“No, Rachel, I can’t make it on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. I’ve got an audition to schedule and then prepare for, and my final designs for the semester are due on Monday, so I’m going to be stuck at the apartment all weekend—no, only when hell freezes over am I going to step foot in that Nordstrom again, sale or no sale—what is my problem with that Nordstrom? My problem with that particular branch is that their sales associates were so kind to me when I was patiently explaining to them that—I was being patient! You’re going to stay at Finn’s for the weekend, right? Okay. Fine. I’ll see you on Monday so we can get victory coffee—or maybe Sunday night if you come home early. Rather, if, and when I get high praises from the board. Bye. And stop calling me your ‘best gay;’ it’s somewhat infuriati—is that Finn I hear over there? You two better not be having sex on the couch again, or I am going to castrate him when I get home—goddamn it, Rachel, just go and do it at his house so I don’t have to—alright. I love you too, Rach. Bye.”

Twenty-one year old Kurt Hummel hung up his phone in frustration, a puff of cold air emanating from his mouth as he let out an exasperated sigh. He turned a corner towards Third Avenue, and pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his thick pea coat as he trudged through the snow covering the already slippery New York pavements. I need a car. I really, really need to save up for a goddamn car.

The frigid December air bit at the visible skin on his face, and he pulled his beanie lower in order to cover his forehead. It’s going to mess up my hair, for sure—but who gives a rip? He thought to himself, and finally arrived at the Third Avenue subway station, purchased a ticket, and then boarded the next train for Grand Central.
As it always was, the train ride was unbearable, and people crowded the hub Kurt was stuck in. He felt as if he were going to suffocate—and a large group of people packed themselves into the train hub like sausages—Kurt humored himself with the banal analogy—as the train lurched forward with a sickening, loud groan.

His nose wrinkled at the smell of musky cologne and stale beer, and he attempted to shift his standing position, gripping the high bar with all of his might, in order to veer away and avoid the detestable stench. Unfortunately, his efforts were futile.

Fortunately, however, the train finally came to a stop at 14th-Street Union Square. Kurt breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped down from the train and walked towards the main doors of the station, with only one goal in mind: hail a cab and go straight for Parsons.

It was when the beautiful sound of a violin and Paganini crashed upon his ears did he stop by the entrance of the station. People hurriedly walked out of the station, but Kurt, who had a soft spot for classical music in general, remained obstinate, and turned his head to look for the source of the noise. Shaking it off as if it were an illusion, he began to make his way up the steps—but then, the sound, smooth as honey, rang out in the frigid, cold station. School. You need to get to your noontime class—

Well, fuck the class, he thought to himself, as he turned on his heel and waltzed right back into the main part of the station, looking for the source of the sound. He pushed through several people and found himself watching a young man, about a head shorter than he was, bundled up in a thick coat, cranking out one of Paganini’s Caprices—Kurt assumed it was one of the twenty-something ones—as if it were second nature, bonnet-covered head bobbing along with the quick and steady beats of the intro. Kurt looked around and inched closer to the man, who was feeling it—it was obvious—as his body leaned forward and lurched back as the tempo grew and grew faster.

A violin case was laid out at the man’s feet, and Kurt felt his stomach drop—there was nothing more than a few dollars. He fished through his pockets and pulled out a ten-dollar bill—goodbye, dinner money—and dropped it in the case. Anything to help out a fellow, struggling artist, Kurt thought to himself. He didn’t really stop to listen to most street performers—in fact, he didn’t have much money to donate, either, but he was somewhat drawn to this piece—very drawn to the piece.

The violin player, still playing his heart and soul out on the instrument, looked up at Kurt—and at that moment, Kurt’s breath hitched as his bright, blue-green eyes came into contact with warm, lovely hazel ones.

“Thank you,” the man said softly, as he continued to play. Kurt felt as if he should leave—but something kept on pulling him to stay and listen. He looked around at the people passing by in a mad rush, and decided to take a seat on the cold, freezing concrete station floor.

Though he couldn’t see the man’s face, Kurt could tell he was taken aback, and the violinist continue to play, and Kurt’s heart swelled when he heard a mighty, resounding crescendo.

The violinist ended with a beautiful, long note, and took a deep breath, putting down his violin carefully by his case as he stretched out his arms and fingers.

“That was fantastic,” Kurt said, still sitting down in front of him. School! School! – his mind rang out. “I could never play like that. Makes me regret not learning the violin when I was little,” he chuckled.

The man picked up a thermos and drank from it. “Thank you so much,” he said, smiling brightly. Kurt, again, felt his heart leap as the man grinned at him with a dashing set of pearly whites.

“How…how long have you been playing?” Kurt asked interestedly, beginning to stand up.

“Since I was five,” the guy shrugged. Kurt bobbed his head in appreciation.

“Impressive.”

“Again, thanks, man, for the ten.”

Kurt chuckled. “I would’ve given you a twenty, but then I didn’t expect to come across such a talented instrumentalist on the subway—I left my wallet at home. Anyway—I’ve…I’ve got to go. Class and stuff.”

The man’s triangular eyebrows shot up. “Oh! Okay! Where do you go?”

“Parsons Design School; I’ve got a class at noon.”

“Oh! Cool! Sorry for keeping you here,” the man said, his expression sincerely apologetic. Kurt smiled, his eyes crinkling the edges.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve still got thirty minutes until my class starts.”

The man’s eyes widened.

Kurt returned his surprised glance with a smile. “Keep on playing!” He turned on his heel and was about to go up the subway stairs and back into the bustling New York streets when he turned around to shout, “I’m Kurt Hummel, by the way!”

“Blaine Anderson!” the other guy shouted back, smiling.

“Keep on playing, Blaine Anderson!”

Kurt didn’t know what it was—impulse or pure desire—that made him shout out his name to a complete stranger, but he felt pretty glad that he did. He walked over to the taxi bay, and hailed one for school, his mind swimming with thoughts of the mysterious, green-eyed Blaine Anderson and his violin.

Well, I’m not going to buy a car for a while.

---

December 3, 2015

The next time Kurt saw Blaine, the latter was playing one of the pieces from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Kurt noticed that it was “Winter.” The tone was hushed, rushed; yet melancholy at the same time—Kurt attributed the overall mood of the piece to the semi-blizzard tearing through the streets of New York. Kurt was on his way to buy tickets for him, Rachel, and Finn for the revival of "Catch Me If You Can" on Broadway.

“You really do play the violin beautifully,” he admitted as he dropped yet another ten dollar bill in Blaine Anderson’s violin case. Blaine finished the nine-minute piece and smiled at Kurt, who was flushing red—and not just because of the weather.

“Gee, thank you so much,” he said happily, a grin breaking across his face.

The words came out of Kurt’s mouth faster than he had expected:

“Do you wanna go out and grab some coffee?” he asks quickly, adding, “Looks like your thermos is running out of juice—plus, it looks like you’ve been playing out here for hours.”

To his surprise, Blaine responded, “I was about to pack up anyway,” he said with a grin, collecting his afternoon gains and stuffing them in his pocket. “Sure!”

Kurt and Blaine then walked together to the nearest Tully’s, all plans of purchasing tickets wiped off the slate. The air pierced their skins sharply; people all around them were bustling about, bundled up in thick, winter coats and bonnets. The two of them took refuge in the back couches of the coffee shop, and when Blaine took off his bonnet, Kurt was surprised to see a bushel of curly black hair atop the violinist’s head.

“Nice hair,” he commented with a smile as they set their things down and walked towards the register to buy their coffee. Blaine let out a small chuckle.

“My mom said I always reminded her of a sheep. Back in high school, I used to gel it all down.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Kurt blabbed out without thinking. He cleared his throat and asked, “What do you want to drink?”

Blaine’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing. “Oh, no, please—I can pay for it myself!” he said, fishing in his pockets for the change he stuffed in his jacket earlier.

“I insist,” Kurt said firmly, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. Blaine sighed and let his shoulders slump.

“Medium drip,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem! I wasn’t the one standing in a freezing station for about five hours, Anderson,” Kurt chided. “…Drinking coffee I made this morning,” he added with a faux, involuntary shudder.

“Hey, I make a mean cup of coffee,” Blaine said defensively, laughing as they got to the register.

“One Grande non-fat mocha for me, and a medium drip for this guy,” Kurt said, jabbing a thumb in Blaine’s direction. The cashier nodded and shouted their orders at the barista, collected Kurt’s money, and then told them to wait at their seats.

The two men sat back down at their couches, and stripped themselves of their winter coats. Kurt was surprised when he saw Blaine—thin and slightly stocky, wearing an expensive-looking blue sweater with dark Capri pants, long and thick woolen socks, and a pair of loafers.

“So, Subway Man, tell me about yourself,” Kurt laughed.

“Well, I’m Blaine Anderson, that’s a good start,” Blaine chuckled. “And, I don’t mean to be blunt with you—I like to give full disclosure to anyone I meet, but I’m pretty much out and proud from Chicago.”

Kurt’s heart leapt at the words ‘out and proud’. “Oh! Same here! Well, except for the Chicago part—I’m from Ohio.”

Blaine’s smile grew wider.

“And, Mr. Kurt Hummel the Equally Out-And-Proud Ohioan, what are you doing here in New York?”

“I go to Parsons, as I said the first time I came across you—I’m majoring in fashion design. I’m also auditioning for as many shows as I can here in the area, both on and off Broadway. You? Why do you work at the subway?”

“I’m awaiting my audition for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra,” Blaine admitted, running a hand through his curly hair. The barista walked by and set their drinks down on the table, and they drank and gulped down the drinks graciously. “I graduated from Julliard last year with a degree in violin performance and pedagogy, and my dad cut me off assisted payments, so I’ve been working at a Barnes and Noble on the weekends—and playing at the 14th Street cutoff station on weekdays to keep up with my rent. I didn’t want to settle with a silly, boring 24-hour job at a Seven-Eleven. Plus, I like books, so when it’s an off-day, I get to read.”

“That must be terrible,” Kurt said quietly, sipping his cup. “But, the pay is probably better at a Seven-Eleven.”

“Yeah,” Blaine admitted. “But…I love to play my violin. The books I read are amazing, but finding the sneaky, right time to read them is tedious and exhausting. Playing the violin…it just feels incredibly natural to me.”

“How long have you been playing?”

Blaine tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Since I was five. I’m twenty-two now, so…seventeen years since February.”

“That’s crazy,” Kurt whistled.

“Yeah, but it’s my favorite kind of crazy,” Blaine said fondly, eyeing his violin case. “I would rather play it all day than work at a desk—wouldn’t you? I mean, do whatever it is you were good at for the rest of your life, despite any restrains life throws at you?”

“Yeah, I would,” Kurt admitted, his eyes slightly downcast. “It’s just really hard. My friend and roommate, Rachel—she’s also trying her hand at auditioning for things. She goes to NYADA—and even though she goes there, it’s been hard for her to beat out the other Broadway hopefuls.”

“Damn, the New York Academy? That’s pretty high-class.”

“I would have gone, too, but I wasn’t accepted. I was lucky that I sent a second application to Parsons and got in. I’m graduating—hopefully—in June.”

“Good luck with that, my friend,” Blaine said, nodding appreciatively. Kurt nodded in thanks.

There was a small, pregnant pause between the two of them—a comfortable, plausible pause.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Blaine began, “where do you and your friend live?”

“Oh, East Village,” Kurt said offhandedly.

“I live down there, too!” Blaine said happily. “That’s cool!”

Kurt nearly choked on his coffee. “How come I haven’t seen you there before?”

“It is a big community. I live close to the East River Park,” Blaine shrugged. “But, we should definitely meet up again next time. I was lucky you chose my violin case to drop your money in.”

The latter gave him a wry smile. “Indeed, we should. I should warn you, though—Rachel is like a human sledgehammer and she has a strange penchant of cross-examining every new person who crosses our doorstep,” he added as an afterthought. Blaine smiled.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to face her sooner or later,”

“Indubitably—if you ever want to stop by, here’s our address,” Kurt said, writing it down on a napkin, along with his cell phone number. He handed it to Blaine, who put it in his pocket. “If she answers the door, tell her you’re my next fashion victim—and I was wondering, where did you ever get that sweater? It’s quite nice.”

“I’ve had it since I was in high school,” Blaine confessed. “I haven’t had the time or money to buy the nice stuff my parents always stuffed my closet with back then.”

“You’ve come across the right person then—I can help you in that department,” Kurt said gallantly. “Swing by our place next week. I’ve got to finish up my semester-end designs, this weekend, so—hold on, is Monday a good day for you?”

Blaine grinned. “My schedule is wide open.”

“Well, Mister Anderson, it looks like you’ve got a new friend and plans for Monday evening,” Kurt chortled, holding out his hand. Blaine took it.

“All because of a ten dollar bill and Paganini, it seems,” Blaine muses, shaking his new friend’s hand.

---

December 3, 2015, continued – evening

Kurt came home to Rachel and his apartment, nearly skipping, sans the Catch Me If You Can tickets.

She chastised him for a good five minutes, but he hardly paid attention.

All he thought about was the handsome, curly-haired and hazel-eyed violin player he just had coffee with.

---

December 4, 2015

Class was over for the day. Kurt didn’t see Blaine at the station in the morning, but he did receive a text from him, while he was on his way back to the 14th Street Station.

Hey, is this Mr. Kurt Hummel the Out And Proud Ohioan? This is Blaine the Out And Proud Chicagoan; I was wondering if Monday’s still on? Good luck with your semester design presentation!

And, another one: Sorry I didn’t text you right away last night; I ran out of minutes.

Smiling, Kurt texted back: Yeah, it is. Hiya, Blaine the Out And Proud Chicagoan. Thanks for the text, and the luck! I’m going to need it. Hey, are you at the station today?

Blaine texted back almost immediately: I got called in at B&N to help out with inventory—so I won’t be at the station until Tuesday. I’m giving myself a day off from the station on Monday so I can go over to your place!

Kurt’s heart leapt at the words “I can go over to your place!” and he unconsciously held his phone to his chest as he entered the subway station and purchased his ticket back to East Village.

---

December 6, 2015

“Guest. We’re gonna have a guest tomorrow night.”

“Someone is coming over tomorrow night?” Rachel’s voice echoed from the small kitchenette. She had just returned from Finn’s apartment. Kurt looked up blearily from their equally small couch, his note cards for tomorrow’s presentation scattered all over the floor. His MacBook Pro was propped open on the coffee table; his designs practically screaming at him from the screen. “Is that why you forgot to buy our Catch Me tickets?”

“Yes,” he said tiredly, chucking a pencil at the wall. “He’s a new friend I met on the subway last week.”

“My qualms do not concern where you met him—but, the subway, of all places, jeez—but where is he from? Is he a rapist? You never know! Is he going to knock us out in the middle of the night and steal all of our things? Kurt, you can’t just invite people you barely know to our apartment without asking me!” Rachel snapped, leaning over the couch to face him, a wooden ladle in her hand.

“He’s twenty-two, from Chicago, and plays the violin. His name is Blaine,” Kurt grumbled. “He’s practically harmless, Rachel. He works at a fucking Barnes and Noble. He’s a violin prodigy.”

“Anything else that could be satisfying to know?” Rachel quipped.

“He’s gay,” Kurt added as an afterthought, shrugging. “Not that it makes any difference—”

“OH, yes it does, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel!” she exclaimed.

“If you turn this into a hook up scheme, I will make sure your argyle sweaters and toe socks are burnt for our fire. Well, our stove, since we obviously don’t have a fireplace…”

Rachel opened her mouth to say something, but put a ladle-gripping hand on her hip. “Is he cute?”

Kurt snorted. “Jesus, Rachel, I just met the guy—yes,” he admitted. “Yes, yes he is—but he’s just a new friend.”

“A new friend you’ve been texting all weekend while preparing for your presentation tomorrow,” Rachel nagged. “Come on, up, off the couch, Kurt Hummel—”

“’S the problem? I told you about him. Now, leave me in peace to prepare for tomorrow. Plus, your latest faux-Burberry sweater is giving me whiplash.”

She made a face. “Dinner is ready.”

Kurt stretched out on the couch and sighed. “Are you sure you didn’t make anything poisonous tonight? Plus, I thought you were going to go out with Finn later.”

“He’s working late tonight at the store.”

Finn, his stepbrother (who also lived in the apartment directly above them) worked at the nearby Seven-Eleven, part-time while balancing his courses in sports science at a local community college. Kurt chuckled at the thought. “…I didn’t want to settle with a silly, boring 24-hour job at a Seven-Eleven,” he remembered Blaine telling him.

“Oh,” he said tiredly, getting off the small couch. He walked the small distance to the tiny dinner table they both shared and Rachel ladled out a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Eat up. You’ve got fashion bigwigs to talk to tomorrow, and a new maybe-rapist friend to entertain tomorrow.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Kurt snorted.

Rachel gave him a grin filled with unabashed amusement. “One of my many redeeming qualities.”

As if on cue, Kurt’s phone blinked with another text:

Break a leg tomorrow, Ohioan! – Blaine :)

---

December 7, 2015>
12:01PM

He had passed. Kurt whooped and jumped as he ran out of the Parsons building, clicking his heels—clicking his heels, ha!—people on the streets giving him perplexed and amused glances. He clutched his bag close to his chest as he hurried towards the subway station, unconsciously glancing around for Blaine—and when he remembered that he would see his new ‘friend’ later that night, he tried to repress his excitement as he stood in the crowded train hub, swerving back and forth as the train shook back and forth across the tracks.

---

December 7, 2015
1:30PM

Hello there, Mister Hummel! – B

Hello there to you, too, Mister Anderson! - K

So, what time shall I go to your humble abode? – B

How about 5PM? I’ll probably have my roommate reigned in and dinner all set! –K

Okay! I shall arrive promptly at 5 o’clock PM. :) Thank you again! – B

It’s no problem. Can’t wait, Subway Man! – K

---

December 7, 2015 – continued
4:30PM

“No confrontation.”

“No confrontation.”

“No asking ‘are you a rapist?’ to him.”

“No asking ‘are you a rapist?’ to him—Kurt!” Rachel complained loudly, frowning at him angrily. “I am not going to ask him that! That is utterly beneath me.”

Kurt cracked a smile as he fixed the dinner table. He had put the best tablecloth on it, and he had made a small, but ostensibly filling dinner, and it was already set on top. He laid out three plates—Finn would be out working again—and he and Rachel were dressed casually for the evening. Their tiny, eclectic apartment was cleaned to the brim—Kurt made sure of it—and soft music blared from Rachel’s iPod speakers: Barbra Streisand.

“Do you think you can change the playlist?” Kurt frowned as he paced around the house, re-checking every nook and cranny. Rachel snorted as he checked under the table. “While I do adore Barbra, I have my limits.”

“It’s my apartment, too. Kurt, it’s not like this is a date or anything—I mean, you just met him a few days ago…”

Kurt shot up from underneath the table, banging his head sharply on the wooden bottom side. “FUCK!” he hissed, crawling out from underneath, clutching the top of his head gingerly. His eyes were watering as he groped around the top of the table for something cold.

“No, no, no! Let me!” Rachel said loudly, slightly panicking. She hurried to the kitchenette and rummaged through the freezer for a pack of peas. She handed it to him and he put it to the sore spot on his head, letting out a moan. “See, this is what you get for overreacting—”

“Now I know how you feel whenever you plan a dinner for Finn,” Kurt groaned, keeling over onto his side. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need to get some aspirin. If he comes to the door, can you open it and let him in for me?”

Kurt stood up, gripping one of the dinner table chairs for support, and walked to the bathroom, moving the pack of peas around gingerly. “Don’t ask him if he’s a rapist! I swear: I will burn those goddamned sweaters of yours! I wasn’t kidding, Rachel!”

Rachel shouted back, “Of course not!”

---

December 7, 2015 – continued
5:00PM

Rachel looked at the dinner table, and re-aligned the tablecloth and clapped her hands together and whistled while she walked around to continue Kurt’s cleanliness round about the main area of the apartment.

The clock struck five PM, and the doorbell rang. “Rachel, get the door!” Kurt shouted. He had taken to resting his head for a few minutes. Rachel cleared her throat, patted down her skirt and walked to the front door and peeked through the eyehole.

Outside the door stood a very handsome, curly-haired young man with geometrically shaped eyebrows and cool, hazel eyes. “Are you Blaine?” she asked primly.

“Yes, and you must be Rachel,” Blaine Anderson said on the other side of the door. Rachel grinned and opened the door, flourishing her arm.

“Welcome!” she said politely as he walked in, clutching a guitar case, a small bundle, and a sweater in his arms. She watched him marvel at the small apartment, and he stopped at the end of the foyer. “Oh, oh, have a seat,” she said, gesturing towards the couch. Blaine set his sweater on the arm of the leather couch and held out the small bundle to Rachel, who took it.

“These are some cookies I bought on the bakery along Fifth Avenue. I was on my way back from the Lincoln Center—I went to inquire about the Philharmonic Orchestra and their audition dates.”

“Why, thank you!” She peeked into the little bundle—white chocolate macadamia nut and chocolate chip cookies. “Oh, these are lovely and they smell delicious.” She put them on the table and then sat down across from him, arms folded on her lap. “So, you are auditioning for the Philharmonic Orchestra?” she asked interestedly. Blaine nodded.

“Yes, but not until April—they finally had the first violin chair open. It was too bad the spot wasn’t opened in the Fall; I would have jumped at the chance immediately.”

“You must be very talented,” Rachel nodded. Blaine flushed a deep shade of red. “Kurt tells me you went to Julliard.”

“No, no—not really—well, yes, I did go to Julliard, but—I…yeah,” he said, obviously overwhelmed. Rachel smiled. She liked this boy already. He cleared his throat, getting out of his brief, flustering moment. “So, I heard you go to NYADA?”

Her face lit up. “Yes, yes I do! I’m graduating this year, actually—I’ve been aiming for a bachelor’s degree in the performing arts.”

“That’s fantastic! I hope I see you in some shows around here soon,” Blaine said encouragingly, smiling at her warmly. Rachel gave him a delighted grin.

“Oh, you will,” she said pompously. “You will see Kurt’s designs on me one day. He’s absolutely fantastic!” she gushed.

Kurt’s voice floated from the hallway. “What about me?”

Blaine sat up immediately, adjusting his posture. “Hi, Kurt!” he said breezily. He and Kurt gave each other a brief hug and Kurt stood between them, clapping his hands together excitedly.

“Pardon my…um, apparent lateness; I was…indisposed for quite a few minutes,” he confessed. Rachel attempted to repress her laughter. “Rachel, shut up.”

“Feeling much better now, are we?” Rachel said, letting out a loud snort. “He hit his head on the table—he was trying to make everything perfect for tonight’s dinner!”

“RACHEL!” Kurt moaned, picking up a pillow and threatening to throw it at her. Rachel shielded herself, and Blaine chuckled. “Anyway, let’s eat!” he said, collecting himself, still clutching at the pillow.

“Sounds like a wonderful idea!” Blaine said.

---

December 7, 2015 – continued11:45PM

“AND THEN THIS ONE TIME, KURT RAN AROUND IN HIS UNDERWEAR, AND THEN FINN—FINN LAUGHED AND IT WAS SO FANTASTIC.”

“REALLY?”

“LIES AND SLANDER!”

“N-N-NOOOOO, SERIOUSLY, HE DID! IT WAS SO FUNNY!”

“ONE TIME, RACHEL SKINNY-DIPPED SOMEWHERE, I CAN’T EVEN RECALL WHERE, AND THEN I STOLE HER CLOTHES.”

“YOU WERE THE BASTARD WHO STOLE MY CLOTHES?”

“REVENGE!”

“HEY, AT LEAST YOU WERE IN THE COMFORT OF OUR HOME!”

“HOME IS A GREAT PLACE!”

“FANTASTIC!”

“ORGASMIC!”

“ORGANIC!”

The three of them, clutching glasses of wine, were hiccupping and laughing around the dinner table, clutching their sides as they exchanged drunken stories happily. Dinner had gone on without a hitch, and after several delicious plates of pasta—Kurt was an expert at making fettuccine alfredo—and several glasses of wine, they found themselves reveling in each others’ presences, and began to talk unabashedly about the most random of topics. Before their talk of streaking and skinny-dipping, Blaine had entertained them with songs on his guitar—including some old Katy Perry hits, which Rachel and Kurt sang along to.

“One time—one—one time—” Blaine hiccupped, laughing as he leaned back in his chair, “—I don’t know,” he chortled, and Kurt and Rachel burst out, laughing. Their laughter subsided and became small giggles.

“I’m gonna go and see Finny-bear! He’s probably home from work!” Rachel said with an incredibly silly laugh, standing up, swaying a little. “He said he’d be home by miiiiiiidniiiighhht!” she said with a trill.

“Bye, Rachy!!” Kurt and Blaine said excitedly as she tittered out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.

Now, the two of them were alone. Kurt, who was the—ahem, technically speaking—more ‘sober’ of the two of them, rested his hand under his chin and looked at Blaine as he sipped his wine.

“This—this is the life,” Blaine said, his eyes wide and dilated, holding his hands out. A little wine spilled out of his glass. “Not like—like the shit time I spent in Chicago!”

“Ohio was a complete shit hole!” Kurt added. “Shit, shit, shitty, shit, shit!”

“Homophobes in my community—”

“Yes, the homophobes—and—and the slushie facials—hell, I hated blueberry! Goes up your ass and shit like that!”

“—Dumpster-throwing, name-calling, oh, oh, those assholes who beat me up in the eighth grade! Fuck, man!”

“—The closeted douche who kissed me out of my own volition in the boys’ locker room during my junior year!”

“—Shit family!”

“—Getting elected Prom Queen!”

“Prom Queen?” Blaine said incredulously, his scalene eyebrows shooting to his hairline. “Oh, hell no!”

“Oh, hell yes!”

“NO!”

“YES!”

“—I WAS THE ONLY OUT GAY KID!”

“—SO WAS I!”

“—NO WAY.”

“YES WAY!”

“NO. NO. NO. THAT’S NOT COOL!”

“YOU KNOW WHAT?”

“WHAT?”

“THERE’S ONLY ONE WORD TO DESCRIBE OUR HIGH SCHOOL LIVES!”

A pause.

“SHIT!” they said together.

The two of them burst out into loud guffaws, Kurt already leaning his head on Blaine’s shoulder as they laughed and laughed. Blaine’s hand rested on Kurt’s thigh and they looked at each other as their laughs slowly began to subside, something new in both of their eyes.

In that split second, glasz met hazel.

Blaine’s eyes fell down to Kurt’s lips.

In that split second, their lips crashed together.

---

December 8, 2015
8:00AM

Kurt woke up in a warm, pleasant, and sticky tangle of limbs. He slowly untangled himself from whoever was next to him and stretched out, yawning. He rubbed his eyes and looked over at the clock: eight in the morning. He blinked, his eyesight still a little blurry, and finally realized what was going on.

He was completely naked.

And Blaine was lying next to him, now clutching his—Kurt’s—pillow, unconsciously licking his lips, still asleep.

Also naked.

Holy. Shit.

Jesus, take the wheel. No. Take the whole goddamned highway.

“Blaine,” he said quietly, shaking the other man’s shoulder hastily, sitting up. “Blaine. Blaine, wake up.”

“N-no,” Blaine mumbled—(adorably, Kurt thought, but then he pushed the thought out of his mind, remembering what had consummated between the two of them)—and proceeded to shift his position: he was now clutching Kurt’s leg as if it were a pillow. Kurt let out a frustrated moan and kept on shaking him awake.

“Blaine Anderson, the out-and-proud-Chicagoan, please, please wake the hell up!” Kurt trilled loudly and nervously, hoping and praying to whatever deity there was up in the great, big, blue sky that Rachel was still at Finn’s.

Blaine’s eyes fluttered open, and he lifted his head up slowly and heavily, turning to face Kurt drowsily. “Good morning, sunshine.”

One second passed, and a look of realization finally flittered upon Blaine’s face, and he immediately let go of Kurt’s leg. “Holy. Fuck.”

“Yes, yes, ‘holy fuck’, indeed,” Kurt groaned, quickly taking his pillow and covering his crotch. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Blaine—”

Blaine looked panicked and he was now pulling the sheets up to cover himself. “No—no—I should be the one who’s saying sorry—Oh, god, I totally imposed on your hospitality, and I drank too much—and fuck, shit, oh my god.”

“No—no—I…oh fucking hell, what happened last night?”

“We were laughing—I remember we were laughing—and oh my god, we kissed, and—”

Kurt vaguely remembered Blaine’s hand go down his jeans, a lot of kissing, and then he remembered himself dragging Blaine to his bedroom, the door slamming, a very, very pleasant heat, and then—

“We had sex last night, didn’t we?”

Blaine quipped sarcastically, “Oh, figure that out now, fashion designer?”

“Hey—I was trying to retrace my—our—steps—oh dear god, Rachel will never let me live this down, and fucking hell—”

“Let’s just say that we were both at fault,” Blaine said, panicking, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“I agree—oh shit, and we just met—”

“—I feel that makes things much worse—”

“—Fuck—”

They both fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling, their arms lying limp by their sides. Blaine looked over by Kurt’s open dresser drawer, and saw a bottle of lube and a box of condoms lying on the floor.

“Um. At least we were using…protection?” he said, laughing nervously, looking at Kurt. Kurt looked at him, and they both burst out laughing.

“I am so sorry—” Kurt groaned, burying his face in the crook of Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine sighed and ruffled his hair.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Silence.

“What a wonderful evening, wasn’t it?” Kurt snorted.

“The best.”

They both chuckled.

Even more silence.

“You know…that…even though I can’t…you know, recall how it all happened and all of that nonsense, I just remember…feeling really, really good,” Kurt whispered as they just lay there. “You’re quite good, Subway Man.”

“Oh, stop calling me that,” Blaine murmured back, closing his eyes. “But…yeah, me too. I—I mean—”

“—I know what you mean,” Kurt snorted in return. “Well, now.”

Silence, again.

“How about some breakfast?”

“That sounds delightful. Plus, I’d like to clean up before we go.”

“Be my guest.”

After a few more minutes, Blaine quietly tiptoed to the bathroom as Kurt lay in his bed, eyes still closed.

Oh, hey, I just had random, drunken sex with a very, very talented musician, Kurt thought to himself, turning over on his side—the side opposite the one of the bathroom—and his eyes flitted open as he hugged his pillow. Random thoughts began popping up in his head: him and Blaine, Kurt and Blaine, Blaine and Kurt, always waking up like this, in each other’s arms.

He bit his lip.

And I’ve just met him.

He heard Blaine’s voice flitting out of the bathroom, the shower turned on.

You think I’m pretty, without any make-up on...

---

December 8, 2015 – continued
10:00AM

Rachel still hadn’t returned to the apartment. On their way to a pancake house by the apartment building, Kurt texted Finn, who told him that she was there, still sleeping.

Dude, what did you do last night? Finn asked. Kurt stuffed his phone back in his pocket immediately.

When he and Blaine finally found a table at the back of the nearly empty shop, they ordered two plates of blueberry pancakes and coffee, and ate. For a while, there was a comfortable silence between them while they ate, and finally, Blaine spoke.

“Listen, Kurt, if you don’t want me to go to your house ever again—”

“—Blaine, listen to me. This—I mean, that—wasn’t one-sided, okay? I guess I was just as…” –Kurt flushed—“horny, as you were, to put it bluntly,” he deadpanned, picking at his pancakes. “Oh, god, I have the biggest headache right now.”

“Amen,” Blaine agreed, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t drunk that much since…oh, I don’t know, graduation last year.”

“I haven’t drunk this much since…my birthday, I guess. Seven months ago.”

“May child, are you?”

“Yes—how about you? Shit, we had sex and I don’t even know your birthday,” Kurt groaned, and they both started laughing.

Blaine managed to choke out, “Do you have to bring it up every sentence?”

“Of course. Oh, goodness, I bet this is going to end up being one of our inside jokes.”

“’Inside,’” Blaine winked.

Kurt picked up the menu on his side and whacked Blaine on the forehead. “You are such an immature 22 year-old.”

“One of my exceptionally redeeming qualities!” Blaine said in a singsong voice. “Oh, and my birthday—the fifth February.”

Kurt said as he sipped his coffee. “May 28.”

“February the fifth, May the twenty-eighth. Step number one,” Blaine said, drawing a checkmark in the air with his finger, “…complete.”

Kurt’s eyes softened. “And, what, my friend, is step number one?”

“’Getting to know each other’, of course!” Blaine said happily, shrugging and acting as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“And what huge scheme is this a part of?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll climb that hill when we get there.”

Kurt couldn’t help but smile.