Bengtson Books was a stuffy little bookshop tucked away between a large record store on one side and an Italian deli on the other. It was not a fashionable place; it had no incorporated caf� to tempt customers into staying and leafing through their recent purchases over a cup of coffee, it had never played host to any book-signing events of any kind, never advertised up and coming writers or expected bestsellers. Indeed, the amount of bestsellers and mainstream literature in the shop was far exceeded by the vast collections of miscellaneous technical literature, battered copies of classics, a rather large poetry section and a selection of juicy French romance novels. It was cluttered and a little dusty. Kurt absolutely loved it there; it was the perfect place to go and think. The shop was quiet, cosy and homey with mismatched chairs in the corners and no pushy sales assistants breathing down his neck when he spent too long poring over a particular book.

Mr Bengtson, the shrivelled old manager who owned and ran the bookshop by himself, was the only one there when Kurt came in. He lifted his head at the tinkling sound of the bell, threw him a wink and returned to his book. Kurt visited the shop often and Mr Bengtson liked him. He let him take his time and would sometimes call him over if a book had come in that might interest him. In return, Kurt organised the shelves for him. Mr Bengtson had never asked him to, and he might not have even noticed, but Kurt liked doing it, liked the sense of order and the serene feeling it gave him. You could almost say it was a form of meditation to him.
On this day, Kurt was pleased to see several new boxes of books in the poetry section. Stacking and organising them alphabetically would be a brilliant way to wind down after what had been an upsetting day. Maybe he would find something interesting in the piles as well. After all, it had been the poetry books that had caught his attention and lured him in the first time he set foot in the shop. He deposited his bag on a rickety old chair and set to work.

Half an hour later, he had managed to push the slushying and Karofsky from his mind and was absorbed in a dog eared old copy of Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’, when he heard the bell above the door dinging. There was the hushed, humming sound of a murmured conversation, probably a potential customer asking if a particular book was in stock, and then the shop fell silent once more. Kurt tore himself away from Tennyson, putting the book aside for the moment, and went back to putting books on shelves. He had to use the spindly old stepladder to reach the top shelf and was just unloading the last of his armful of books there, when somebody behind him spoke, startling him. His hands jolted instinctively and he watched, almost in slow motion, as the books toppled over the edge like dominoes and started falling. In a desperate attempt to try and stem the rain of books, he threw his arms out, letting go of the ladder completely and swerving wildly to the left. This proved a terrible mistake. He went crashing down and ended up sprawled on his stomach on top of something soft and warm.

The avalanche of books continued for a moment or two and Kurt kept his eyes firmly closed. When at last it seemed the top shelf had burped out its last book, he opened his eyes and found himself breathless. Staring up at him was a boy. A beautiful, beautiful boy. His dark hair curled adorably around his ears and across his forehead, and his mouth was open in surprise. And his eyes, oh his eyes.
The boy made a wheezing noise and Kurt was suddenly very aware that he was more or less on top of him and that he had probably winded the boy badly. He scrambled to his feet, desperate not to crush the other boy even further and careful not to accidentally knee him in the groin. He thought the boy might feel he had suffered quite enough pain to be going on with. The boy had finally stopped wheezing and was slowly getting to his feet. He was covered in dust and Kurt realised he must not look much better himself. He felt the back of his neck burn.
“Oh. Oh God, I… I’m really sorry! Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry! I… I…”
The boy straightened up, coughed and Kurt could not stop his panicked tirade.
“I was just reaching for the shelf and they just toppled and I couldn’t… and I’m so, so sorry for falling on you and showering you with books and getting you all dusty and I bet you’re hurt, too. Oh, my God, you’re hurt, aren’t you? Oh no, and it’s all my fault and I’m so, so sorry, and – “

He was interrupted when the boy started laughing. His words dying in his throat, he stared at him, feeling the heat spread to his ears and cheeks. He knew he must look an absolute idiot, covered in dust and gabbling away, and for a moment the idea of the ground opening and swallowing him whole seemed very appealing. The boy stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder, and Kurt thought that he might actually pass out for a moment.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m not hurt or anything. Geez, you should see your face.” The boy chuckled a little.
Kurt opened his mouth, but could not seem to find the right words, so closed it again. Fantastic. As if his day was not bad enough, he had to humiliate himself in front of the most attractive guy in all of Ohio. It was just not fair.
The boy was still looking at him and Kurt could feel his cheeks and ears burning with mortification. It was definitely time to get out while he still had an inkling of pride left. Mumbling another apology, he hurried to grab his bag off the flimsy old chair and turned to leave.

A warm, soft hand closed around his wrist and he spun around, half-panicking and wondering whether the other boy was going to hit him. Instead, he was completely taken aback, because the boy was looking perfectly friendly and smiling at him.
“Hey! Don’t go! I’m sorry I laughed. You just had this expression on your face, it was priceless. But really, it’s okay. I’m fine. No damage done.”
Kurt wanted to respond, but he was distracted by the warm tingling feeling in his wrist, which the boy was still clutching.
“…and it was as much my fault for sneaking up on you. I really didn’t mean to. Oh. Um. I should probably introduce myself. I’m Blaine.”
Kurt’s brain seemed to consist largely of porridge at this point and he could only blink stupidly.
“Blaine?”
“Yeah. Well, actually, my full name’s Michael Blaine Anderson Jr, but my friends call me Blaine.”
Michael Blaine Anderson. The name stirred something in Kurt’s memory. In his head, he heard his father spit the name out with anger and bitterness, but he could not for the life of him remember why. It made him uneasy.
There was an awkward silence and the boy, Blaine, looked at him inquiringly.
“So. What’s your name?”
Oh, right. He was just about to answer when a poster caught his eye. It was a blown-up cover of Bridget Jones’ Diary and peering down from it was Colin Firth, a guarded expression on his face. Kurt did not know what made him do it, but perhaps it was the sense of foreboding from before.
“Colin. Colin… Hudson.”
“Nice to meet you, Colin.”
Kurt could only stare at Blaine’s proffered hand, his head still cloudy with equal parts embarrassment and half-forgotten memories tied to a name.
“Er. You shake it.” Blaine’s voice finally brought him back to the present and he hurried to grasp the extended hand, feeling his whole face flare up in embarrassment.
“N-nice to meet you too.”
Blaine chuckled.
“So… do you work here? Am I getting you in trouble with your boss for chatting with the customers?”
“Oh, er… no. I just organise the shelves sometimes. It’s just something I do.” Even before it came out of his mouth, Kurt could hear how pathetic it sounded. Blaine must think him a complete weirdo. Kurt could not really blame him.
If Blaine found it strange, he did not show it. Instead, he regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.
“I sometimes spend hours doodling on my schoolbooks and my notes. It can be really relaxing to just fall into something like that and not have to think all the time.”
“Yeah.” Kurt nodded. “It’s almost like meditation, I think.”
Blaine smiled and Kurt’s stomach did a funny little jolt. It was weird, standing there in the middle of a pile of books and talking to a complete stranger five minutes after having fallen right on top of him, but what was even weirder was that Blaine seemed to get him, to understand. Kurt was jolted out of his musings when his mobile phone buzzed with an incoming text.
“Oh. It’s my dad. I have to go home.”
Blaine gave a sympathetic little shrug.
“Well, it was nice talking to you, Colin. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
He laughed when Kurt could only stare at his own feet and mumble something unintelligible in reply, and reached up to squeeze his shoulder lightly.
“Take care, okay? And don’t be too hard on yourself. You seem like a really great guy.”
Kurt really wished he would stop blushing all the time, and he all but ran to his car, calling out a strangled “Bye” before leaving the shop. For the second time that day, he had to take a moment or two to calm down before starting the car and driving off.