Kurt’s first phone conversation with Blaine had lasted well over two hours, and over the course of that call Kurt learned a few very important things about Blaine. For one, his last name is ‘Anderson’ and he’s from Westerville, OH, just an hour or so outside of Kurt’s hometown of Lima. Blaine had been just as surprised as Kurt to realize that they grew up so near each other (and both were members of rival Glee clubs, no less) without ever crossing paths. Kurt failed to mention that it was probably for the best; he would be the first to admit that he was purposefully difficult to be close to throughout his high school years. He likes to think that he’s been getting better about it, about not automatically assuming the worst in people before he gets himself hurt.

Years of bullying, almost losing his father twice and Rachel’s sudden but inevitable betrayal during the Student Council President fiasco during his senior year helped Kurt form a very thick skin, one that even Mercedes has trouble getting through on his worst days. And it doesn’t even matter, really, that Dave has since moved in with a nice guy from West Lima or that Burt is doing so well or that Rachel worked her way onto Kurt’s good side once more, because the foundation had already been laid; trust is not something a lot of people get from Kurt Hummel, but it’s quickly becoming something he wants to give to Blaine.

Blaine, who is a year older than Kurt and a performance major with a concentration in musical theater at Columbia. He lives alone in a brownstone a minute’s walk away from the main section of Columbia’s campus, and when he isn’t writing or performing or turning Kurt’s world upside down with a smile he spends a lot of time in Millennium park, people-watching or picking out tunes on his favorite guitar to the amusement of strangers and other, more established street performers.

“Though I don’t think I’m a legit street performer yet, since I’m not always good and I never get paid,” Blaine had mused, causing Kurt’s heart to jump at the quiet chuckle that followed Blaine’s words. Blaine could be a mime for all Kurt cares at this point.

Kurt wants anything Blaine will give him, a friendship or a kiss or someone to bring home to meet his family. How much he wants those things is what worries Kurt; he doesn’t do this- long for things he can’t have.

He’s getting ready for bed on Sunday night when his phone buzzes with a text from Blaine.

From: Blaine Anderson
this composition is kicking my ass and I’m delirious from not sleeping, so hey and goodnight. I guess.

And then another message right after.

From: Blaine Anderson
sorry for the pointless text. I dunno if we’re at the stage in this friendship for that to have come across as endearing or pathetic. night.

Kurt laughs, presses his fingers to his lips and thinks that maybe the things he wants won’t have to be mutually exclusive.

___

Mondays are a pain in the ass for Kurt. Mondays are a pain in the ass for a lot of people, he supposes, but trudging along a crowded Chicago sidewalk in the windy cold after class to a closing shift at Java City makes Kurt feel miserable. Miserable enough to think that his beginning-of-the-week suffering is a cut above all the rest. It’s a gorgeous afternoon, falling leaves forming warm-color palettes across the ground below Kurt’s feet. Usually watching the leaves swirl up around the steps of the passersby would inspire Kurt to sketch a flowing gown or hum a spontaneous melody, but instead Kurt finds himself looking forward to a warm mocha once he gets to work.

Kurt turns the corner and breathes a sigh of relief at the familiar neon sign announcing ‘fresh coffee!’ that lights up the window of Java City and pushes through its double doors, immediately placing his bag on the nearest table and peeling off his coat. He’s sorting through the folders and papers stuffed into his bag for his apron and nametag when there’s a tap on his shoulder, causing him to yelp and spin around.

“What the he- oh.” Kurt’s hands flutter uselessly at his sides as the papers he was holding fall to the table behind him.

Standing in front of him, grinning sheepishly, is Blaine. There’s a dark brown newsboy cap perched on his head, hair curling out around his ears and while it’s not the kind of look that Kurt would normally be into, the hat matches an obviously expensive vest. Kurt wants to push his hands underneath it and slide his palms over the smooth fabric of Blaine’s shirt, curve down his waist and press cold fingertips against skin-warm fabric.

Kurt can’t do any of these things, obviously, and a light blush covers his cheeks out of embarrassment for the thoughts he’s having. He’s kissed a boy or two; let them touch him, tipsy at West Lima’s lone gay bar in the sticky heat of the previous summer when he decided that moving to Chicago without ever kissing a boy on his own terms would be pretty pathetic, even by his normally chaste standards. Touching those boys didn’t make him feel anything other than the dull ache of lust during and sharp points of shame after, and he doesn’t know what to do with all of the affection he already feels toward Blaine after such a short time.

“Hey, Kurt,” Blaine says, ignoring Kurt’s silence. He’s smiling, he’s always smiling, but it’s uneven and small. Kurt frowns for a moment and then he blinks rapidly as it hits him that Blaine is nervous.

There are so many things that Kurt could answer with, charming smiles and witty remarks, but what comes out of his mouth instead is “It’s not Tuesday.”

Blaine’s frown tilts up into an affectionate line, and Kurt is silently relieved.

“I know,” Blaine says, biting at his lower lip, “but I figured it might be nice to stop by and say hello when you aren’t expecting it. Again.”

Kurt wants to reach out and trace the nervous curve of Blaine’s lips but he can’t, he knows. His hands feel foreign, heavy and unnatural as if they don’t belong to his body anymore and Kurt doesn’t know what to do with them so he lets them hang uselessly as sides.

“Besides that, I want to ask you a question,” Blaine says, looking up at Kurt through his eyelashes and running one hand along the smooth top of his hat. It’s a move so effortlessly charming that Kurt wastes a second or two on the sudden realization that Blaine probably has no idea of how endearing he really is. Or maybe other people just aren’t as easily affected by Blaine’s kind eyes as Kurt is.

“Oh? Well ask away.” Kurt smiles and waves his hands around awkwardly, a stuttering laugh working its way from his throat. Blaine is staring at him, but with a tinge of affection around the corners of his eyes and it helps Kurt relax.

“Okay,” Blaine laughs, clasping his hands together and continuing to speak, “I made the mistake of mentioning you to my nosy, overbearing best friend, Santana, an-.”

“Wait,” Kurt interrupts, “ Did you meet her back in Ohio, by any chance?”

Blaine pauses, confused. “Um yeah, actually. Why?”

Kurt laughs, a sudden bubble of sound that makes Blaine raise his eyebrows.

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, but you’re talking about Santana Lopez, right?” Kurt asks and then, when Blaine nods, “I know her! I went to high school with her.”

Blaine’s eyes grow comically wide and he laughs a little hysterically, “Wow, it really is a small world after all.”

Kurt remembers Sam being sent to spy on Dalton during their junior year with Santana tagging along and it dawns on him that they must have met then and stayed friends over the years. He and Santana have never been very close, and it would have been easy for her to be friends with Blaine without Kurt ever knowing.

“I haven’t seen her since our graduation,” Kurt says, “but you told her about me?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mention your name specifically.” Blaine is blushing and the sight of it drops warm stones of affection into Kurt’s stomach- the urge to reach out and touch is quickly becoming a problem.

“Actually, she’s never mentioned you before,” Blaine says, head titled in curiosity. The action reminds Kurt of some kind of puppy, a Corgi maybe with short legs and endless enthusiasm.

“We weren’t exactly close in high school, so that’s not a huge surprise for me.”

Blaine shrugs, looking awkward once more.

“Anyway, you were asking?” Kurt says, breaking the silence between them.

“Right, um, Santana is working at the YWCA, teaching jazz dance lessons and she has a recital this Saturday,” Blaine says, rushing together his words, “and she wants me to bring you as my plus one.”

Kurt finds himself speechless in Blaine’s presence once more. He stares at Blaine with his mouth open, wide-eyed in the face of such an unexpected announcement.

“But it’s only if you want to, I mean I would really like for you to come with me but you don’t have to, really.” Blaine is rambling and obviously uncomfortable, the tips of his ears turning red form embarrassment as he continues with, “I thought it might be nice, though, if you wanted.”

“Blaine, you’re freaking out,” Kurt says, trying to sound like he isn’t having an internal freak-out of his own.

“I know, I’ve just really enjoyed getting to know you and I’d like to keep getting to know you. Santana’s ideas usually end up with one or both of us in some kind of awful situation, but this one seems pretty safe.” Blaine shrugs like it’s not a big deal and says, “Maybe we could go to lunch before, if you want?

Kurt stays silent for a moment to watch Blaine’s face. He looks like the poster child for composure with his calm eyes and warm smile, but as the silence thins itself between them, Kurt can see a flicker of worry at the points of Blaine’s grin, the smallest twinge of nerves at the corner of his eye.

“Blaine, there is nothing I would enjoy more than to accompany you to lunch and what promises to be an exciting trip down memory lane,” Kurt finally answers, trying and failing to keep the excitement out of is voice.

The smile Blaine sends him is a supernova, the sheer magnitude and closeness of it burns along Kurt’s skin, fades into a blush that reaches the tips of his ears. He tries to reason with himself because Blaine is attractive and sweet and Kurt knows that being those things doesn’t automatically make him gay, and it certainly doesn’t mean he would be interested in Kurt, what little he has to offer. But Blaine also wears Burberry scarves and dress shoes with no socks which, coupled with his history in show choir, has to make him bisexual; at least if Kurt’s experience with classmates and late-night hookups is anything to go by.

“Great, so can I pick you up at three o’clock? The recital doesn’t start until six and I know this great little dive a couple blocks away from the the studio,” Blaine suggests, still with that air of calm disinterest that would make Kurt uneasy if it weren’t for the relief that is coming off of him in waves, strong enough that Kurt is sure he could see it itching under Blaine’s skin were he to look close enough.

“Sure, um, I can text you my address later?”

Blaine nods quickly and it sends his hat askew, a few more curls falling out of place. Like most little things about Blaine, Kurt can’t help but find it endearing. He wants to press his fingers through the loose curls and push them back behind Blaine’s red-tipped ears, fold a hand around Blaine’s waist and squeeze just slightly, affectionately. It’s not the kind of thing that Kurt usually focuses on when it comes to men. Kurt is barely twenty years old and he has had men force their hands through his hair and up his shirt and down his pants. Kurt has wanted it but only in the way that someone wants to ride a roller coaster with nothing locking them in or go diving without an oxygen tank: to see if they can survive and have the scars to prove it. Kurt wears these memories of other men as a badge on his sleeve, a noose around his neck.

Kurt pushes the thoughts down and lets them settle against his ribs, smiles at Blaine like he means it (and he does, really, he just doesn’t know what that means).

“I have to clock in now, um, do you have class later or are you going to hang around here again?” Kurt asks, gathering up his papers and stuffing them into is bag before heading

Blaine follows and Kurt can feel his warm gaze on the back of his neck, imagines it sliding down to time the cant of his hips.

“Class, in an hour or so. I should probably head out.” Kurt is behind the counter now and he’s blushing, frazzled and frayed around the edges. Blaine is looking at him like Kurt is some sort of puzzle box to be opened and figured out, arranging ropes and sliding rings of metal until the lock clicks open.

“Good luck! I’ll text you later, I promise,” Kurt says and his shoulders slump down in disappointment or relief when Blaine starts to step away. He waves at Kurt, sends him a smile and turns to head back out the door.

Kurt is wiping down the counter, blush still firmly in place, and dragging the cloth back and forth over the same few inches of marble while staring at Blaine’s retreating form, letting a goofy grin sneak over his face.

___

“How the hell did you go from moping over this guy during all hours of the day to tearing your closet apart for this date?” Mercedes sounds like she’s torn between impressed and worried as she fires off questions. Kurt is sitting on the floor in a pair of black briefs and a white undershirt, digging through the piles of boots in the bottom of his closet.

“I told you, ‘Cedes, he came into work a few days ago and asked me out, the end.” Kurt mumbles his answer, pulling out a pair of black, artfully worn-in, doc martens and standing to toss them on the bed.

“Nothing about that explanation is gonna cut it this time, Kurt, and you know it.” She dodges the boots from her seat on the edge of Kurt’s bed and reaches for his wrist, forcing him to turn and meet her eyes.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Kurt fidgets slightly in her grip and he looks caught, guilty.

“Remember when we sent Sam and Santana to spy on the Dalton Academy Warblers?” he asks, raising one delicate eyebrow for emphasis.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with Bl- oh my God,” Mercedes cuts herself off and her eyes go wide. Her grip on Kurt’s arm goes loose in surprise and Kurt pulls away, backing against the wall like a trapped animal under her gaze.

“I know, right?” Kurt says, dropping his head down so the rest of his words come out muffled, “Well Santana happens to be Blaine’s best friend, and she has some recital tonight and she told Blaine to invite me.”

Mercedes’ eyebrows fly upwards and her shocked expression shifted down into an entirely unamused frown.

“We are talking about the same girl, right?”

Kurt rolls his eyes and forces out a chuckle.

“The very same, I’m afraid. However...,” Kurt says, pausing just long enough to make Mercedes glare.

“I don’t trust this, Kurt,” she says, “I know it’s been over a year since any of us have seen her, but I doubt she wants to get all hunky-dory and close with you just because Blaine is her best friend. That’s too selfless.”

“Well about that,” Kurt starts, turning to focus on a nick in the wallpaper to avoid her eyes, “he hasn’t told her much about me, including my name, so she doesn’t know that I’m me. But it must mean something that he talks to his best friend about me, right?”

“It would if his best friend was anyone other than Santana, oh my god!” Mercedes’ hands fly up to cover her eyes and she groans, loud and frustrated. “Everything about this is a bad idea, Kurt. You’re letting Blaine lead you into the lion’s den!”

Kurt tries to sputter out a response but Mercedes cuts him off.

“Did you at least warn him? Did you tell him anything at all about your history with her?”

Pushing himself away from the wall and flopping over onto the bed, Kurt sighs and mumbles, “No, Mercedes, I didn’t,” into the comforter.

“It wasn’t that bad with her anyway,” Kurt reasons, raising a hand up as Mercedes sits next to him and opens her mouth once more, “no, don’t even start. She certainly wasn’t nice to me, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she wasn’t nearly as bad as she could have been, and once she finally got together with Brittany, we reached a sort of mutual understanding about each other.”

“But then she high-tailed it out of Lima when they broke up and cut all ties to any of us,” Mercedes counters, running a hand through Kurt’s hair.

“A lot can change in a year, ‘Cedes. I mean, look at me. At beginning of my senior year I was hell-bent on moving to New York with Rachel Berry and here I am in Chicago with you, about to go to a dance recital for Santana Lopez, with a guy I’ve only known for a month. It’s like I’m living in an alternate universe, “ Kurt says, nuzzling up into Mercedes’ hand.

“Yeah,” Mercedes murmurs, pulling her hand back and standing to study Kurt’s closet, “and this dance recital could turn into your first actual date.”

Kurt goes still on the bed, staring at Mercedes in horror. “Why did you have to make me aware of that, Mercedes. What did I ever do to you?” He whines pitifully into a pillow and Mercedes allows him a moment of uninterrupted freaking out before pulling him up from the bed to pick out an outfit. Kurt huffs but allows himself to be dragged to his feet.

“I was just fine not thinking about the implications of this,” Kurt says, pulling a sweater off the hanger and holding it up to his torso, “I mean, this is probably just his way of saying thank you for the free coffee and weird poetry and long conversations about nothing.”

Mercedes raises an eyebrow at his words and waves a hand at the sweater, handing him a three-quarter sleeve top in white with a vest hanging off her arm.

“You know that’s how a lot of dates end up, right? Minus the poetry, usually,” she says as Kurt pulls the shirt on and looks through a stack of jeans for the pair of dark-wash skinnies that he knows is in there somewhere.

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard myths of these so-called ‘dates’,” he says, sarcasm fully intact, “but they don’t happen to me. And unless he shows up here with a bouquet of roses in one hand, holding up a boom-box with the other, I refuse to see this as anything other than two friends getting together for lunch and a show.”

Mercedes rolls her eyes at him but can’t help but to laugh at his words. “Well if the boy can carry a boom-box down Lakeshore Drive without someone punching him in the face or pushing him into the lake, then he deserves a medal.”

Kurt glares at her and pulls the vest from her arm.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Mercedes. I certainly won’t be.”

___

When Kurt opens the door two hours later, hair styled impeccably and legs looking better than ever in the jeans he finally found (at the very bottom of the pile), Blaine is standing on the landing with a single carnation in one hand and his iPod in the other, idly scrolling through songs.

Mercedes comes to stand behind Kurt and, seeing the items in Blaine’s hands, she doubles over in laughter, clutching at the couch to steady herself.

Blaine finally looks up, startled and frowning as Kurt stifles his own laughter. It’s not roses and a boom-box, but it’s enough either way and Kurt is kind of amazed at the big mess of coincidences that his life is turning into.

“It’s the shoes, isn’t it? I knew oxfords were a little much with jeans,” Blaine says, his voice doing nothing to betray the hurt that’s slowly flowing into his eyes.

“I’m sorry Blaine, it’s not you, we just had a conversation while I was getting ready and I guess Mercedes still hasn’t gotten over it,” Kurt says as she comes to stand next to him. Kurt stares daggers at her but there’s no venom behind it; it had been pretty hilarious and, under any other circumstance, the two of them would be rolling around on the floor right now.

Blaine looks unconvinced but his eyes soften and he puts his iPod in the front pocket of his dark red cardigan, extending one hand for Mercedes to take. She stares at him and glances at Kurt warily before placing her hand in his, surprised when he turns it over and bows forward a little.

“Hello, it’s great to meet you; Kurt mentions you every five minutes,” Blaine says, sending Mercedes a smile that renders her speechless. She looks at Kurt with her eyebrows raised as if to say, “you didn’t tell me he was actually a nice guy”. Kurt avoids her, inviting Blaine in.

“I’d love to, Kurt, but we’re actually running kind of late for the reservations I made.” He holds out the carnation for Mercedes to take. She just keeps looking at him like he’s from another planet until Kurt nudges her in the side and she takes it, blushing and mumbling ‘thank you’, before flying out of the room before either of the boys can say anything.

“That was...odd,” Blaine says, dark eyebrows wiggling in amusement. It’s childish and dorky and quite possibly the cutest thing that Kurt has ever had a boy do in his presence. Kurt giggles, and slides a hand up over his mouth in embarrassment. Blaine doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he takes a step forward into Kurt’s space and rests a casual hand on Kurt’s hip.

“Don’t hide your laugh from me, Kurt Hummel. I think it’s adorable,” he presses his thumb into the groove of Kurt’s hipbone as emphasis and continues, “I think you’re adorable.”

Kurt can feel the hope flutter up from his stomach and get caught in this throat, afraid of what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak.

“C’mon,” Blaine says, urging Kurt forward and waiting patiently as Kurt grabs a sweater and locks the door behind him. He follows Blaine down the hall and when Blaine slides a hand down his arm as they get into the elevator, Kurt knows he’s done for.

Blaine smiles at him and says, “You look amazing, by the way.” Kurt preens under the compliment, shuffling over to stand a little closer to him. Blaine’s warm fingers tap against the underside of Kurt’s wrist and he isn’t getting his hopes up, he isn’t, but Kurt thinks to himself that this is already the best not-date he’s ever had.