e X e X e

"How's that, Mr. Rinaldi?"

Kurt Hummel, tape measure in hand, peered up at his middle-aged client, waiting for an answer. Gerry Rinaldi was one of Seattle's heaviest-hitting art dealers, and Kurt was the only person he trusted to pick out suits for him. As a bonus to his highest-profile clients, Kurt performed any alterations necessary. Between his impeccable taste, sharp wit, and complimentary alterations, Kurt was the most sought-after personal stylist and shopper the Nordstrom franchise had to offer—not just in Seattle, but anywhere in the country.

"Fantastic," the balding man said, turning around with a flourish and grinning at Kurt. "You're the best, kid." Mr. Rinaldi slapped Kurt's shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie, but Kurt winced and rubbed the spot gingerly when his client's back was turned. Man's got large hands.

"See you soon, sir."

Mr. Rinaldi gave Kurt a little wave as he strolled out of the small room in his new suit, whistling an unintelligible tune. Kurt smiled to himself. Handling the most eccentric of Seattle's crème de la crème came with the territory of being the best, but Kurt loved his job. His design degree from Cornish College of the Arts hadn't garnered him the fashion line he'd hoped for, but he truly loved what he did. His dream hadn't died; it'd just been...reworked. He'd had to do it once before, after the nodes.

Kurt's life after high school, he supposed, could be compartmentalized into two separate boxes: "before the nodes" and "after the nodes."

Before the nodes, Kurt dreamed of Broadway, of his voice taking him to places he'd dreamed about in childhood. He dreamed of the bright lights of New York City falling down around him like a soft blanket.

Then came the nodes; the product of too much singing in too short a time. He'd been overworking himself as the star member of Seattle Academy's Vocal Jazz Ensemble andthe star of the theatre department, and he'd known it, but he just couldn't stop. He felt an intrinsic, all-consuming need to share his voice with the world.

After the nodes, Kurt had thrown himself into his other love: fashion. He applied, and gained admission, to Cornish, where he spent four years earning a BFA in fashion design. He'd applied for a job as a personal stylist-slash-shopper at Nordstrom in his freshman year, hoping to rake in enough cash to start the fashion design career his Broadway dream had metamorphosed into. Unfortunately, he just couldn't get it off the ground, and four years later, he'd risen to the top of the personal-stylist ranks...but had next to nothing to show for his years of hard work.

Nevertheless, he'd learned to love his job until the love became genuine and natural. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

"Hey, bitch. It's 12:30. Did you get my text?" hollered a voice from the other side of the door.

Ah, Santana, Kurt thought to himself. Ever so polite, as always.

The door to the alterations room opened, and Kurt's best friend marched in like a wartime general in spike heels. He let his lips curve into a small smile as she stood in front of him, waiting impatiently for an answer.

"Hummel!" she shouted. "Did you or did you not receive my text message?"

Nonchalantly, Kurt pulled his white iPhone out from the pocket of his immaculate charcoal pants. He made his way to the messages section and, sure enough, was greeted with a cheery message from Santana, timestamped 12:03.

Queen Bitch: I need a caffeine fix. Found a new place on 7th and pike. Accompany me?

(She'd named herself in his phone, okay?)

Kurt sighed, walking the few steps over to her and linking his arm with hers.

"Where to, Queen Bitch?"

Santana grinned. "Follow my lead."

e X e X e

"It's called Incandescent Coffee," Santana explained as they walked the short distance from the Nordstrom flagship store to Seventh and Pike. Kurt looked up at her; in those heels, she had a good three inches on him. "It just opened. My sources tell me there's a hot barista...for me, not you."

Kurt chuckled; Santana had been jonesing for some company of late. The reason she'd taken such care to find a good new coffee shop for them was the unfortunate fact that her ex-girlfriend, Shelby, worked at the Starbucks across the street from Nordstrom. "Well, there are surely ten thousand hot male baristas in this metropolitan area; I'm sure there'll be at least one at...Incandescent Coffee. What is that name?" Kurt let out a laugh, and Santana laughed with him.

"No idea, babe," she replied, "but here we are." She held the door open for Kurt, who smiled gratefully and walked in to join the line.

Incandescent Coffee was pretty spacious; four stylish exposed-brick walls, lots of local art, and old-fashioned chalkboard menus. The offerings were handwritten in a loopy scrawl not unlike Santana's—the difference being that the menu writer's handwriting was legible.

Kurt perused the menu up and down. "This one's on me, Tana," he mumbled. "Go romance your hot barista."

Santana kissed him on the cheek, wrapping her arms around him and squealing in delight. "Love you, Hummel. Remember—"

"Four shots of espresso in a cup," he chuckled. "Santana Lopez, I know you."

She smiled that pearly white smile, skipping off to secure them a spot. As Kurt got closer to the front of the line, he noticed a tall, burly guy with a mohawk and a smaller guy with a baby face, but no one female.

Kurt had initially been dead set on trying something new, but eventually decided on his usual grande nonfat mocha. Mohawk Man appeared to be on register duty, and the elderly woman in front of Kurt was taking forever.

"Um, I can help who's next!"

Finally, Kurt snarked to himself, following the voice to the other cash register. He took his wallet out immediately, slapping his debit card down on the table. "Um, yeah, I'll have a grande nonfat mocha and—" He looked up, and suddenly, any train of thought Kurt Hummel had going was shot to shit.

This was the hot barista. Maybe not the hot barista Santana had been talking about—he was male, thank God—but...for real, this was the most gorgeous man Kurt had ever seen. He had dark brown hair, tamed with just a little gel to give it some oomph. His eyes, framed with the longest, darkest, lushest eyelashes ever, were a deep, exquisite, honeylike shade of brown. His skin was tan and flawless. His lips curved perfectly, and Kurt wanted to kiss them, to bite them. And his teeth, visible through his smile, were whiter than the squares of gum being sold next to the register.

"Grande nonfat mocha and...?"

A few seconds passed before Kurt snapped out of his trance. Looking into the barista's eyes had been a shock to his heart, and it took him a while to recover.

"Oh...sorry. Um. Grande nonfat mocha and, uh, four shots of espresso in a cup." Kurt gave a flirty little chuckle. "My best friend's the worst caffeine addict you ever saw."

The barista laughed, marking the two cups with a black Sharpie. "Four shots in a cup. Wow. Can't say I've ever heard it referred to like that before. Can I get your name?"

Kurt flushed. "Oh. Um, I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel."

Oh. He meant for the cup, you idiot.

Luckily for him, Blaine didn't roll his eyes or snort a laugh. He just chuckled, and—is that a blush?

"Well, Kurt Hummel," the barista said, "I'm Blaine."

Both Kurt and Blaine looked down at Blaine's nametag at the same time. It read "BLAINE" in giant, handwritten bubble letters. So stupid, Kurt. How'd you miss that?

"Oh, uh, but I guess you already knew that," Blaine stammered.

"I didn't," Kurt blurted out. "Your eyes are a little distracting, Blaine..."

"Anderson," Blaine replied, a bright, sunshine smile on his sunshine face. "And I could say the same for you."

Kurt honestly wasn't counting how long he and Blaine stared into each other's equally distracting eyes, but they didn't break away until a businessman a few people behind Kurt cleared his throat impatiently. Kurt ducked his head and bit his lip, stifling his laughter. He could tell Blaine was doing the same as he tallied the amount on the cash register.

"That'll be five seventy-six, Kurt Hummel." Blaine winked.

"So much cheaper than Starbucks," Kurt wisecracked.

"We try," Blaine replied, smiling. He picked Kurt's debit card off the counter, printed his receipt, and winked again as he muttered "looks like the natives are getting restless. Drinks'll be at the bar, Kurt."

"Have a good one, Blaine," Kurt called as he walked away.

"You, too," he heard behind him.

Santana was waiting at the table she'd snagged. "Damn, Hummel," she swore. "Taylor the Latte Boy couldn't get enough of that ass. I watched those sweet little puppy-dog eyes follow it all the way over here." Out of Kurt's view, Santana caught Blaine's attention, winking and waving to him. Kurt could only hope Blaine wouldn't forever associate him with his lunatic best friend. Sometimes, he wondered why he kept her around.

"He was not," Kurt insisted.

"Mm-hmmm." Santana rolled her eyes. "You should come back here tomorrow and order a quadruple venti his tongue in your mouth." She squealed and clapped her hands. "Or his dick!" she exclaimed entirely too loudly for their surroundings.

"Santana!" Kurt whisper-shouted. "We are in public!"

"I have a grande nonfat mocha and...four shots of espresso in a cup...for Kurt?"
Babyface called out their orders in an Irish accent—ostensibly real—and Kurt took the opportunity to gather his thoughts without a she-devil next to him, offering him all manner of terrible ideas. He'd come back, of course...assuming Blaine was there.

e X e X e

"Ayo, Cohen-Chang!" Santana shouted as soon as she and Kurt arrived back at work. She didn't even know if Tina Cohen-Chang, their coworker and friend, was around—that was just the kind of person Santana was. She took every opportunity to command a room with high decibel levels and menacing grins.

"Yeah?" called a voice from the back room. Moments later, Tina emerged, wearing a knee-length ruffled black dress. That was just the kind of person Tina was—all black, all day, every day. She was convinced that black was the only color in which she looked decent. She was wrong—she looked beautiful in many colors—but there was just no convincing her.

"Kurt met a guy," Santana revealed, clapping her hands in delight. "And, from what I could get out of him, he's the anti-Sebastian."

"Good," Tina commented. "Kurt, we don't want another Sebastian."

"I love that the number-one factor in my relationships is what the two of you want," Kurt deadpanned.

He didn't want another Sebastian Smythe, either, of course—his ex-boyfriend was the slimiest of the slimy. Ironic, considering the fact that he was studying to be a lawyer. After three years together—two of which were spent shacking up together—Kurt discovered Sebastian in their bed, balls-deep in some douchebag "from school." His ass was thoroughly dumped and evicted by the next morning.

(Kurt's name was on the mortgage; victory is so, so sweet.)

Sebastian still hung around their old haunts, but for the most part, he and Kurt managed to avoid each other. It was just as well; Sebastian was the textbook definition of a scumbag, and Kurt would forever be kicking himself for taking three years to realize it.

"How did you meet him?" Tina asked, beckoning Kurt and Santana to the couch, on which they all sat down together.

"He's—"

"He was the barista at the new coffee place we went to for lunch," Santana interjected.

"Does he like you, too?"

"I couldn't really—"

"Yeah," Santana answered on Kurt's behalf. "They flirted verymutually, and he couldn't keep his eyes off Kurt's ass."

"What's his name?"

"Uh..." For once, Santana couldn't interrupt. Kurt hadn't told her his name.

"His name is Blaine," Kurt said slowly, savoring the sweet word on his tongue. "Blaine Anderson."

"That's a sexy name," Santana commented. "You should totally bang him."

"Agreed," said Tina. "With a name like that, you can't pass it up. Blaine Anderson. Damn."

"I'd hit that, and I don't even like dick," Santana chimed in.

"I do," Kurt replied mischievously, winking at the two girls. Maybe, just maybe, they actually had a point.

e X e X e

Kurt felt absolutely pathetic as he dragged himself into Incandescent Coffee the next morning. He might not even be gay. Stop obsessing.

He waited in line behind the rest of the uncaffeinated masses, only to be rung up by a pretty girl wearing obscenely expensive earrings. She seemed perfectly fine, but...she wasn't Blaine. After wrestling with his mind about it, he decided to ask her.

"Um, is Blaine working today?"

She looked at him sympathetically. "Nope. Sorry, honey. Today's his day off. But, uh, I'm Sugar! Sugar Motta."

Charmed by her forwardness, Kurt returned her bright smile and shook the manicured hand she'd extended to him. "Kurt Hummel."

"Well, Kurt, your grande nonfat mocha comes to two seventy-six," she responded, "and I will tell Blaine you stopped by!"

Kurt said goodbye to Sugar, waited for his drink, and left the shop with a mocha in his hand and a smile on his face. I'll just have to come back tomorrow.

e X e X e

When Kurt arrived at his studio apartment near the Market that evening, following early drinks at the Re-Bar with Santana, he settled in with his computer and a marathon of Sex and the City reruns. He refreshed his e-mail—a few appointment confirmations from clients, a funny cat video from Finn—until he saw an e-mail address he didn't recognize.

From: Will Schuester, Fifth Avenue Theatre (wschuester@5thave.org)
To: Kurt Hummel (kurtehummel@normail.com)
Subject: We want you.

Dear Kurt,

We at the Fifth Ave are known for recognizing and nurturing talent. You'd know this, of course, having been nominated for five Fifth Avenue High School Theatre awards—and winning four of them—during your high school career. Yes, we remember you.

And we want you, Kurt. We've got a brand-new musical on our hands, written by a fellow Fifth Ave award winner, that we believe could just maybe make it to Broadway—but we need you to help us out. As you know, you produced Meet Me In St. Louis at Seattle Academy of Arts and Sciences, a production that opened to critical acclaim from some of the most trusted theatre reviewers in Seattle.

You have a gift, Kurt Hummel, and we want to utilize it.

What do you say? Will you produce, develop, and stage this musical with us?

Hope to hear from you soon,

Will Schuester

Well, Kurt already knew the answer to that one. He needed back into the theatre world. He was a shell without it, and that fact had never been more apparent than it was as he read Mr. Schuester's e-mail over again.

From: Kurt Hummel (kurtehummel@normail.com)
To: Will Schuester, Fifth Avenue Theatre (wschuester@5thave.org)
Subject: Re: We want you.

Yes.