Blaine hesitated before knocking on the door, and not for the first time considered his alternatives. A lobotomy sounded nice. Or castration. Or a convent…

            Just a few hours ago, after some brooding on the couch, Blaine had finally decided to call Santana. She’d answered with, “Make it quick, Blaine, I’m busy.”

            Blaine had several things to say to that, none complimentary. He could hear several female voices in the background, and maybe a television.

            “I’ll make it quick, then,” Blaine snapped. “Been up to anything fun lately?”

            Santana was quiet for a moment. The voices in the background stopped talking. “Oooh. I take it you had a visitor today?” Someone, no one Blaine recognized, was starting to laugh in the background.

            “What the fuck were you thinking?”

            “So did he show up at your place or not?”

            “He punched me as soon as I opened the door!” Santana cackled, and Blaine had to shut his eyes hard for a moment. There was an ever-present pounding behind his eyes that had started when Kurt stormed out, and hadn’t since abated. “Seriously, what the hell was the point of that?”

            “It got him to your place, didn’t it? I was doing you a favor.”

            “Yeah, but not exactly in the way I was planning.”

            “Well did you tell him it was me?”

            “What do you think, of course I did.”

            “And was he still pissed at you?”

            Kurt was in all actuality probably much more pissed at Blaine right now than he had been when he’d hit him. “No,” Blaine answered, truthful only in specific context.

            “Then what’s the problem?” Santana asked, already bored. “It was just a joke; if he’s still pissed he can bitch at me about it.”

            “The problem…” Blaine sighed, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palms. “Look, whatever, just… Where did you get his phone number? Rachel?”

            “Why?”

            Blaine breathed slowly, in and out. “Because...” Suddenly, something registered. He could hear the girls chatter start to pick back up, and there was definitely one he didn’t quite recognize. “Are you… what the fuck, is she there with you?”

            “So?”

            “Put her on the phone.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you’re a pshychotic bitch who almost got my nose broken! Give the phone to Rachel!”

            “Oh, this I have got to hear more about later. Christ, when did you get so boring. Hold on a moment, buzzkill…”

            Blaine waited impatiently, twisting Kurt’s phone in his hands. It has gone off with about two dozen texts by now, and he barely resisted the urge to check them. Barely.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey,” Blaine said quickly, not in the mood to explain himself. He probably wouldn’t ever be. “Kurt was over here just a bit ago and…”

            “Oooh! I didn’t think he’d actually go looking for you.”

            Blaine frowned. “You knew about the texts?”

            “Texts?” Rachel repeated back blankly. “Was he texting you?”

            “Huh?” Blaine frowned, and squeezed the phone in his hand tightly as it buzzed in his fist. “Whatever, he left his phone here. I wanted to maybe drop it off at his place.”

            “Oh. I’m surprised he didn’t come back for it himself.”

            Blaine wasn’t, given the situation. “Yeah, well I thought I’d drop it off for him. Do you know where he lives?”

            “That’s so sweet of you!” Rachel gushed. “I’ll text you the address, it’s at a loft in Bushwick.”

            Of course it was.

            And that was where Blaine stood now, looking at a large sliding metal door. Kurt’s place was situated in a renovated warehouse that even Blaine had to grudgingly admire for the bohemian aspect of it. He glanced at his phone, at the address Rachel had texted him. Below it she’d written, Be nice, he’s having a bad week. Was that supposed to mean something to him? Be nice? Like fuck.

            He could smell cooking food, something spicy. Blaine wandered if that was the sort of thing that would bother Kurt. It seemed like it would.

            He rung the bell, listening to the noise resonate from within. There was silence for a few long moments in which Blaine dearly hoped no one would answer so he could justify dropping the phone and leaving, before the door slid open with no warning. Kurt stood there in very different clothes than he’d worn earlier in the day. He was barefooted in loose, holey jeans, and a large flannel shirt. Lounging clothes. But they only made him look softer, even though the hard, calculating expression on his face contradicted that.

            “…hey,” Blaine said, once he finally managed to unglue the tongue from his mouth. Despite the very blatant rejection earlier, Kurt was obscenely attractive, and Blaine couldn’t change his reactions any more than he could change Kurt’s.

            Kurt didn’t return the greeting, just held out a hand. When Blaine stared blankly in return, Kurt said monotonously, “Rachel Facebook messaged me. Give me my phone.”

            Precious. “Yeah, in a minute. I wanted to—“

            “Like I care what you want, give me my phone and go shadow someone else’s doorstep.”

            God, what century was this kid from. “Just chill a second. You left before I could,” but Blaine didn’t know what to follow that up with. Kurt was staring hard at him, waiting, but Blaine mouthed silently a bit, half words caught in his throat. There was something about being pinned under such scrutiny, at having every fiber of Kurt’s tightly constrained attention on him, and then having nothing to show for it.

            “Right, well, if you can’t even manage a half-decent apology I don’t see what the point of all this is,” Kurt snapped. He held his hand out a bit more incessantly, his unwavering attention suddenly seeming to close off. It was a strange thing to describe, but it was something about Kurt’s eyes, the intensity abating like the tide, like a curtain closing, and in a blind panic he blurted it out.

            “I’m sorry,” Blaine growled, and it sounded more like an insult than any form of apology, but it at least stopped Kurt from reaching for the phone himself. “I’m just. I don’t know, I’m sorry and I’m going to be honest I’m having a hard time understanding why but I am anyway, okay? Jesus, I just. I guess I do things differently, than you.” Was there an eloquent way to say ‘I just wanted you for a quick fuck’? Blaine didn’t think there was. “Or what you might expect. I.”

            Kurt was staring at him with a bewildered look on his face, probably not expecting an entire little speech tacked on to what must have been the worst apology he’d ever received in his young life. But it was the first apology Blaine could remember having given in a very, very long time and he wanted to make it count.

            “It’s just how I do shit, I’m not any sort of gentleman, I don’t really know what it is you’d… want, but I know I’m definitely not it and I don’t care. I just thought you might want something, I know I do. You… I guess you know I want it, I do, and when I want stuff I’m not exactly shy about trying getting it.”

            “Clearly,” Kurt was waspishly, finally interrupting like he was so prone on doing, and it brought the anger back some, pulled Blaine back into familiar territory.

            “But why didn’t you just stop me earlier, huh?” Blaine demanded, and now Kurt’s resentful face softened a bit, as if in guilt. “Were you pausing for dramatic effect? To prove a point? Because I can’t read minds, Kurt, and when someone doesn’t move—“

            “Lack of response doesn’t imply consent you insufferable—“

            “And I just apologized, okay! But I would have backed off if you’d said something! I did back off! Fucking hell, Kurt, you don’t get to be the uppity wounded party here. Don’t just assume I’m some asshole douche who would—do that sort of thing. Jesus fucking Christ, I backed off, okay? And how the hell do you think it makes me feeling knowing some guy just assumes I’d…”

            Blaine trailed off at the look on Kurt’s face. It was scathing, or withdrawn, or masklike. It looked… cracked, somehow. Very tired. Like Kurt was so very at the end of his ropes he’d just decided to let go, close his eyes, and hope for the best. “I… Guess I was. Proving a point. I didn’t think you would, I don’t. I don’t think you’d do that to someone.” Kurt shrugged awkwardly. “You’re a little. Rough. But not that type. I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” The words sounded painful in his throat, and Blaine suddenly didn’t need to hear an apology. But Kurt gave it anyway. “I’m sorry.”

            Blaine, almost as unused to being apologized to as he was giving apologies, not to mention twice in one day, searched hard for some kind of response to that. But Kurt wasn’t quite finished. “I don’t want you to think I don’t like you, Blaine. I don’t, well you should know by now I don’t respond well to advances like… what you’re used to, apparently. But you’re. I do like you. I like what you do and--”

            “What I do?”

            “Your work,” Kurt slowly elaborated, blushing a bit. “God, not the other thing.”

            “I thought you hated tattoos.”

            “I do,” Kurt asserted, but somehow not unkindly. “But they’re a form of art, and as an artist I can hardly condemn any sort of medium through which a fellow artist chooses to express themselves.” Too many words, Blaine felt dizzy with trying to figure out if he was being insulted or complimented. “And I have seen your work. Rachel showed me, and I looked you up and… I saw you, working, and you’re very passionate about what you do.” Kurt swallowed. “I can’t hate that. Especially when you’re so good at it, no matter my personal opinions on the whole… idea. I called you something today I really didn’t mean. I’m sorry for that, too. You’re not a fuck-up. You’re… actually incredibly talented.”

            That was most definitely a compliment, although a double-edged one, and Blaine was mortified to feel his face slowly heat up. He cleared his throat, said, “Yeah, well… Um, here.” He dug Kurt’s phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. Kurt took it from him, glanced at the screen to perhaps check just how many texts he’d missed (A lot, popular little fucker, Blaine thought). But before Kurt had the chance to close the conversation and subsequently the door, Blaine rushed out, “I really am sorry. I can be a douche. I know that… how I like to do things doesn’t really match up to the ‘right way’. You, um.” Blaine shrugged tightly. “Deserve better than that.” Looking past the haze of lust, it was clear to see Kurt wasn’t the hit-it-and-quit-it type. He was one of those silly romantic, the kind that liked being part of a ‘we’. He’d make someone happy, that way, but would never be satisfied with what little Blaine himself had to offer. “I won’t do that to you again.”

            Shockingly enough, Kurt smiled. A small one, but it was just noticeable. “I know,” he said. “And I’m not blameless myself. I lose my temper, sometimes. A lot lately, actually.”

            “It’s fine,” Blaine signed, beyond done with the seemingly endless apologies. If this whole litany of emotional fallout happened after every “I’m sorry” then people could seriously keep their apologies to themselves. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re doing, I guess.”

            “Sure. And thanks for this,” Kurt raised his phone and waggled it a bit.

            “No problem. I’ll see you around.”

            “Maybe.” It was an odd response, but before Blaine could ask Kurt was sliding the door shut, and Blaine was left to rub the stupid little smile off his face all by himself.

            When Blaine arrived at Warbler’s that Monday morning, Mike was already there, perched on the stoop with his perfect dancer’s back held primly up in contrast to his rapidly moving fingers as he jabbed at his phone. He was either having a fight with his girlfriend or playing an app on his phone; the concentrated look on his face made it hard to tell.

            When Blaine drew level with him and Mike merely nodded his greeting at him, Blaine glanced down; Candy Crush. Good. Blaine had reached his quota for drama two plus days ago.

            Unlocking the gate while exchanging a rather subdued greeting, and then the door, Blaine tried to remember his schedule for the day and was drawing a blank. While Mike headed straight for his station, Blaine went to the desk for the heavy-duty binder Quinn kept their schedules in.

            “You’re free until nine,” Mike called over to him as Blaine rapidly paged through sheaf of paper that he was sure Quinn ordered in a fashion geared towards confusing him. Blaine glanced up and met Mike’s disarming smile. “You’ve got an Arthur coming in to get a leg piece.”

            Gnawing worriedly at his lip ring, Blaine nevertheless abandoned the folder. “Arthur, Arthur… I don’t remember talking to him.”

            “You’ve been e-mailing him, I think.”

            “Yeah?”

            “He probably called himself ‘Artie’.”

            “You know him?” Blaine asked curiously, slightly disarmed. Mike was certainly not the shyest of his tattoo artist, but he nevertheless liked to keep to himself most of the time. For him to know anything about a new client was certainly something new.

            “Yeah, Tina’s friends with his girlfriend. He’s, um… He’s very white?”

            “Was that a question?” Blaine asked, now pulling up his mail on his phone and scanning for his correspondence to whoever “Artie” was.

            “No, just a warning. He’s a good guy. His girlfriend is buying him a tattoo for his birthday. I don’t really think he knows what he wants, he just wants something ‘cool’.” Catching the look on Blaine’s face, Mike rushed on to add, “Seriously, he’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”

            Blaine was doubtful, but set about readying his station regardless, as well as unearthing his favorite sketchpad. Without meeting him Blaine could hardly brainstorm any possibilities for the design. Once he’d gotten a few needles out and wiped down a tattoo guns, he settled into his chair and started to free sketch a few things. Mostly he thought of a restrained, quick-witted art student, turn of the century personality awash in a giant melting pot of a city. Caged eyes and flaring temper, delicate features but with strength in his stride, and a cool, clean scent. Skin as soft as silk under his tongue. Blaine drew. Some fragments, some full ideas, some nonsense. But it seemed to help, to settle Kurt more firmly into his mind. Tapered waist that would look utterly delectable with a long bundle of flowers spread up his side, supple thighs with poetry written along the inside, porcelain skin stained with matted color…

            Blaine slowly lost track of time. He heard Mike greet his first client, a middle-aged gentleman, and around eight ‘o’ clock heard Sam, Santana and Quinn enter the shop. Blaine said nothing to Santana, and she him thankfully. He was still too cross with her to keep himself in check in any semblance of calm conversation.

            And then, there was a tentative, “Hello?” from somewhere in front of him, and Blaine looked up. He didn’t have to look far. Arthur, or “Artie” as Mike had referred to him, could hardly ever be at eye level. He was situated in a wheelchair, and was wearing khaki slacks, a Godawful checked sweater vest, thick bifocals, neatly parted hair, and rising gloves. All in all, he was most likely one of the strangest people Blaine had ever seen enter his tattoo parlor.

            Feeling more than a little awkward, Blaine decided to remain seated rather than to stand as he reached forward to shake his new client’s hand. “You must be Artie. I’m Blaine.”

            “Nice to meet you,” Artie said with a grin, shaking Blaine’s hand with a much firmer grip than he’d been anticipating.  Quinn gave Blaine a Behave look before walking back to her desk, and Blaine settled himself more comfortably into his chair as Artie put the lock onto his own.

            “So what brings you in today, Artie,” Blaine asked, settling himself into the preliminary routine he used for any first-time clients.

            “I wanted to get something done on my leg.”

            “Any ideas?” Blaine asked, thinking that it was a much more acceptable question than, Why your legs? Blaine had a pretty good idea as to why.

            “Something edgy,” Artie said, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Something people don’t expect.”

            “You’re a step ahead of the game, then. You’re not the normal type to get a tattoo.”

            Artie grinned. “Exactly.”

            “Alright, before we get anything started, I have to ask. It is safe to tattoo your legs, right? Like, any allergies or… um, anything.”

            “It’s fine,” Artie said comfortably. “I can’t feel them at all, but they’re normal legs. I have therapy every day to keep the muscle and skin healthy, so it’s fine.”

            Blaine had never tattooed a handicapped person, and it was perhaps this that gave Quinn cause to continuously glance over at the two.

            “I heard your girlfriend’s footing this for a gift. Happy birthday, I guess. When is it?”

            “It’s next week. But yeah, my girl’s this best. Here.” He dug out his phone and showed Blaine the background. It was of Artie in his wheelchair, but perched in his lap with her legs swung over the side was a pretty little blond, hair slicked back into a high ponytail, bring red lips and a grinning face.

            “That’s my girl, that’s Kitty,” Artie said proudly, taking his phone back and grinning down at the image. “She’s really excited about it, said it’ll show people how ‘macho’ I actually am.”

            Blaine smirked a bit. “Right. But no ideas on what you specifically want?”

            “Not really. But word on the street is you’re the kinda guy to go for when you don’t know what you want. Kinda because, um, you don’t listen to people even when they do. So I’ve heard on blogs.”

            “That’s me, asshole genius at your service.” Blaine signed. “Okay, well I can always work something out for you. But let’s talk a bit first.”

            “Right, sure. Um, about what?”

            “Tell me a bit about yourself,” Blaine prodded, sitting himself and crossing one leg over another to balance his sketch pad. He flipped the page over on his latest creation—black silken ballet shoes, with heels of iron, feathers studded in the laces with blue hues that would match Kurt’s eyes perfectly. He fiddled with a pencil absentmindedly, but truthfully, he already had the tattoo for Artie in his mind. But the style would depend a bit on his personality.

Artie, it transpired, was a film student at NYU.

            “We’ve been getting a lot of students lately,” Santana said, looking pointedly over at Blaine from where she sat next to her own client, a teenage girl biting so hard on her lip it was a small miracle she hadn’t started bleeding.

            “I thought college was supposed to make you broke,” Blaine grumbled, shooting Santana a glare.

            “My girl’s pretty well off,” Artie said, grinning at something or another. Blaine sketched a tiny notch on the page.

            “Hobbies? Interests? Besides film, I mean.”

            “Er, well, I’m a bit of a nerd…” Blaine would have never guessed. “I like sci-fi and comics. Um, I used to be big into math and stuff in high school before I directed a drama club musical. It just clicked, you know? So I decided on film. I want to direct, but I’m pretty decent with the technicalities of producing too. ”

            “A mathematician at heart, huh,” Blaine murmured, sketching out a few details.

            “But the soul of an artist, baby,” Artie claimed, raising a hand in such a Hail Mary way Blaine has to grin. He was starting to like this kid.

            “Okay, Artie, I think I’ve got something. You have a budget I can work with? Quinn said around 3-K.”

            “Yeah, if you could.”

            Blaine nodded, moving himself onto a stool wheeling himself over. “So I’ve got a footrest, can I get your legs up on it?”

            “Legs? Like, both? Um, yeah, sure, hold on…”

            For a few clumsy moments they negotiated the mechanics of Artie’s wheelchair until they’d retracted the footrests and Blaine was free to prop Artie’s legs up on a stool. He removed Artie’s loafers and rolled up his pant legs, raising an eyebrow when he found one completely shaven.

            “I’d only thought I was getting a tattoo on the one,” Artie said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

            Blaine was saved the uncomfortable question of how the hell Artie had managed that when he elaborated, “I asked Kitty to do it. I’m kinda a hairy guy. Believe me, it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve asked her to do.” Blaine was really, really starting to like him.

            “Ooh, I like a man with a little hair,” Santana purred, shimmying her shoulders a bit in Artie’s direction. Her client let out a sign of relief, clearly glad for Santana’s momentary distraction.

            Artie hurriedly readjusted his glasses, face flushing. “Erm, I’ve got a girlfriend.”

            “Yeah? Me too.”

            Apparently unsure as to what to make of this, Artie hurriedly changed the subject to Blaine, who was pulling out a protractor kit. “What are those for?” he asked.

            “I’m good, but even I can’t draw a perfect circle,” Blaine said, rifling through the tin and withdrawing circle stencils of varying designs. “So let’s get your other leg taken care of and we can get started. I’m gonna be doing this in black and gray with a bit of blue, that’ll keep the cost down a bit. And it fits better with the design anyway.”

            “Which is?”

            Blaine just grinned at him. “Trust me, wheels, you’re gonna love it.”

            Fifteen minutes later, and multiple measurements taken, Blaine was able to get started. As horrible as it sounded, Blaine was quite relieved for the moment that Artie had now feeling in his legs. He began at the ankle, one of the most painful places to ever get a tattoo. The skin felt very strange, soft but not necessarily healthy. They were white as snow, and skeletal thin. Blaine automatically fit the idea in his head into a thinner, longer model. For such a long limb, he has rather little area to work with. It also felt quite strange to be inking someone so very stationary, and someone who was quite talkative as well. At one point Blaine had to tell Artie very blatantly to shut up before he fucked the ink up. Artie did so without any indication he was affected by the harsh tones Blaine used to say it.

            Two hours later, when Santana had finished the shoulder tattoo on her latest victim, she got up to fiddle with the iPod docked in the sound system. She switched stations, and Kanye West’s booming tones came over the speakers. Artie shouted to her enthusiastically, “Yo, turn that shit up! Kanye’s my boy!”

            Blaine would have normally rolled his eyes in second-hand embarrassment, but strangely the song has some effect on him as he worked on Artie’s legs. A boy, a man, who has thus far spoken of his disability like he was just describing a bad haircut. It’ll grow back. He can make it work. Artie, it seemed, could make anything work.

            “That that don’t kill me, can only make me stronger—“

            Blaine inked away, humming gently under his breath, harder better faster stronger…

            Another three hours later a petit little blond thing came meandering into the shop, just as Blaine was finishing up. “Hey, Wheels McGee.”

            “Yo, baby,” Artie called back, looking over at her and grinning. She had a cold look on her face that softened a tad when she met Artie’s gaze. She had Starbucks in her hand, and Blaine knew immediately she wasn’t someone he’d get along with readily.

            “So you’re Blaine,” she says as she reaches them, leaning down to kiss Artie’s temple while Blaine fiddles with some antibacterial wipes.

            “Hey,” Blaine replies, not really looking at her as he wipes down Artie’s left leg with the cloth. “You came at the right time.”

            Kitty is staring down at Artie’s legs, mouth partly agape, and her boyfriend asks worriedly, “What, does it look alright? He wouldn’t let me look until it was finished, how does it look?”

            “See for yourself, ‘Wheels’,” Blaine says, peeling off his gloves. “It’s done.”

            “Really?” Bright excitement lightens Artie’s fast, a grin crossing across his mouth as he unlocked his chair. Kitty stepped back to let Artie wheel himself towards the window, still staring quietly.

Blaine finally made eye contact with her. She stares at him for a moment in an appraising sort of way, and says, “Well, we didn’t pick the wrong guy.”

Snorting, Blaine finally stood up, groaning as he cracked his back, joints stiff from staying locked in position for so long. He walked to where Artie had stopped in front of the tri-fold full length mirrors, feet dragged lightly on the ground. Artie has used his hands to pull them onto their stands so he could see the full length of his calves.

            The focal point of the tattoo technically began at the ankle, although the tattoo truly spanned the entire length of both his lower legs, from the pads of his feet to his knees. They were essentially blueprints of mechanical wings, complete with pale blue graph lines and notated metric measurements written along the design detailing the actual length and width of some of the pieces, measured exactly by Blaine’s tape measurer. The notes were different on each leg rather than identical to create a more aesthetically unique element. The wings, which whipped up along his leg and to his knee, were industrial in design. There were no feathers, but a fan blades, sheathes of aerodynamic steel flickering out as if ready to take their user to the sky.

            Schematics of wings for the dreamer in the chair. Harder, better, faster, stronger.

            Kitty walked to his side and squeezed his shoulders in a hug, and whispered something into his ear. Artie was awed into silence, trailing his fingers gently over one metallic tipped wing.

            Blaine smiled. It was the silent responses that made something warm in the pit of his stomach glow; made his bones themselves feel somehow lighter, as if they were as hollow as a bird’s.

            It wasn’t even twenty minutes later, and Blaine smelled the coffee before he saw it. He was alone one moment, cleaning up his station after Kitty had paid up front while Artie wrung Blaine’s hand in thanks, and the next an increasingly familiar hand was sliding a cup of coffee into his peripheral vision.

            Looking over his shoulder and expecting one of Kurt’s trademark passive, thoughtful looks, Blaine was surprised to see a vague smile dancing across his lips. “Hey.”

            “…hey.” Kurt was still holding his own coffee, so Blaine felt it safe to assume that this one was for him. Not sure what to follow that up with, Blaine picked it up and took a sip and tasted cream and sugar. Real sugar, thank god. And no obvious hints of arsenic.

            “I assumed how you took your coffee.”

            “This is fine,” Blaine said, a little too quickly. He took another sip to buy himself a moment, and took in Kurt’s look for the day. He was dressed more casually than Blaine had ever seen him, at least in public; pegged jeans, slouchy sweater with an asymmetrical neckline cut deep enough Blaine could see well past his clavicle, and white Converses.

            And then Kurt took a seat in his parlor chair, and Blaine nearly choked on his coffee as around five of his fantasies was reaffirmed for him right before his eyes.

            “I’m here for a tattoo,” Kurt said.

            “What?” Blaine managed to sputter. “You’re serious?”

            “No,” Kurt grinned, laughing at the crestfallen look on Blaine’s face. “My school is nearby, so I thought I’d stop by. With coffee.”

            Blaine tilted his cup in silent thanks, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, causing Kurt to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

            “I saw that man and woman who just left,” Kurt said after a moment, settling himself back into the chair like it was his. Somehow, Blaine didn’t mind. “Who was it that got a tattoo?”

            “Oh, Artie? Yeah, the guy in the wheelchair. He just finished it up.”

            “What was it you gave him?”

            Surprised, but slightly flattered at Kurt’s seemingly genuine curiosity, Blaine picked his Nikon from the table and flicked through the memory. He pulled up a photo of Artie’s left leg, the right clearly reflected in the mirror, and passed it over to Kurt.

            Blaine drank some more of his coffee while Kurt went through the photos. He was quiet for quite some time before he asked, voice oddly muted, “Was it his idea or yours?”

            “Mine,” Blaine replied. “His girlfriend paid for it as a birthday gift. I think he just wanted to be ‘cool’, but… yeah.” Blaine shrugged. “It fit him.”

            “You designed this?”

            “Mhmm.” Blaine was getting a bit distracted. Kurt had his legs crossed, and Blaine could just make out the line of his—

            “Just… on the spot? And he let you?”

            “Are you blind?” Blaine asked, insulted. “That’s a work of fucking art, which I thought preppy little art students might actually appreciate.”

            Kurt railroaded through that like he hadn’t understood the blatant insult. “What made you choose it?” He wasn’t looking at Blaine, but at the camera, at some image Blaine had captured.

            “You mean ‘design’.”

            “Whatever, design then. Just,” Kurt waved a regal hand in the air in a bored fashion as if he was only asking out of politeness sake, but the spark in his eyes as he stared at the camera bellied his interests. “Explain the thought process.”

            “You said you saw him. You say anything to him?”

            “No.”

            “Then it wouldn’t be any use trying to explain it to you,” Blaine sighed, rubbing at his jaw and feeling the stubble prick his palm. “You’d have to know him. That tattoo was him. It was…” He didn’t say anything more on it. It would be futile to explain it to someone who detested what he did like Kurt did. The act of peeling back flesh, finding what was underneath, and drawing it to the surface. To make a person vulnerable and transparent, and in a way, just a bit more mysterious to the eye.

            “You know, you never did tell me why you hate what I do so much,” Blaine pointed out.

            “I told you, I don’t hate what you do,” Kurt said sternly, as he finally turned the camera off and set it aside.

            “Well you hate something about it. What?”

            Kurt didn’t answer, drank his coffee and acted like Blaine hadn’t asked.

            Blaine rolled his eyes. “Look, thanks for the coffee and all, but if you only came here to give me the silent treatment—“

            “I actually came here to ask you… I mean, if you still wanted,” Kurt swallowed some more of his coffee, shifting about adorably, uncrossing his legs and causing Blaine to forget he was supposed to be getting pissed. He suddenly seemed to draw himself up a bit, and he met Blaine squarely in the eye as he asked, “Would you like to grab some drinks with me sometime this week?”

            And that was that.

            Having Kurt Hummel as a friend was very strange. It took a while for Kurt to unpick himself around Blaine, to stop being constantly on the defense. And if he were to be honest with himself, Blaine had to remind himself much of the same quite often in the beginning. But eventually, the little genuine quirks started to shine through, things Blaine loved to pick up in people, to translate into art.

            Kurt kept odd hours, for one. On that day they’d traded phone numbers, and it turned out that Kurt was much more of a texter than a caller. Over the period of the next couple weeks, Blaine lost count to the number of times he’d been waken up at two, three in the morning to the odd text from Kurt (Forbidden fruit creates many a jam, Blaine, to which Blaine had replied, Lecture me on child pornography at a saner hour and go the fuck to sleep). Or else he’d send a series of texts containing song lyrics. He’d done Coldplay one night, and Blaine had woken up with a piano playing in his head (When you feel tired but you can’t sleep; Stuck in reverse) and told him snappily at Kurt later that day that he’d need more super glue than New York could provide for that fix, making Kurt laugh. Often he’d send pictures of the view outside of his window, which Blaine couldn’t help but admire, but never of himself disappointingly enough. Or else he’d take pictures of the way light shadowed the wall, as if filtered through water.

            Kurt has a curious, inventive little mind. That first night they’d gone for drinks had ended up with the two coupled side-by-side in a little corner of the bar, making stories up about their fellow patrons as the barflies just barely clung to their chairs, (“Sorority girl number two,” “Tourist pretending they like this sort of thing,” “Yes people notice he’s gay, except maybe that chick he’s with,” “That would be sorority girl number three.”) Kurt had made their departure very clear just outside the bar, smiling just slightly as he slunk off into the night at two in the morning. Blaine, more than a little buzzed, didn’t feel the need to insist he walk Kurt back. And somehow, walking back alone to his apartment left him feeling more accomplished than if he had company.

            Blaine dragged Kurt over for a Star Wars marathon that weekend when Kurt let it slip he was a fan. Kurt didn’t cozy up to him that time, but he reclined heavily back, relaxed and pliant and comfortable. Blaine tried not to stare too much. He failed, but he made a decent attempt.

            Kurt took Blaine on a tour of the campus one day, which he thoroughly enjoyed. It was a dusty, Victorian-esque place. Dark, shadowed, with filthy light in every ample corner. It smelled like sweat, work, and when Blaine left him after lunch for a midday appointment his hands buzzed so hard for the tattoo gun he could hardly contain himself.

            Kurt didn’t visit Blaine at the tattoo parlor again, which bothered Blaine less than he thought it would. But Kurt seldom inquired after his work. In fact, after asking about Artie’s tattoo, he never asked again. This irked something in Blaine at an unpleasant level for one very obvious reason.

            For the first time, Blaine was taking initiative. He was never the one to go to people; the people came to him. They came for his unique gift with ink, they huddled for his exclusive company, they wanted him there. Blaine was used to being needed, but never to need. It figured that the one person he’d actually try for was showing little sign of wanting to try back.

            Kurt was a musical theater major, and a lot of their conversation focused on Kurt. His classes, the lame ass Glee club he’d joined there, his rivals, his auditions. But Kurt showed little sign of inquiring about Blaine’s own work life. At first, Blaine had assumed it was Kurt’s way of granting him privacy, but now it was beginning to feel more than a little insulting.

            Kurt had his own way of making up for that, though. He listened in a way Blaine had never seen a person do. His eyes focused entirely on Blaine when he spoke, never so much as twitching away or glazing over. He sat with absolute attention, all grace and poise and strength in his chair. Like he felt he was always being watched, so he wanted to show he was paying just as much attention.

            Blaine certainly paid attention.

            Although he made no more physical advances, it didn’t stop his thoughts from straying in the middle of the night. When he woke up hard and aching in the morning, or in the shower in the afternoons, and thought not of those physical assets, although they were ample enough. He thought of smirking, quirked lips, or the way he laughed. Imagined how that laugh would change when in bed, how it would choke off into a groan as Blaine settled into him like he fully intended to stay there and never leave. He thought of Kurt’s long, lovely arms holding his shoulders in, warm and safe. Imagined burying his face into the hollow of Kurt’s breastbone and licking his name there.

            Blaine hadn’t slept with another since meeting Kurt. He didn’t feel the need to. The fantasies left him sated enough to take the perpetual edge off.

            There were other fantasies, of course, that Blaine couldn’t quite shake. When he’d gotten to nearly two months of knowing Kurt, Blaine had run through literally dozens of tattoo possibilities for him with just as many placements. But none quite fit. And none would fit until he saw the skin in front of his eyes, the canvas for his ink. It would be perfect. Anything on that body would be perfect.

            But although Kurt didn’t often express his distaste for tattoos from that day onwards, he certainly didn’t display any interest in them. They spent lazy afternoons at one another’s apartments, legs draped over each other, going through and criticizing each other’s extensive music library but singing along anyway. Met for coffee and for dinner, for late night walks when Kurt was bored and begged for company. To karaoke bars and, to Blaine’s vague dislike, clothing stores where Kurt insisted he get semi-presentable clothes with no holes in them.

            Every now and then, Blaine would catch Kurt staring at his ink. The bowtie, the violin bow, the little red cross on the side of his face, the tiny blackbirds. But he’d look away so fast Blaine wasn’t positive he didn’t imagine it.

            But for now, that was that. And it was enough.

            Blaine didn’t realize it until nearly two months after Kurt first tailed Rachel into his shop. He was taking a short break after his second morning appointment, sneaking a quick cigarette in and calling Kurt. Blaine had wanted to drag Kurt to see Pacific Rim with him over the weekend, but Kurt already had their plans mapped out for the weekend.

            “…and I told Adam we could double-date with him and Elliot, he didn’t tell me where yet but probably Callbacks, so I sort of need Sunday night to rehearse…”

            “Wait.” Blaine suddenly snapped to attention, cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers. “Double-date?”

            “Yes, Blaine,” Kurt said in over-exaggerated patient tones that nevertheless dripped with sarcasm, “it’s when two couples go out and hopefully have an enjoyable afternoon…”

            “Couple?” Blaine choked.

            “Yes, honey.”

            “We’re… a couple?”

            “Well, yes.”

            “Since when?”

            “Since--God I don’t have time for this, I need to get to class. I’ll see you later this afternoon. Are we still meeting at Crazy Mocha?”

            “Um, yeah,” Blaine managed around the abrupt change of subject. “Yeah, I’ll be there.” But in the middle of Kurt’s rushed goodbye, Blaine cut him off again. “Wait, so if we’re a couple, can we like, um. Can I kiss you? Or whatever.”

            Kurt gave a long-suffering sigh. “If you must.”

            And then he hung up.

            Blaine did know how to learn from his mistakes. He went to Quinn first.

            She hadn’t even looked up from her binder when Blaine announced to her, “I have a boyfriend.”

            “You’ve had a boyfriend for nearly two months,” Quinn said tiredly, turning a wary page.

            “Why didn’t anyone fucking tell me?”

            “Because you’re an idiot,” Quinn replied. “You have a couple coming in for those locket tattoos in half an hour. Do you need a Valium or can I trust you to act like an adult and do your job?”

            Santana was twice as useless, although she at least had the courtesy of looking at him in her response.

            “No shit, he’s been your boy for over a month.”

            “Wait, but does this mean we can have sex now? You think he’d--”

            Santana just looked at him. “Oh my god. I’m not surprised and yet I’m still somehow disappointed. Just get out of my face.”

            Blaine stood outside the Crazy Mocha, twisting his hands in an agitated fashion, thinking himself in frantic circles. Couple? They were a couple? Since fucking when, was what Blaine  wanted to know. When Kurt had bought him the first coffee? When Blaine invited him back for a movie that weekend and he hadn’t even tried to get laid (Blaine had heard couples were boring like that)? When they’d exchanged numbers? When?

            And more importantly, how did couples act?

            Blaine was normally quite proud of the fact that’s he’d never committed himself, but now he found his lack of experience in relationships quite detrimental. What was it that made them a couple? Did they have to call each other on a regular basis? How often did they need to text? Who bought dinner, did they split the bill, was he supposed to invite Kurt everywhere with him now? Would Kurt? Was Blaine supposed to kiss him on greeting? With tongue, a peck, what? Was hugging expected?

            This was not what Blaine had signed up for.

            But then there was Kurt, right there, with his perfectly imperfect face and walking up to him in a rush of busy commuters. Impish and glowing, tall and slim and walking to Blaine with a happy little smile on his face. Who had ever looked at Blaine and smiled, like they liked what they saw?

            And it turns out Blaine didn’t have to worry much about whether or not he was allowed to kiss him. Kurt took his face in his hands, leaned down that extra inch he had over him, and kissed Blaine on the mouth, solid and still and warm. It broke something at the bottom of Blaine’s stomach, fused some vital parts of his brain in a discombobulated mess, he barely had the presence of mind to kiss back. Blaine could taste his breath, warm and minty, between the press of dry smooth lips. By his standards, it was the tamest kiss Blaine had ever been given. And it was the single most mild-alteringly sexy, gorgeous thing that had ever happened to him.

            Blaine blinked his eyes open when Kurt drew back, smiling in a way that made Blaine think he’d never stopped. Kurt who was always so very careful with his personal space, with the things he gave, with Blaine. But there was a stiff set to his shoulders, his eyes even more shielded than usual. He didn’t seem to be breathing much. He took Blaine’s hand, jerked it into a nervous swing, and Blaine could feel his fingers tremble a bit as he asked hesitantly, “Buy me a mocha?”

            Blaine blinked for several long moments, didn’t reply in words, but squeezed Kurt’s hand. The trembling subsided, and Blaine led the way into the café so that he could buy his boyfriend a mocha.

            And that was that.