It was the wingtips that did it. He hadn’t seen a pair of those since… when exactly? Probably at least seven years since they last did the rounds. The young man sighed at the memory, that English countryside chic revival had been a blessing and a curse, trying to get good quality tweed in Ohio had been no easy feat, nor was wearing it in the searing summer heat, but ooooh, the cut. That elegant English cut. Delicious to wear, criminal almost. If only he’d known then how good it had made his ass look, like truly known, had the confidence to OWN it, well, his final year at McKinley might have been a bit more interesting, instead of having to wait until college for that confidence to kick in and the guys to follow. He smiled to himself as he took another sip of champagne and watched the cute flight attendant sashay past him. They really did have better-looking staff in Upper Class he smirked, almost worth the money alone. Thank God it was on expenses though.

He refocused on the shoes in front of him, the owner hidden from view by the booth type partition. These looked like they’d been around since then, but in a much-loved and cared for fashion, like an old friend. The brown leather was scuffed and faded, but polished and repolished til it looked like an old oak table. He shuffled further forward in his seat to get a closer look.

Yup, definitely vintage. And resoled for sure. Not designer, but a good solid make. And paired with- what was that? He inched forward even more to get a closer look- were those… orange penguins on bright blue socks? Kurt sucked in his breath, eyes wide as saucers in shock at such a fashion faux pas. Seriously, how could anyone even, really and truly, believe that THAT was an acceptable look? What kind of crazed individual would even let themselves out of the house like that, never mind on an international flight, it just didn’t even bear…

“Hi!”

An amused voice cut across Kurt’s thoughts, jerking his head up abruptly. His eyes met honey gazing over the partition at him, “oh dear god, what IS that shade” Kurt thinks, a split second before “oh shit I’m busted” as the eyes grow crinkled, the man plainly amused at finding Kurt bent over double staring at his footwear.

“Hi there, I was just , I mean, I thought your shoes were… interesting and wanted to get a closer look and so I, um, looked, closer, I mean, see, I work in fashion and I…”

Shut up Kurt, shut up. Brain to Kurt, brain to Kurt. Shut. The. Hell. Up.

A warm flush was spreading up Kurt’s neck, he could feel it. Painfully aware of the lack of concealer- hell, he was on a red eye, he didn’t think it would be necessary, OK? -“What Would Wintour Do?” chanted like a mantra through his head as Wingtip Man threw his head back and laughed. Honest to God, just like that, a roar like he couldn’t care less what the other passengers thought.

“Well, I’m used to being checked out, but I’ve never had my shoes checked out… this must be a first!” he chuckled, and was that a flirty glint in his eye? And, dear LORD, what was with that, well, mane is the only word, mane of out-of-control curly hair falling all over his face and shoulders? Kurt wasn’t too sure, as Wingtip Man pushed back some of the mop from his face, reaching his other hand over the divide.

“Hi, I’m Blaine, and my shoes are called Adam and Steve”

Dear Lord. That smile could light up Christmas.

“Oh, I, um” OH FOR PETE’S SAKE STRING TOGETHER A COHERENT SENTENCE. YOU ARE NOT 15 Kurt’s brain screamed. He glanced up to see Blaine of the Wingtips grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

“I’m Kurt.” He smiled demurely back. Oh this was going to be an interesting flight.