to belt out 'Defying Gravity' than to tackle the French monarchy with a stirring rendition of 'Do You Hear The People Sing'."

The handsome fellow nods, relinquishing his scholarly accent and casually commenting, "I think I got the 'drive' part correct."

Kurt can't resist smirking. "I thought you teach music to kids at the Autism Center, not perform psychology experiments on them."

"Well, my major was in psychology. I am a therapist, first and foremost. Music is just one of my means to reach out to the children."

"Why children though? They –" Kurt unconsciously wrinkles up his nose.

"You don't like them?"

Kurt feels a hot flush spread up his neck instantly. He's not quite sure why he's discussingchildren, of all things, with a man he has only met hours before.

"Sorry," the man realizes, "overstepped, didn't I?"

"No, no, not at all," says Kurt, fervently wishing the flush would leave his face. "I envy children's innocence, I respect their sense of wonder and I adore looking at little baby clothes designs. But sorry to say, I'm not very patient with them."

"Not many people are!" The gentleman before him proceeds to take a paper napkin to dab at the edges of his lips. "Well, you're a lot more patient than you give yourself credit for."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Yeah, tell me about it. I just sat through a contemporary play put up by a bunch of kids who have suffered their way through Lima's conservative community theater program–"

"Which no doubt, is a sore point because... you were probably in that program once."

" –had to deal with an autistic man who literally spoilt the show with a complete lack of theater etiquette–"

"Though you secretly cheered because everything he commented loudly about the play was actually true and you were glad everybody else heard it."

" –and now, having dumped my best friend at home and instead used the time I could have spent lounging on the couch with her to spend time sitting here in a really shady café that shouldn't be open at this hour, talking to a man who I just met a few hours ago and eats a chunk of grilled chicken and drinks coffee at night for leisure... I mean, who does that? And –"

Kurt stops talking because the man is leaning across the table, his hand snaking along to cover Kurt's. "And you're already thinking about choosing the location for the next date, despite this conversational partner having reminded you of all these things that irk you."

Kurt can feel his cheeks burn hotter than ever. Then, a sudden boldness seizes him, and he flips the man's hand around.

"Well then, Mr. Blaine Anderson," he says, a smirk growing on his face. "Will you continue to remind me of these things again?"