London is rainy today. Cold and rainy, with not a slither of sun or fluff of white cloud in sight. It is London after all, what more could Kurt expect from the place? Really?

Kurt blows out a small breath of steam onto the condensation soaked window, next to his seat in the back of the taxi, as the vehicle chugs its way through London's busy West end.

Kurt fingers the outlining of a face with dots for eyes and an upside down smile onto the glass as the car slows to a stop, and the driver upfront mumbles something under his breath. The traffic lights signal stop and flash to red, causing jams and build ups of transport all around them.

Kurt has never been fond of the heavy congestion or the fact that push bike and motor bike cyclists can weave freely in and out of static traffic.

It's the cyclists that get on his last nerve the most. Why choose to put yourself in danger by riding alongside 2000kg's of metal and rubber and exhaustion fumes? Why, when there are perfectly able pavements and designated cycle paths nearby?

Kurt remembers as a kid being in the back of his dads car, ambling through the quiet neighbourhood, probably hitting no more than 15mph when some crazy guy with an obvious need for speed and an even more obvious death wish came hurdling towards them on a rickety old push bike.

That had been a narrow but lucky escape for both parties but Kurt has never understood the enjoyment of riding a bike ever since, not when there are cars, and buses and taxis and chauffeurs. And trains are just fantastically efficient also.

Maybe it's because his dad is a mechanic and general motor enthusiast, he's been raised with a love for motor oil running through his blood, and always wanting the best tinted windows and alloy wheels available.

Its days like these when Kurt wonders why he ever left New York. He could be sitting in the exact same situation, surrounded by idiots with death wishes, however in just a slightly, possibly warmer, more familiar environment.

London, England has been Kurt's home for the best part of the past three years. His career had both brought him and left him here and although he has loved and cherished every opportunity he has been presented with in the capital of the United Kingdom, he's still… searching? Unsure? Lonely? Un-Familiar?

He's still not completely familiar with London, there's just something that doesn't shout home to him. He's made many friends here, through colleagues and neighbours and he loves the accent, loves it, and tries his best interpretation when alone in his flat, but Londoner's as great as they are, are still just not his people.

New Yorker's aren't really his people either, if you're going to get technical. He's an Ohioan born and raised, but New York was definitely where he grew, where he found himself after moving there for college to start the next phase of his life.

Three years down the line, Kurt -freshly graduated with an apprenticeship at Vogue.com after redirecting himself to the fashion editing and writing department under his belt- had been offered a nine month contract working in Europe, an offer he simply couldn't refuse.

To cut a long story short, two years after that jobs came flooding in and opportunities appeared from every which way he turned, except for the one that lead him back home to the states. And now, here he is sitting in an oddly scented taxi with an angry driver and his laptop-his life- tucked safe in its leather satchel at his side, whilst trying to make his way back home.

Today hadn't been very productive if Kurt was to be completely brutally honest. The words just hadn't came to him in that easy flow that they usually do, no matter how many coffees or muffins he had devoured from that little place he loves beside his office building, he just couldn't find his muse.

Normally when he gets like this, he takes time out and hides in a stuffy corner of the London Library, fiercely scribbling into a notepad. Or he takes a walk down by the  river Thames, over the tower bridge and sits at a riverside café, staring at the screen of his laptop until the sky grows dark around him and his eyes become tired and blearily.

But today his line manager took one look at him and the words on his laptop screen and told him to take off an hour earlier. It's a Friday and honestly who doesn't like an early finish on a Friday?

Kurt had huffed out a defeated sigh and looked up guiltily. Holly, his manager turned dear friend-a bouncy blonde thirty something year old- has pretty much been his rock since arriving in London. She's American too but has travelled around here, there and everywhere ever since she was old enough to spread her wings and fly the nest.

Kurt rents his flat from Holly- who inherited it from her great aunt someone or other- which is how he is able to live in a such a nice part of the city, alone- mates rates and all. Holly has never liked the feeling of being too tied down in one place or to just one person, and although she has been working in the same place for a good while, she doesn't like living in the same place. She gets stir crazy, she likes jumping from place to place, trying out the hottest new hotel or taking up temporary three to six month leases on swanky apartments and town houses.

Kurt worries that she's going to leave soon, become bored of the same old day in- day out and pack up and leave somewhere more exciting, someplace exotic. And then he truly will be all alone.

Kurt knows that he can go back home. He can return to New York and join the line of one hopelessly talented fashion writer after another, or he can go back to Lima and move back in with his dad, maybe the local Newspaper needs a columnist?

Kurt knows that he doesn't have to be lonely, he knows that he doesn't have to be here, but there is just something that is still keeping him here. It's like he's just waiting for gravity to fall back into place around him, or waiting for something to just knock him off of his feet, like literally bang some new sense of hope and life into him (no not like that,) but he knows that for now, here is where he needs to be, here is where he needs to stay.

Holly values Kurt as a person and not just as en employee, she knows when he can give his best work and in the past has produced some damn good articles, but Holly knows him too well, she knows when his head is in the game and when it's not. Today it's not, and so she did what she thought all good managers should do, send Kurt home with a slight pat on the butt and a wink and told him to go and get laid.

Kurt didn't intend on getting laid tonight, or at all this weekend, or week or even month for that matter, well there were no plans for it anyway, and he wasn't hopeful that he was going to go out and make any plans either.

What he did intend on doing was going home (home being his rented trendy little Bayswater downstairs flat,) digging out whatever he can find from the back of his kitchen cupboards and freezer, pouring himself a double vodka and diet coke, and then curl up on the couch flicking through reality TV targeted channels until he falls asleep.

The car eventually starts to hurdle its way forward through fogs of exhaust smoke and chorus's of blaring car horns and angry noises. Kurt tries not to look at the meter up front, he could have walked or got on the tube or a bus, or a mixture of all three but it's Friday and it's raining and cold and his feet hurt and he's too tired to even continue to internally moan out excuses to himself. Kurt earns a good wage, he works hard for it, it's taken a lot of time for him to get here and if he wants to blow his earnings on taxi fares then that's up to him.

His only concern now is that his early finish is slowly disintegrating with every passing minute that he's stuck in this hellish traffic. 

The rain starts to ease a little for a fraction of time and Kurt blinks out of the window, eagerly awaiting the view of his street as the taxi winds around corners and through alleyways.

He peers out of the window, and notices the top of end of his street coming into focus just as the heavens really start to open and giant pellets of rain thrash down onto windows.

Suddenly the car jerks and swerves slightly to the side, pulling to a screeching halt up on the curb with a short thud, the driver honks the horn in an alarming warning pattern. Kurt jumps. “What was that?”

The driver starts rolling down the window, his tongue working a million miles a minute and Kurt can only comprehend a few juicy cut off expletives, and then a very clear, “Bloody foreigners, we drive on the left over here. The LEFT! Right hand-bloomin' drive.”

Kurt rolls down his window, sticking his head out to see what's going on. Rain drops splat off of his quiff and forehead annoyingly as he peers around blinking into the downpour, suddenly enraged when he sees the metal frame of a bike. His rage subsides when he see's what's lying on the ground next to the metal.  

“What the hell-oh, oh my god, are you ok?”

Kurt immediately flings open his door, unbuckling his belt and half hangs out of the car staring out the rain sodden pavement.

There's a push bike lying on the curb, its handle bars a little bent and its front wheel punctured and dug just underneath the taxi's rear tyre. The bicycle's metal silver and blue frame is a little scratched and dinted but other than that it appears to be in a surprisingly ok condition.

Next to the bike a man is wobbly climbing to his feet- thank god. He starts brushing down his pants and reattaching his backpack. He's wearing elbow and knee pads and a bright blue safety helmet on his head strapped tightly under his chin and apart from looking a little ragged and soaked through he seems ok, if just a little shaken.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry sir. So sorry, I hope I haven't damaged your vehicle, that was completely my fault-” The cyclist starts rambling rapidly. And he's American. Oh.

Both Kurt and the taxi driver has gotten out of the vehicle at this point and is trying to pull the poor guy's bike out from under his car, whilst shaking his head and still muttering things. Kurt remains quiet whilst the driver starts giving the poor guy the low down on the high way code and where cyclists should be positioned and all of that palaver.

The cyclist hangs his head in shame, bobbing and nodding whilst he takes his battered bike from the driver and tries to correct the handlebars. The cute little bell that is nailed to the top is hanging off and Kurt as inconvenienced as this all is seems to be rather-amused by the whole thing, in a sweet sort of way.

He can't really see the cyclist's face, not with the rain and the helmet stuck to his head, but he can just make out a flop of dark curls pasted to his forehead just above a set of gorgeously dark eyelashes thick with rain drops.

Suddenly the guys lifts his eyes to Kurt's face, a shock of bright hazel speckled with green rims stares back at him. He tries his best to shrug his shoulders and offer Kurt his best rueful smile, but he looks so hangdog sad and Kurt can't help but find him endearing.

Once the driver is happy that his car is unscathed, he gives the guy one last warning point of a finger and then a strange back pat as if making sure the guy is sturdy on his feet and not going to sue him or anything and then gets back behind the wheel, slamming his door shut.

The cyclist tries to straighten his bike out but just can't seem to get the handle bars facing forward and the seat looks like it's a bit wobbly. He hangs his head and starts pushing his bike down the pavement walking along side of it with a very slight limp.

Kurt glances back at the driver who is glaring at him through the window, waiting for him to get back inside, his fingers clutching at the steering wheel impatiently.

Kurt remembers that day, years ago, with his dad in his car and the psychopath on the bike. As shocked and angry as his dad was, he was still ready to leap out of the car and run to the guys aid, his phone already in his hand ready to call for help.

“No matter the story or situation or circumstance, stupid or not, everybody has a reason for being where they are and doing what they are doing. Everybody deserves to be helped Kurt, everyone needs a friend of some kind.” 

His father's words still roll around clearly in his head, as if it were only yesterday.  

“Hey, wait?” Kurt suddenly calls out towards the retreating cyclist and his pitiful bike. He digs his wallet out of his bag and gives some money to the driver, as he opens the door. “Thank you, I'll just walk from here, I can see my building.”

The driver takes the money with a grumble and pulls off into the traffic. Kurt starts trotting along the pavement where the cyclist is looking back at him, completely bewildered and confused.

“Come with me? My flat is just over there,” Kurt points down the street, “I'll make you a hot drink and you can call somebody to come and get you? You can't ride your bike and you look like limping.” Kurt huffs out a breath, rain consistently cascading down his face and his shoulders.

The guy looks a bit shocked at first, then his eyes start shining and Kurt can't make out if it's just because of the rain or whether this guy just has really beautiful expressive eyes.

“O-oh, uh thank you so much, but um, I don't live that far away from here, I can just walk this back-”

As if on cue, a loud clap of thunder rumbles from up above out in the distance, the clouds fading a charcoal grey and the sky darkening all around them rapidly. Kurt wipes some water off of his face and the little bell fully falls off of the bike and lands on the ground, shattering with a clang. It's all rather pathetic.

“Well would you like to just come and wait the storm out?” Kurt offers instead.

The man says nothing, just gives his bike a look once or twice and then his lips starts quirking up into a very, adorable grin.

“Yes thank you, that would be great, only if you don't mind?” He says, his voice a little rasped. “Thank you so much, that's so kind of you.”

Kurt nods and smiles back, tries to shield his eyes from the downpour and then starts walking again briskly. The guy follows him, pushing his bike as best as he can and grins gratefully when Kurt reaches out and helps him by taking hold of the other handle.

Together they trod quickly and silently down the street towards Kurt's humble abode.

*

Kurt cannot help, he just can't, help but take small peeking glances over the kitchen counter as he stirs the cocoa's.

Kurt's kitchen is shiny steel and silver and open plan, backing onto to a rather darling dining table and a cream fabric sofa and TV unit beyond that that makes up his living room.

Kurt bites his lip, cursing under his breath when he spills a little of the steaming hot brown liquid over the side of the mug.

The poor cyclist guy (Blaine- oh what a lovely name) is sitting on Kurt's sofa. Out in the hallway he'd taken off his boots and raincoat and Kurt had put them with his in the heated hanging closet to dry them out.

Underneath his raincoat Blaine is wearing the most precious ensemble- a navy blue pair of Capri pants, a polo t-shirt covered by a cotton cardigan and a little bowtie completing the look covered in some bold bright colourful pattern.

Kurt actually had to double take and then seriously refrain himself from asking the adorably dressed stranger if he wanted Kurt to take his clothes from him so that they could dry out.

Some situations require boundaries, boundaries that just can't be crossed too prematurely. He offered him a towel instead, which Blaine politely declined.

And then, AND THEN Blaine had unclasped his helmet and taken it off to rest up against the shoe rack to try and drip dry a little- in doing so revealing a wet mop of sticky glued together looking dark curly hair.

This guy obviously uses some kind of hair product and mixed with the pressure of the helmet and the downpour of rain those curls clearly do not want to be tamed. His dark wet hair clings to his scalp and forehead in a soggy yet unbelievably gorgeous mess, those long dark lashes thick with water droplets cling to his heat flushed cheeks.

Kurt had left the heating on before leaving the flat that morning and when he opened the door with Blaine in tow, the blast of heat from the radiators was like a welcoming wave of pure dry warmth from the freezing rain.

Kurt certainly had to force himself to turn the other way when Blaine started rubbing his fingers through his hair and shaking his head like a wet shaggy dog.

Oh god- Kurt wanted to lick the droplets off of the guys face.

So now Blaine sits on the edge of his sofa, frowning down at his phone in his hands whilst Kurt continuously stirs their drinks, staring at him bashfully from afar.

You will not hit on a poor hard done by stranger, Kurt. You will not. At least wait a little first. Geez.

Kurt comes into the room, placing the hot mugs down onto his coffee table just as Blaine grumbles something and throws his phone down to his lap.

Kurt bites his lip, momentarily internally arguing with himself over where to sit, finally deciding on the wooden rocking chair just to the side of the sofa where Blaine is sitting.

Blaine looks up at him, a small embarrassed looking smile on his lips and shrugs. “My battery is dead.”

Kurt looks down at the phone in the poor guy's lap and just catches the silver glint of the ‘Samsung' writing, he shrugs.

“Oh I would have offered you my charger but I have an iPhone.”

Blaine smiles at this, his cute little dark triangular eyebrows raising as he does so. “Don't worry about it. Guess that's my fault for not joining the Apple army huh?”

This guy is actually pretty darn adorable.

“Do you- you could use my phone, you know to call somebody?” Kurt tries to hide his premeditated reaction as he waits for the response. Probably something like ‘sure I'll call my wife' or worse ‘Yes my boyfriend will be so worried.'

“Oh well I live on my own, and my family live in a different state. I'm still kind of new around here and don't know that many people, that well.” The guy's smile is so sweet and endearing. “Like I said, I only live a few streets away, I'll be fine and I'll make tracks once the rain stops.”

Kurt nods and grins by way of response. He doesn't trust what questions are going to pour from his mouth if he tries to talk.

There's a small awkward silence in which the two try not to steal glances at each other and sip from their mugs. “This is good cocoa, thank you.”

Kurt swallows his mouthful and smiles, his tongue slipping out to lick away the remnants on his lower lip, he doesn't miss the way Blaine's eyes flash before flicking back down to his own drink.

“Oh thank you, and you're welcome. It's just instant powder I'm afraid, no special family recipe.”

“It's still good. It's doing it's job.” Blaine replies with a smile, his voice quiet. He undoes the buttons of his cardigan and rolls the sleeves up to his elbow.

Kurt glances outside of the window, needing somewhere to avert his gaze, save for the light spattering of dark hair on Blaine's ropey arms. The muscles must come from the cycling, Kurt presumes.

The rain is still fleeting down in his buckets, and the low rumbles of thunder can still be heard distantly. It looks like they're going to be here for a while.

“So uh,” Kurt reaches forward and down, placing his mug back on the coffee table. He turns himself inwards, his body facing Blaine, and crosses his legs at the knee. “So are you ok? You looked like you were limping.”

“Oh yeah, I think it was just the way I landed on my ankle. I'm fine, it doesn't hurt.”

“What actually happened out there, how did we even hit you?”

Blaine's cheeks spread with pink adorably, he runs a hand through his drying frizz of curls and tries not to look at Kurt directly. “Actually I hit you.”

Kurt stares at him incredulously, his lips slightly parted. Blaine cracks a smile and takes the silence as a sign to continue.

“I-well I said that I haven't been here that long, I just forgot the rules of the road over here and pulled out when I shouldn't have pulled out, and it also didn't help that I pulled out onto the wrong side of the road.”   

Blaine bites his lip, obviously trying to stifle a chuckle, but then when he see's Kurt's eyes glimmer and sparkle with amusement and also a hint of concern- he lets it go, and then Kurt is giggling with him too.

“Oh goodness, well at least there's no real harm done huh?”

“Tell that to my bike.” Blaine laughs, gesturing outside where his poor bike is leaning up against the wall, battered and bruised.

It's only then when Kurt notices the slight faded watery red cut on Blaine's knuckles, mixed with a light swell of bruising. “Oh my gosh, you are hurt, here let me get you something for that.”

Kurt shrieks more than he says, standing up, all arms and legs ready to lunge into doctor mode. Blaine reaches for him and stills him with one hand around his wrist. His skin is soft and still a little cool from the rain but Kurt can feel the warm flesh pulsing underneath. Kurt feels tingly.

“Honestly its fine, I'm ok. Believe me I've had worse.” Blaine smiles lopsidedly.

“You have?” Kurt asks, his face a mask of concern as he lowers himself back into his seat.

Blaine rubs a palm over his grazes, not even wincing. “Yeah, I uh, I used to be boxer, back in high school. Trust me, this is just artificial.” Blaine says flexing his fingers. And suddenly Kurt is very, very, strangely turned on.

This cute fumbly, bumbly guy, who crashed into a moving vehicle and fell off of his bike and wears gorgeous ensembles- used to box, he used to fight?

“Oh wow, cool.” Kurt says, because he just can't find anything else sensible to say. “So I uh, I cant help but notice that you don't sound like your from around these parts?”

“I could say the same about you.” Blaine replies with a smirk.

Kurt nods and smiles. “You used to ride in the states then? Too good for the subway?” He teases, knowing that Blaine has picked up on the tone of his voice and the gentle smile in his eyes.

“Oh no, god no.” Blaine laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn't dream of trying to ride a bicycle in New York, I don't know why I thought London would be any different, guess I wanted to embrace something new. And I try to avoid the subway and the tube at all costs, FYI.”

Kurt smirks and then straightens in his chair, it's like a flip has been switched inside of him. New York? My city? My love? You know it, you were there too?

“You-you're from New York? Me too, I left my roommates out there to move here a few years ago when I was offered a job.” Blaine brightens at this.

“Oh- oh well no, I'm not from New York originally, but I studied there, college and then grad school. I moved there right after graduating high school in Ohio.”

“Ohio?” Blaine nods, a cute little toothy grin playing at the corners of his lips.

“Oh my god, no way, me too!” Kurt is almost shouting, bouncing on the pad of his toes against the floorboards. He knows that he must control himself, but he's just too excited.

Somebody else from New York and also Ohio. Somebody, nice and seemingly sane and normal and attractive. Very attractive.

“Wow. Really? Whereabouts? I lived with my parents in Westerville until I started boarding at Dalton Academy- ”

It's like a light bulb moment, like a little bell ringing from somewhere deep inside of him, alerting him to full wakefulness and excitement. Something he didn't know he needed or even wanted is now present filling him with a warmth and happiness he doesn't even understand.  

Blaine just seems so strangely familiar, in more ways than one. It's rather lovely, actually.

They say that one act of random kindness at a time, could change the world. Your world, your life? Maybe.

*

“Oh my god, yes, that's right.” Kurt tries to choke back his giggle. “Which one was that again?”

“Regional's.” Blaine answers, laughing too, his smile wide and bright, eyes warm and sparkling.

Thirty minutes later, separated by a bag of cool ranch Doritos, a pack of shortbread, sharing the sofa and stories from their high school's rival glee clubs- Kurt and Blaine are getting on a like a house on fire.

Kurt glances over his shoulder at the window, the raindrops are still running down the panes of glass leaving long smearing trails. The force is a little less powerful now, and the clouds aren't as angrily dark, but the weather is still ‘indoors weather' all the same.

Kurt's smile is private as he turns back to Blaine, picking up their empty mugs and pushing himself up to stand. “Refill?”

When Blaine beams back up at him and nods- Kurt steps past him grinning. Their legs brush faintly and the expression on Blaine's face is much too charming. “So Blaine tell me, what did you really think of your competition that year?”

*

“So Kurt you say you're a writer, what do you write about?”

Fifty-five minutes later, they're sitting at Kurt's dining table with individual microwavable pizza pies that Kurt had dug out of the depths of his freezer.

Kurt cuts out a small slice and then picks it up with his hands- napkin at the ready- he smirks at the way Blaine is neatly using a knife and fork to cut his pizza into little chunks.

“Yeah, I'm a fashion journalist. I work for a London based fashion magazine, I write columns and attend cat walks and stuff-give my reviews, offer my advice on what to wear and not to, what's in and vital for when the seasons change.” Kurt shrugs like he's said these words many times and they're wearing thin on his tongue.

“Wow, that's awesome. How did you get into that?”

“I interned with Vogue.com when I lived in New York, somewhere along the line I decided to switch from hands on the fabric to hands on the keyboard, and then I was offered the chance to travel around Europe for a while which lead me to here, to now.”

Blaine nods, whilst eating his pizza, he seems genuinely impressed. He swallows his last bite, puts down his knife and fork on the side of his plate and takes a drink from his glass of soda that Kurt had put out for him.

“I have to admit, I can't say that I'm really surprised.” Blaine says, looking around at the décor and the art and pictures hanging off of the walls. “You really do seem to have an eye for fashion and design. I would definitely take your advice.”

Kurt blushes and preens, until Blaine focuses his gaze back on him and says, “And you look great too, if you don't mind me saying. Really great.”

Kurt blushes harder, ducking his face to avert Blaine's dazzling whiskey hued eyes. Finally working up the nerve to say something, he looks up to find Blaine fidgeting with his hands in his lap.

“You don't need any advice. Honestly? Your outfit is divine.”

Blaine smiles all the way up to his ears, so much that his eyes crinkle at the corners and almost disappear. Insanely cute. “I mean you're wearing a bowtie. Any guy who can pull off a bowtie in everyday dress, has a vote in my books.”

“Oh my gosh,” Blaine giggles, “You should see my bowtie collection. It's beyond ridiculous. I think I have an addiction.”

“Oh do tell.” Kurt grins, standing to pick up their empty plates. Blaine bats his hands away, piles up the dishes and heads towards Kurt's kitchen area.

Kurt trails behind him, and points out the dishwasher, nicely disguised as an ordinary wooden panelled kitchen cupboard. Before Blaine can launch in to his deepest darkest secrets of fashion and shopping- two of Kurt's most favourite things- Kurt opens up his refrigerator peers inside and says, “Do you like cheesecake?”

Blaine looks back at him over his shoulder, his eyes wide and alight. He looks delighted. “Oh but of course, It's only like one of my most favourite things.”

*

“Ok so you love bowties and Ralph Lauren, you're an Ohioan/New Yorker and you're new around here. You love musicals and can play the piano and the guitar pretty much with your eyes closed. I get the impression that your line of work is somewhere in or around that area. Am I warm?”

Blaine grins around his forkful of lime and white chocolate cheesecake, he chews quickly, nodding slightly and plunges straight back down for another piece with his fork. Kurt playfully twangs his fork with his own, battling for dominance over who gets what section and they both chuckle. It's sickly sweet- not just the flavour of the desert.

“Yes, sort of.” Blaine finally says, when they both settle back onto the couch, nibbling at their giant forkfuls. “I um, I produce musicals, I co-write and I sometimes help out in the orchestra pit too-”

Kurt tries not to choke as he sits up. “No way freaking way?”

“Yes way.” Blaine smiles. “I was recently given the chance to come and assist on the West End and I jumped at it.” Kurt tries not to flail. And fails.

“Oh my god. Which one? I go and see a west end show every few weeks or so.” Blaine smiles and then squirms a little under Kurt's piercing exciting gaze. His cheeks and neck flush adorably as if he's embarrassed about what he's about to say next.

“Well back in New York, my last job I worked on was um, I was involved with creating the musical production of Disney's Hercules for Broadway and they asked me if I would-” Blaine stops as Kurt starts bouncing on his knees on the sofa, even causing Blaine to jiggle a little beside him with the movement.

“I've seen that show! I went to see it on its opening night over here just a few weeks ago. My god, it's amazing! So clever and unique and brilliant and oh my god! You brought it over here?”

Blaine can't help but laugh at the expression on Kurt's face, like a kid on Christmas morning. He nods, “Yeah, I'm part of that production, and I even had a little cameo-”

“Oh my god, have I seen you in a toga?” Kurt is almost screeching and Blaine's facial expressions probably couldn't get any more amused/entirely humbled. His eyes are shining back at Kurt with a sort of warm fondness and Kurt can feel his knees weaken, even though he's perched on top of them.

Both men are laughing and chattering way too much, too loudly and enthusiastically to notice that the weather outside the window is starting to lull and slow it's frightful pace. The rain becoming no more than a slight gentle patter and the thunder seems to be long gone, as the sky darkens to a deep blue, ready for night time to settle in.

“Do you want a drink? I have vodka?” Kurt suddenly says, when his excitement calms. “It's a Friday night after all, and it was on my agenda anyway.”

Blaine looks like he's just been asked if he would like a million dollars or a lifetime supply Brooks Brother's fashion accessories. He's about to open his mouth when he looks back at the bay window, and frowns.

“Oh,” Blaine looks down at his wrist watch and Kurt's face falls when he realizes what is happening. “Oh geez, look at the time, my goodness I've taken up most of your evening.”

“Oh, no honestly it's fine, it's been a pleasure. You could stay for a drink if you wanted?” Kurt tries to disguise the disappointment in his voice. Blaine looks conflicted.

“Thank you for the offer. Thank you for everything, but I really should get back and see what the damage is to that hunk of junk.” Blaine smiles politely, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He slowly gets up from the sofa and starts gathering his things.

Why won't he stay? Because he's a stranger, oh yeah that's right. Suddenly the weight of everything comes crashing down on Kurt, like he'd totally forgotten that he'd only met Blaine just a couple of hours ago.

Kurt never really does things like this, he's always so careful and guarded. But Blaine had seemed genuine and sweet, and in real need of shelter and a slice of cheesecake, regardless of what he was taught about stranger danger when he was a boy.

And then something else hits Kurt. The sudden feeling that he actually just doesn't care. He's a big boy, able to make his own choices and presumptions and he feels proud of himself for taking a step out of the safety zones of his life.

He doesn't care that he doesn't know Blaine- all that well. He cares that he may not get the chance for Blaine to become more than just a stranger. But he's asked, he's done his part, he can't do more than that.

Out in the hallway once Blaine is all dressed back up in his outside gear, now dry and toasty warm, Blaine tries to adjust his bike enough to get it to move so that he can walk it back home. He turns to Kurt, his safety helmet, tucked under his arm and an unreadable twinkle in his eyes.

“Thank you Kurt, so much. It was so nice of you to help me out like this. I appreciate it immensely.” Kurt just nods and smiles and watches when Blaine pulls out a card from his back pocket. It's a little soggy and smudged but still readable. Its Blaine's business card, with his contact information printed boldly along the middle. “Maybe you could stop by the Adelphi Theatre one time, and I could show you around, as a-as a thank you?”

Kurt takes the card, grinning though disappointed that Blaine is leaving- he can't help it. “That sounds great, I may just do that.”

After a string of awkward smiles and head nods, last minute glances over the shoulders and wiggles of fingers Blaine leaves, pushing his bike along the water pebbled streets.

Kurt slumps back against the inside of his door, huffing out a sigh. He has two things on his mind. Blaine and Vodka.

*

 Twenty minutes later, Kurt pulls the drapes closed and turns on the side table and wall lamps. His living room really is a cosy little space, especially like this, during the dark cold nights with scented candles glowing along the hearth and the heating turned up to max.

Kurt flops down on to the sofa, changed into sweat pants and a hoody and a freshly poured Vodka lemon and lime-double- he settles in for the night.

There's a knock at the front door, it sounds almost timid, like a shy almost unsure knock. Kurt puts down his glass on a coaster and shuffles over to the door, grumbling something about campaigners or something or other.

Without looking through the peephole he pulls open the door, ready to give whoever it is his best rehearsed speech of ‘No thank you, not today.'

You can imagine the look of surprise and sheer joy and delight on his face when he sees Blaine standing there.

“Blaine?”

“Hi.” Blaine grins bashfully, his eyes quickly scan up and down Kurt's body, obviously noticing his outfit change, it's a look that is not too far away from completely appreciative until he tries to shake it off. “I um, I think I lost my house key when I- when we um, you know-”

Kurt's shoulders slump with relief and he can't hide the small smile painted on his face, he reaches out to tug at Blaine's wrists hoping that it's not too forward for him to do, but kind of assuming what Blaine had returned for.

“I hope you don't mind, it's just I don't really know where else to go. Could-could I maybe use your phone to call my landlord or a locksmith? Please?” Kurt keeps smiling and nods whilst he tugs Blaine all the way inside and closes the door. He sits him down on the sofa and hands him his phone.

“Call whoever you need to. What a rough bout of luck you've had today huh?” Kurt says, his eyes soft and lower lip jutting out a little.

Blaine fishes a tiny little contact book out his bag and pauses before dialling a number. He looks up at Kurt and his eyes are sparkling gorgeously, glinting off of the tiny flames glowing all around in little coloured ceramic cups. “I don't know, I wouldn't say that it's been all bad luck for me today.”

Kurt melts, tries to control the pitch of his voice. “Do you need anything else?”

Blaine eyes Kurt's glass fizzing with bubbles and a wedge of lemon slid onto the rim of the glass set down on the coffee table and grins, sheepishly. “Did you say something about vodka?”

*

“Hummel, Kurt Hummel.” Blaine says thoughtfully and Kurt tingles at the way his full name sounds rolling off of Blaine's tongue. “Yup I've definitely read your stuff before, I recall your name. You're a great journalist. Honestly you're one of the few columnists of that magazine that I can understand. Everybody else just uses an extent of posh sounding vocabulary and hopes that it makes sense.”

Kurt blushes, giggles and nods, the pattern of all three reminding him of a pathetic schoolboy routine. When he can contain himself he builds up the courage to ask what he's been wanting to ask for most of the time he's been with Blaine.  

“And you're Blaine Anderson right? That's you?”

Blaine takes a sip from his glass and nods, letting Kurt chirp away excitedly. Kurt slaps his thigh. “I knew it, I thought it was you. When you left I racked my brains trying to workout where I recognised you from and I now know that I've seen your name and face printed in like what? Four, five, maybe six musical theater programs?”

Blaine smiles around his glass, little dimples peeking out around the edges. “My goodness you really do go to the theater a lot don't you?”

Kurt nods a little bashfully, and then says quietly, “Well, I sometimes write reviews for shows, as a little on the side thing or if I'm asked to by my boss.”

“You're a critic?” Blaine's eyebrows shoot up and Kurt bites his lip, trying not to laugh at the look on Blaine's face.

“No, not really. Just sometimes the magazine I work for has a spread about musical theater and all of the different elements to it, and I get asked to write a column as part of it. It's fun I like doing it.”

“So you review the costume design or-”

“Usually, just everything as a whole. But between you and me, I would love to delve into the world where music and theater and fashion mix. I'd love to write a piece about how production costumes can be inspired and transformed by everyday catwalk and high street stuff you know?”

Blaine barely has a chance to smile and nod before Kurt, scoots up on to his knees, almost no space between their legs, with his eyes wide and bright.

“Like for instance, Hercules right? Perfect example of exploring ancient Greek toga's and robes and how we can incorporate them with today's on-trend must haves. Imagine a world where musical theater geeks and high class fashion snobs plus your everyday run of the mill Joe-public are all knowingly or blissfully unknowingly wearing the same thing. It would be like closing the divide between two rival industries. Like the Capulet's and the Montague's.”

Kurt stops suddenly to catch a breath, he snaps his mouth closed and hazards a glance at Blaine, like really at him, searching his face for any sign of ‘oh my god, get me out of this wacko's house now.'

He scratches the back of his neck, “I uh, I'm sorry, I guess I've completely lost you now huh? Just ignore me, um all of that.”

Kurt expects a number of reactions from Blaine, judging by the blank expression on his face and those beautiful honeyed eyes all deep and liquid like and lost.

What he doesn't expect is for Blaine to start burst out laughing joyously and almost infectiously, closing the space between them by clasping at Kurt's shoulders and saying, “Oh my god. I am so glad that you have just said that. I have been thinking about proposing an update the costume department for months. It's time to cause a little stir, a little speculation. It's what gets people talking and curious asses on seats.”

Kurt actually feels his heart crack open a little bit, immediately filling with joy and warmth and contentment.

*

It's getting close to nine pm and Kurt and Blaine have just settled their arrangement on Kurt coming down to the theater sometime soon, for ‘research' in order for him to take some notes about his dream fashion and musical theater article.

He's going to tell Holly all about it on Monday, or most likely call her up and squeal excitedly when Blaine leaves. He knows that she'll be on board and will do anything to try and support him, in more ways than one.

So maybe he'll spend an hour or so back stage and then maybe he and Blaine can grab a coffee, or dinner, or drinks, or all three and carry on Kurt's research in a more intimate yet still strictly professional manner.

He's not fooling anybody really, to be honest. But he believes that he has found his muse, if just for a while.   

Kurt has just flicked on the TV for some background noise when he gets a text message from an unknown number. He opens it up and starts reading, smiling distractedly as Blaine pours them both a fresh a drink from the bottle and mixers that had been brought into the living room earlier, along with a plethora of snacks and dipping sauces.

“Oh it's for you,” Kurt exclaims, handing Blaine the phone. “It's from your landlord.”

Blaine takes the phone and skims over the message. “Oh no, he says that he has also lost his spare key and that the locksmith is coming out tomorrow morning. No sooner.” Blaine bites his lip and hands Kurt the phone back. “Oh god this is a nightmare.”

“Hey,” Kurt soothes, reaching out a hand to rub up and down Blaine's muscular upper arm in a gesture he hopes is portrayed as friendly and not that he just wants to cop a feel. “You-you can- I mean if you want to- you can stay here you know? Like on the couch until the morning, it's no problem?”

Kurt watches the way Blaine's brow furrows, he can see the way he's thinking things over in his head. Oh god has he just made the wrong move, that was weird of him to offer a stranger right?

Blaine's upper lip tugs up at the corner and his eyes glimmer as he focuses his attention dead on Kurt's face. The visible transformation is almost like magic, beautiful magic. “You-you'd do that for me? You don't mind?”

Kurt exhales in short silent huffs and smiles, shaking his head. “Of course not. You don't seem to have too many other options, and it's not as if we're complete strangers still right?”

Blaine's smile is breathtaking. “Right, sure.”

“You know, I forgot to ask you. Where is your bike now?”

Blaine grins and he looks like a naughty kid that has done something he's very proud of but knows he would probably get scolded for. “I left it outside my place. Hopefully it will get stolen.”

They both giggle and Kurt adds a little boldly, “Oh good, no more near death experiences, that way you may be around a little longer then.”

“Hopefully.” Blaine responds quickly and his eyes are twinkling.

“Come on,” Kurt stands, tugging gently at Blaine's hand to pull him up. “I'll get you something to change into and you can freshen up. I think I have a spare toothbrush too.”

Kurt strides forward, leading the way once Blaine is up and following him. He's too far ahead for Blaine to see his bright cheesy grin and flushed cheeks, and Kurt would need eyes in the back of his head to have had caught Blaine fist bump the air victoriously.

*

Kurt is flicking through TV channels, sipping casually from his glass, looking for something to watch as he waits for Blaine to re-join him. He's already dug out fresh sheets and pillows and a duvet from the linen closet and they're folded nicely on the arm chair ready for Blaine to use later.

He can smell the waft of his own brand of soap and shampoo and the slight aroma of fresh mint as he hears the bathroom door click open from just down the hall followed by soft footfalls.

Blaine appears in the doorway just within Kurt's eye sight, his curls obviously towel dried and sticking up all around his head. Kurt can imagine his fingers running through that hair, styling it in his own way.

He's wearing one of Kurt's old white Vogue.com sponsorship t-shirts and a pair of chequered pajama pants. The t-shirt pulls tight over his chest and arms and hangs a little low over his hips, whilst the pants are so long that he's had to fold them up a couple of times at the bottom.

Kurt has to sit on his free hand to stop from fanning himself. The sight and the freshly clean smell of Blaine shuffling forward in his clothes are just down right hot.

He sits down beside Kurt and Kurt does not move when a small slither of Blaine's leg folds over the top of his. Kurt hands him his drink and they settle into a pleasant silence, occasionally giggling at whatever is on the TV.

A short while later Blaine sets his glass down on the coffee table, he turns and faces Kurt. Kurt sees him looking out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't move, not yet, he lets Blaine look for just a little while longer. The thought thrills him.

“You know,” Blaine finally mumbles, low and quiet. His voice is like a husked rasp that sends shivers though the short hairs on Kurt's forearms and the back of his neck. Kurt turns to him, smiling shyly, waiting for him to continue. “You've been awfully kind towards a stranger today, I don't know if I could ever show my appreciation enough.”

Kurt could brush it off, could say ‘its fine, no problem' or anything of the like. But instead he huddles a bit closer, knees pulled to his chest and says, “You trust very easily, I could have been an axe murderer-” His voice is teasing, blue-green eyes shining in the dim of the candle light around them.

“You still could be or me-” Blaine fires back, grinning and it's all Kurt can do not to throw himself at him, laughing giddily. “Seriously, I seen the sincerity in your eyes, I knew you just wanted to help.”

Kurt steadies himself, mentally prepares and practically forces out the next words before he chickens out. “Honestly, I also wanted a friend. London-as big and amazing and full of talented beautiful people as it is- can be pretty lonely. I sometimes feel like a fish out of water and when I heard you speak, you just sounded like home you know? And I kind of got the impression that you feel that way too.”

“You know Kurt. You are one, uniquely, interesting wonderful person and I am so glad that I collided into you today.”

*           

It's close to midnight and they're standing facing each other in the middle of Kurt's dark living room. Blaine's makeshift bed is made and ready for him on the sofa but Kurt seems reluctant to leave. There's only one wall light left on now, over by the far wall, and the switch is by the door.

“So um, if you get cold, there should be more sheets in the linen closet out in the hall, or I could get you another pair socks?” Blaine smiles and shakes his head.

“I think I'll be fine, thank you though. I'm still feeling a little… flushed.” Kurt gulps.

“O-ok, well um, help yourself to anything in the kitchen or you know you can watch TV or something. I uh, I'll probably be up around Eight or something in the morning, if you like pancakes I still have some-”

Blaine's warm lips press to Kurt's cheek, shushing him effectively with a little ‘eeep'. Kurt can feel the slight brush of whiskers from Blaine's five o'clock shadow wisp against his cheek bones and then slightly lower.

Kurt closes his eyes, it takes him all the self restraint that he possesses to not reach out and pull Blaine flush to him, or even turn his head and let their lips meet, flesh on flesh. The small chaste kiss, shakes Kurt to his very core, ignites him and wakes up his tired body in ways that he knows he will NOT be sleeping for a while.

It ends all too soon for Kurt's liking. Blaine pulls back and Kurt notices that his eyes are closed too. He looks blissful, peaceful almost, and then those dark lashes blink open and Kurt notes even in the darkness how dark and dilated Blaine's pupils have become.

Kurt slowly, regrettably starts to back away, his fingers flexing at his sides, desperate to reach out and pull Blaine with him. “Good night Blaine, I hope you sleep well.”

“Goodnight Kurt. Sweet dreams.” Blaine's voice sounds strained and for whatever reason Kurt's aches just a little when he shuts off the light, plummeting Blaine into darkness and walking off toward his room.

Kurt leaves his bedroom door open as he steps inside, he waits, standing by his bed and listens for the sound of the slight squeak in his sofa's springs, but it doesn't come.

He waits and waits, he curls his hands at his sides, refrains from reaching out and cupping what's happening at the front of his sweat pants and breathes deeply.

Oh what the hell?

“Blaine?”

“Yeah?” Blaine's reply is instant, just as loud as the call and just as sure.

Kurt clenches his eyes closed. “You're-you are gay right?”

“Yes, I am.” He can hear the smile in Blaine's voice, Blaine's beautiful smile.

“And you're um- single?” He has to be sure.

“Yes.”  Blaine's voice sounds louder, clearer, closer.

Kurt bites his lip to try and stop his ecstatic sob/giggle from escaping. This is it.

“Well what are you waiting for? Get your ass in here.”

There's a thud against the floorboards and then Blaine is standing in the doorway in seconds. His eyes like molten lava painted dark gold.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly.

“Hi,” Kurt giggles back, slowly back stepping towards his bed, grinning when Blaine slowly starts to inch forward, following him.

“Now it's time for me to knock you, off of your feet.”

Fin…