The week leading up to Kurt’s next Tuesday morning shift seems to drag on for years. He tries to keep himself busy by staying late after his Intro to Acting course to help paint sets, trudging through page after page of grammatical theories with Mercedes (“It’s part of the beauty of being a Literature major, Kurt, that I get to tell complete strangers that their sentences look like crap.”) and even went as far as accepting an offer to have lunch with Krestian after class on Friday. With his newly acquired social life and shifts at Java City slowly growing from five hours to seven to nine, Kurt almost forgets about Blaine until his alarm goes off at 6am on Tuesday morning and Kurt is tugging on a dark blue scarf to wear at work (his usually strict managers are at least lenient about the dress code).

He stumbles into the kitchen, limbs still sleep-heavy and uncoordinated, to find Mercedes sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cup of what appears to be black coffee.

“Um, when did you start drinking coffee?” Kurt asks, pulling up a chair next to her and eyeing the mug in her hands; he wonders idly if it’s possible to be sexually attracted to a drink.

“When I started pulling all-nighters to try and finish a ten page paper in less than 24 hours.” Mercedes rolls her eyes and clutches at the mug in her hands like it’s a lifeline and Kurt decides to wait until she’s distracted to take a sip rather than try to pry the coffee from her hands.

Kurt seizes his opportunity when she stands and wraps his long fingers around the ceramic of Mercedes’ favorite brown-speckled mug. It’s smooth to the touch, warm and comforting in his hands. Mercedes heads into the kitchen, gorgeous as ever even in ratty sweatpants and one of Kurt’s over-sized sweaters in the cool morning light.

“I was waiting up for you because I’m about to head to the market down the street for breakfast. I’m thinking bagels. Blueberry okay with you?” she asks, pulling orange juice from the fridge and taking a swig while she waits fro him to answer.

Kurt freezes with the mug halfway to his lips, staring at Mercedes in horror.

“Oh my god,” he says, thinks shit, it’s Tuesday, Blaine, “I have to leave, right now.” He rushes the words out and slams the mug down on the table, drops of dark liquid splashing over its rim.

Mercedes sets the carton of juice down very carefully, “What, did you suddenly grow some kind of aversion to pastries?”

Kurt doesn’t answer, he just grabs his apron from the back of the couch and runs out the door, leaving a confused Mercedes behind him.

___

Kurt gets to work half an hour early, scarf secured around his neck and not a hair out of place after spending those extra 30 minutes fixing his hair in the shiny side of the espresso machine, purposefully ignoring the stares of his coworkers.

He stands behind his register and takes order after order, keeping one eye on the door through every passing hour of his shift. Kurt is sure, positive even that any second now Blaine is going to come through the door and send Kurt a dazzling smile, but the hours pass and it doesn’t happen; 2pm rolls around and Kurt clocks out and shrugs on his coat in a daze, somehow not surprised by the fact that the first guy to come into his life in a way that might head in a promising direction ended up like this.

___

When he gets back to the apartment half an hour later, he tosses his apron into the corner and heads down the hallway to Mercedes’ room. After being snapped back into reality by the embarrassing fiasco of his shift he’s more than ready for a night of 80’s movies and every kind of snack imaginable; maybe even ready to talk to Mercedes about Blaine and the inconvenience of liking a perfect stranger.

“Hey boo, any plans for ton-,” he calls out as he leans in his best friend’s doorway, stopping short when he sees her packing a duffel bag full of clothes and shoes.

“Um, what’s gong on ‘Cedes?” Kurt asks, frowning as she looks up from her task to stare at him as if he’s suddenly grown another head.

“Kurt. Thanksgiving break starts tomorrow, I’m going back to Lima. I’ve been talking about it all week,” she sounds annoyed, but looks concerned and Kurt is shocked. He’s been so busy with school and work that he forgot all about the holidays. It’s so unlike him to not plan towards every available second with his family and he hurries out of the room, fumbling for his phone to call home and apologize.

Kurt makes it to his bedroom and locks the door behind him, just in case Mercedes decides to come by and try to talk about this.

The phone rings three times, four, and then his father’s voice is quiet and familiar in his ear.

“Hey there, kiddo.” Burt sounds happy, if not surprised that Kurt’s calling him, and Kurt suddenly feels like the biggest asshole on the planet.

“Dad, hey,” Kurt says, sitting on the edge of the bed and cradling his head in one hand.

“You coming home this week, son?” It’s obvious by the tone of Burt’s voice that he’s not expecting Kurt to say yes and for some reason that makes Kurt even more upset with himself over the whole situation.

“God, I can’t, I just.” Kurt is rambling, trying to explain himself out of it but Burt takes over.

“Forgot? Hey, it’s okay, kid. We all understand how overwhelming things can get when you start college,” Burt says, soothing, “don’t worry about it.”

“Dad, I forgot about Thanksgiving, how can I not worry about it?” Kurt asks, slowly growing hysterical, “I’m supposed to be home tomorrow helping Carole make pies, not standing around at my stupid job making coffee for a bunch of strangers!”

“Woah, now just calm down Kurt,” Burt says, more reasonable than Kurt can handle given the circumstances.

“It’s too late for me to get the time off from work or I would just book a flight home with Mercedes,” Kurt laments with a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth.

“It’s alright, son,” Burt promises, “You can call us up in a few days on that webcam phone you have on your laptop.”

Kurt laugh is harsh in the quiet room and it settles his mind a little. This is something he would have beaten himself into the ground for a year ago, the guilt eating him alive. But his father’s voice is warm as he launches into a story about Finn and the shop, and Kurt thinks about how close he’s been to losing this simple comfort. If home is where the heart is, then Kurt is beginning to believe that the heart isn’t quite as tangible as he once thought.

___

Mercedes wakes Kurt up early on Wednesday morning to eat breakfast with her before her flight to Lima leaves. She pours him a cup of coffee without saying a word, taking a seat across from him at their tiny kitchen table. There are soft rays of light falling over the counter, bouncing off dirty dishes and shining through the prism Mercedes put in the window on their first night in the apartment together. She had told Kurt then that it reminded her of him: full of every color in the spectrum, the hues hidden from most until under just the right light. He looks at her, sleepy and calm in the early hours of the day and is hit with a wave of gratitude for how little she asks of him, how utterly non-demanding she’s come to be over the years.

“Remember when you offered to buy me fresh bagels and I acted like you just told me McQueen was over?” Kurt asks, apropos of nothing.

Mercedes blinks, stirs her coffee. “Go on.”

“Well I might have met someone. At the shop,” Kurt begins and then, “and I was going to ask for his number on Tuesday.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with bagels?” Mercedes has one eyebrow raised over the brim of her mug and Kurt feels exposed under her gaze.

“Your offered breakfast just happened to be part of his usual order: a blueberry bagel and a medium drip,” Kurt answers, looking resolutely at the table and not Mercedes’ face.

“So it’s been going on for a few weeks and you haven’t told me.” Mercedes says it as a fact and not an accusation, but Kurt still feels a tight vine of guilt twist around his insides at her words.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just didn’t want to jinx it before it even started,” Kurt explains with a shrug. He takes a sip of his coffee but it’s hot enough to burn his tongue. Mercedes is smiling at him like she gets it and the bitter part of Kurt is thinking that there is nothing about this situation that she could possibly understand; it’s the thought that counts, though, so Kurt takes another drink and rearranges his features into something he hopes will show just how grateful he is.

___

Kurt spends Thanksgiving curled up on the couch in front of their too-small television, watching It’s Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown and eating Chinese food from the one restaurant downtown that was open. It’s greasy, heavy in his stomach and does nothing to settle his hollow chest.

When Mercedes gets back in town on Saturday, Kurt is leaning against the counter, covered in flour. It’s relatively early, considering Kurt just made a hundred and fifty muffins and is about to settle into his room and call his dad on Skype. Mercedes sets her luggage on the couch (keeps her purse over her shoulder) and smiles at Kurt, grin spreading across her face at the flour covering him from head to toe.

“Long night?” she asks, pulling off her knitted cap and letting loose curls fall down to frame her face.

“Something like that,” Kurt answers. He isn’t about to explain that channeling his frustration and anxiety into baking has turned out to be a better outlet than he had ever expected. It’s a simple science that he uses to keep from focusing on the jumbled mess inside his head.

Mercedes rolls her eyes and joins him in the kitchen, pulling him close.

“Lima isn’t the same without you, boo,” she says into his soft brown hair, pressing her cheek against his. Her voice is quiet, affectionate, and Kurt really has missed her. Chicago is a big place, and his small attempts at exploring the city while she was gone had only served to make him feel even more lonely.

“This apartment is tiny, but it was still lonely this week,” Kurt admits, winding his arms around her in return.

Mercedes hums in agreement and steps out of his embrace, heading for her bedroom and calling down the hallway, “C’mon, I’ve got a bottle of wine in my bag that has our names written all over it.” She shakes her purse in emphasis and Kurt smiles widely, following after her.

___

Java City is uncharacteristically slow the next Tuesday and Kurt is bored. One of his fellow baristas, Bethany, has been trying to get him to socialize with their co-workers all morning; Kurt met her attempts with various levels of glaring and bitchy eye-rolls until she finally gave up and flounced into the back to stock packets of artificial sweeteners, leaving him alone up front.

Kurt is humming along to the radio and wiping down his register when the bell above the door jingles, signalling the first customer in over half an hour.

He looks up, plastering on a fake smile that quickly morphs into a wide-eyed and blank stare at the boy walking through the door.

It’s Blaine, looking weathered and tired in dark blue slacks and a white sweater peeking out from underneath what appears to be a dark red, cashmere cardigan. His curls aren’t held down by restricting fabric today and bounce lightly with each step he takes. The warm air of the shop hits his cold cheeks and they turn pink, flushed with heat. Kurt’s mouth is dry and he wonders is this is how Cupid's arrow must feel, leaving him starry-eyed and tongue-tied in the presence of what must be the most carelessly beautiful person that Kurt has ever seen. He was gorgeous before as a kind stranger that gave Kurt sincere smiles and quiet laughs, but now he’s a mystery that Kurt wants to unravel. He wants to know what’s causing the bags under Blaine’s eyes and if those curls are as soft as they look.

Small steps, Kurt reminds himself, and calls across the shop, “Good morning, Blaine.”

Blaine, who had been fiddling with the strap on his messenger bag and paying no attention to where he was walking, looks up at Kurt with a surprised smile, “Kurt, hey!”, and promptly runs into a chair, “Jesus, that’s a pointy piece of furniture oh man, my hip.”

Laughter bubbles up through Kurt’s body and he covers his mouth quickly to stifle it. Blaine limps over to him and the grin stretched across his face never falters.

“Hey, your chair tried to shank me,” Blaine whispers, darting his eyes around like it’s listening in on their conversation and waiting to strike again.

“Ah, well it might have missed if you had been paying the slightest bit of attention to where you were going.” It takes a moment, but Kurt realizes that he isn’t trying to reign in his snark and it’s also possible that he’s flirting, which is something he’s pretty much never done successfully in his whole life. He winds his fingers through the dark blue scarf around his neck and smiles, trying to disguise his slight twinge of nervousness.

Blaine just rolls his eyes and Kurt watches as his long eyelashes flutter with the movement.

“Right, well maybe I should just get my coffee and get out of here before any other inanimate objects threaten my life,” Blaine teases, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Hm you’re what, 5’6? It would have barely clipped your lung if it was lucky,” Kurt snaps, knowing full well that it’s a little early to be making such digs at Blaine’s less-than-average stature and feeling too bold to care.

“You wound me, Kurt,” Blaine sulks, placing a dramatic hand over his heart, “and besides, I need my lungs to sing, therefore I need them to make it through school.”

Kurt blinks rapidly and then a wide grin is splitting across his face as he asks, “You sing?”

“I, well yeah, I do. A lot, actually. As often as possible, most days,” Blaine answers, looking at Kurt more seriously, eyes roaming across his face.

“I do too,” Kurt responds, quietly.

Their moment is broken when Bethany calls up from the back, “Kurt where the hell do we keep the Splenda?”

“I’ll be right there,” Kurt answers, waving a hand behind him in Bethany’s general direction.

Blaine is looking at him with soft eyes and Kurt can feel that this one hobby (lifestyle) they have in common has changed something between them. It makes Kurt bold, and he grabs a coffee cup and a sharpie to prepare Blaine’s usual drink.

He picks a fresh bagel from the display and hands it to Blaine before quickly scribbling his name and then, after a brief pause, a tiny heart next to it.

“These are on me today. Have a good day, Blaine,” Kurt says, ignoring Blaine’s attempts to hand him money and turning around to head to the stock room, heart hammering wildly in his chest.

Kurt stops just behind a cooler and peers around it to watch Blaine leave. He’s shaking just slightly, surprised by his own boldness because this is not what he has ever, ever done, but it’s quickly turning into something he could get used to.

Blaine is halfway out the door, though, lifting the cup to his lip when he pauses. When he turns back around to stare at the empty counter, his smile is positively blinding and Kurt feels something akin to hope fluttering around his chest.

___

Kurt is late to work on Thursday morning, so late, in fact, that rather than hang his hunter-green trench coat (a stunning find from a thrift store Mercedes had dragged him to the day before) in the break-room, Kurt simply unbuttons it and takes his place in front of a register, clocking in quickly. It’s two months into the semester and Kurt’s managers have given him his own set of numbers to log into the company’s computer system, rather than having to head into the back office to be clocked in like the rest of his co-workers. Normally it makes him smug and a little cocky, but today he’s just grateful for the time it saves.

He’s up front alone again, as Thursdays are always slow until most of Columbia’s noon classes let out. Kurt spends the first hour of his shift re-arranging the packets of creamer until they’re all sorted by color instead of brand, whistling as he does so. A customer enters the store and Kurt focuses on the clanging of its bells as he tucks the last few creamer packets into place.

“Um, good morning?” a voice asks from the other side of the counter and Kurt swears that his heart has stilled in his chest because he knows the calm timbre of that voice.

“Blaine. Hello,” Kurt says, spinning around to fix his gaze on Blaine’s calm face, “it’s Thursday.”

Blaine blinks, running a hand through his messy curls. The movement causes his cream-colored henley to rise up an inch or so, revealing a solid strip of tan skin. He has a coat draped over one arm and a laptop under the other and god he must be planning to study here. In Java City. While Kurt has to stand behind the counter and try not to spend the rest of his shift hyperventilating.

“It is, yeah. I have my music composition class later this afternoon and I didn’t really feel like working on my assignment for it in my depressingly empty apartment, so here I am,” Blaine says, words sticking together a little in his haste to get them out. There are two spots of color resting high on his cheeks and if Kurt didn’t know better, he would swear that Blaine was blushing. Huh.

Blaine orders his usual and takes a seat by the front window, facing away from Kurt.

Kurt is sliding the bills into his register when a slip of paper falls from between them. He glances at Blaine and frowns, reading the messy scrawl on the paper in his hands.

I have only fingertips to give you,
or eyelashes, or melted pianos,
or dreams that come spurting from my heart.
xo - blaine

And Kurt has no idea what to make of that. He knows the poem, of course he does; Neruda is one of the classic poets of the early 1900s. It’s just that Kurt has never had to face a reality in which nice boys leave him poetry and now that this reality is sitting a few yards away (warm and real and so, so close), Kurt is utterly unprepared for how terrifyingly hopeful he feels.

The shop is still relatively empty, so Kurt writes a quick response on a discarded receipt and grabs a packet of fresh biscotti before busying himself with wiping down tables and chairs throughout the lobby of the store.

When he reaches Blaine’s table, Kurt tucks the receipt underneath the cookies and sets them both beside Blaine, grinning at the grateful nod the boy sends him and his hummingbird heart quiets under the warmth of his smile.

A customer wanders into the shop and Kurt walks away from Blaine, hoping that the confession he’s offering in return (I want to hurtle through the galaxies and find my footing on a moon, push my fingers through the dust and watch it shine against my skin. there are craters in me, carved from times when all I could do was brace myself and hope for the best xxoo kurt) will at least let Blaine have an idea of what he’s getting himself into. It’s a little forward maybe, but Kurt Hummel has never been one for subtlety.

___

The hours pass slowly for Kurt, who tries to focus on the line of customers coming in and out of the store. Mostly he ends up being distracted by Blaine and his lack of reaction. Kurt had watched him unfold the paper and read the words, taking a few long moments to stare at them before running both hands through his hair and re-folding the receipt, setting it aside and getting back to work.

Kurt is beginning to feel so foolish, stupid and shameful for his boldness but he can’t help but get continually distracted by Blaine’s shoulders, strong bones prominent under the thin fabric of his shirt as they flex whenever he moves his arms up to stretch or down to grab something out of his bag. It sends a flaring heat along Kurt’s body and no, that’s it, he is not giving up do easily.

When Kurt’s shift is over at 1pm, Blaine is still hunched over his laptop with headphones on, starting resolutely at the confusing music-editing program before him. Kurt clocks out and waves hello to Bethany, who just came behind he counter to take his place. While she isn’t paying attention he grabs a medium cup and a lid, scribbling something quickly onto the side of the cup and heading for the door. Kurt is going out on the most precarious of limbs, but he’s willing to give this one more shot; tells himself that if this attempt backfires he’ll stop working on Tuesdays, throw himself into his schoolwork and forget about a gorgeous boy with dark curls and a smile that Kurt is sure could outshine the sun.

“Hello? Earth to Blaine?” Kurt sing-songs, stopping next to the boy in question. Blaine jumps a little, startled, and tugs the headphones off.

“Hey, um, are you off already?” he asks, blinking at Kurt rapidly while his eyes adjust to the lighting around him rather than his glaring laptop screen.

“It’s been five hours, Blaine,” Kurt says slowly, concern momentarily overshadowing his nervousness, “anyway, I have to meet my roommate for lunch before her afternoon classes start, but this is for you; it looks like you could use it.”

He sets the cup down next to Blaine’s laptop and smiles at him, waves, and heads for the door.

“Kurt, wait!” Blaine calls, motioning for the boy to come back over. Kurt does, warily, and stands next to him once more.

“Okay, if I don’t do this now then I know I’ll keep chickening out for months, so here.” Blaine hands him a small piece of paper and oh, Kurt must not have been paying enough attention because when did Blaine write him back?

“Just promise you won’t open it until you get home, okay?” Blaine asks, eyebrows raised high above his hopeful eyes.

“I, uh, yes, of course,” Kurt answers, tripping over his words, “and don’t look at that cup until I leave?”

Blaine’s eyebrows knit together but he smiles, nods, and waves a quick goodbye, watching Kurt leave with a relieved sigh. He rubs his eyes and sighs, grabbing his cup from the table, terrified of what might be written on it. He’s braced himself for ‘You’re just not my type’ or ‘sorry, but your taste is coffee is dreadfully boring’ and even ‘have you seen your hair lately? just, no.’

What he isn’t expecting at all is his name written there in neat, loopy script right next to 10 digits and a simple request "Call me?”

___

It’s been four days and Kurt is about twelve hours from resigning himself to the fact that Blaine isn’t going to call.

He had rushed home from work that day to to find a note that was even more confusing than the first one.

so I assume I haven’t scared you away with my extensive knowledge of poetry from the 20’s, and I just wanted to say that I studied astronomy in high school, and the craters are the most gorgeous part of the moon because they showcase its endurance.
p.s - that coat really brings out your eyes.
xo - blaine

The note is now worn around its edges and close to falling into six neat squares from how many times Kurt as folded and unfolded it over the past few days, reading it enough times to have the lines memorized.

Currently, it’s tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants as he’s hunched over the kitchen table and working on set designs for Columbia’s upcoming production of ‘As You Like It’. The director had approached Kurt after rehearsal one afternoon, which Kurt had been sitting in on as a means of inspiration for the week’s assignment in his Intro to Fashion and Design course: approachably ethereal. After looking over his sketches, Mr. Statton had all but begged Kurt to design sets and costumes for the show.

He’s focused on his work, really, but his phone is setting next to his sketchpad and Kurt keeps sneaking glances at it as if willing it to ring with his gaze.

Mercedes comes home during one such stare, exhausted from a long shift at the bookstore, and looks at Kurt knowingly. His back is to her so she takes the opportunity to shake her head and roll her eyes without Kurt snapping at her in return.

“How’s the homework coming, boo?” she asks, stepping around the clutter of DVD cases on and around their couch to come stand next to Kurt.

“I’m amazed by my own genius,” Kurt jokes, shutting his sketchbook and turning to face his friend with a shrug, “I honestly don’t know how Mr. Statton is going to see these and not want to hire me full-time.”

“It sure would beat that lousy job at the coffee shop,” Mercedes jokes, her chuckle fading when she notices that Kurt as gone very still and pale.

“Kurt? You look like you’re about to puke.”

Kurt looks away sheepishly

“Well about that lousy barista job,” he says, letting one hand fall from the table to rest one his thigh over the paper in his pocket, “it’s had some unexpected benefits.”

“Okay boy, is this about your mystery man?” Mercedes asks, pulling a chair up to sit across from Kurt at their too-small table. Kurt had insisted on buying their set of powder-blue chairs from a thrift shop back in Lima, and even though they take up too much space in the already crowded kitchen, they’re perfect for heart-to-heart talks over the kitchen table.

“Yes, it is,” Kurt answers, rolling his eyes to try and distract Mercedes from the blush spreading across his cheeks.

“I think I’ve been pretty damn patient for the past few weeks waiting for you to tell me about this boy, so spill.” Mercedes leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, and Kurt knows that her patience has finally run out, and he can’t put off talking about this for much longer.

“His name is Blaine,” Kurt says, and he can’t contain the grin that glides across his face with the admission. “I’m pretty sure he’s our age or close to it and I gave him my number a few days ago.”

Mercedes’ eyebrows shoot up to her hairline for a moment, then she narrows her eyes in suspicion and uncrosses her arms.

“There’s more to it than that, boo,” she says and Kurt rolls his eyes (he’ll tell her all the sappy and embarrassing details later) as Mercedes keeps talking, “but I guess it’s enough for now. So does my boy have a date soon?”

Kurt is silent and Mercedes frowns.

“I mean, he has called, right?” she asks.

“No, ‘Cedes, he hasn’t called,” Kurt says, “and that is why I’m sitting at home alone on a Saturday with my cell phone next to me at all times because he’s suddenly turned me into a pathetic teenage girl. Which is impressive, considering he’s accomplished in a few days what took Finn months.”

Mercedes stares at him after his rant and reaches a hand across the table for his.

“Hey, don’t get like that, it’s just one boy,” she says, encouraging, but Kurt just shakes his head.

“Right, because guys have just been throwing themselves at me all these years,” he scoffs.

“Stop right now, Kurt Hummel,” Mercedes scolds, “I am not throwing you a pity party.”

Kurt sags a little in his chair and nods, “I know, I’m sorry. I just really thought he liked me, but it’s not like this is the first time I’ve misread the signals.”

Mercedes sighs as Kurt stands up, gathering all of his things to head back into his room. As he’s tucking his sketchpad under his arm, his cell phone begins to vibrate wildly against the table. Kurt freezes and stares at the device as nervousness hits him again. It’s probably just his dad calling to check up on him, or a stupid chain text from Puck, but then Mercedes is reaching across the table to pick up the phone and she grins at him.

“It’s a local number,” she says, holding the phone out for Kurt to take. He takes a deep, calming breath before sliding his finger across the screen and accepting the call.

“Hello?” Kurt asks, and scolds himself mentally for how breathy his voice is.

“Hey, um, Kurt?” a quiet, warm voice asks. Kurt smiles, quick and wide because he knows that voice.

“Blaine, hi,” Kurt answers, shooting a glare at Mercedes, who is shimmying in her seat and pumping her fist in the air.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t call sooner, school has been rough lately and I didn’t want to call until I had plenty of time to devote to a conversation with you,” Blaine says and the sincerity in his voice makes something go soft and warm in Kurt, spreading a calm heat all the way to his fingers.

“Well lucky you, I have nothing to do today but talk,” Kurt responds, completely aware of how flirty he’s being and way too happy in this moment to care.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, “lucky me.” Kurt can hear the smile in Blaine’s voice and it washes over him like a cool breeze, refreshing and calm.

Kurt winks at Mercedes and heads to his room, listening with a smile as Blaine starts talking once more.