The voice is clear; warm, with a rich tone that doesn’t root Kurt to the spot so much as the look on the boy’s face does. “Let you put your hands on me,” he sings right at Kurt, who buzzes pleasantly all over because that look is definitely a promise.

(yesterday)

“Sam quit the band?” Finn asks, chewing on something. Pork chops, Kurt suspects, judging from the jovial tone in his father's voice as he'd wrapped up their conversation and apologized—sorry kid, I’ve got to finish Carole’s dinner, but Finn’s almost done eating—before digging back into his meal with an audible clink of knife and fork.

“Yeah. I don’t blame him. Mostly. It hasn’t been a piece of cake so far, and we haven’t even started recording yet.”

“Ouch,” Finn says, voice low with sympathy. “You’re gonna need a lot of star power to replace Sam Evans.”

Kurt laughs, though he doesn’t much feel like it. “Yes, well. Maybe we can all leave our shirts off for the next decade to make up for the loss.”

“Uh.”

“Sorry.” He shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, gestures that Finn can’t see but that make Kurt feel more put-together anyway. “We're holding auditions tomorrow, though. Just us and Schue and the guys that almost made it in the first round, though Rachel wants to come and he’ll probably let her watch. And by ‘watch’, I mean ‘take over’, but if it solves our problem I’m all for it.”

“Rachel as in your girlfriend Rachel Berry?”

Kurt chokes on breath, retching as he hisses, “What?”

“Dude. You haven’t seen the Muckraker?”

Again, Finn can’t see, but it’s definitely an eyeroll-worthy comment. “That third-tier Perez Hilton wannabe?”

“It’s not my fault your dad makes me Google you every week,” Finn mumbles.

“And I’m up there?

“There’s a picture of you two on this morning’s Seen and Heard post. Outside that uh, coffee place you like so much.”

“Bean Yourself?”

“Hey!”

“No, that’s the coffee shop,” Kurt explains. “The owner’s a little uptight, but he doesn’t care how long you stay and he makes a great mocha.”

“Ah. Cool.” Finn chuckles. “Maybe you can take me there sometime.”

“Soon, Finn.”

Kurt smiles into the phone as they smoothly switch topics. Finn tells him all about the past week at North Lima Community College, and what’s going on with the guys at the shop.

-

The two-bedroom LA apartment he shares with Mike is nice enough—not resort living, but definitely above what he’d be able to afford on his own. Sam used to share the place (he and Mike had played rock-paper-scissors and Mike had won the single, but Kurt staked a firm claim on the master bedroom with ensuite bathroom), and in the week that he’s been gone, the room feels emptier. Which is more surprising than it sounds—Sam didn’t take up much space, even insisting on picking out a utility cot to sleep on though the label offered much nicer selections from the quarterly IKEA catalog. Sam only had his guitar and maybe a few changes of clothes, and he’d packed them up swiftly before he left, casting a salute to Kurt and the rest of the band and slinging his duffel bag and guitar case over his shoulder before walking out the door for good.

Kurt fires off a short text to him (Hope you’re well. We’re looking for your replacement today but I bet he won’t have half as good of a James Earl Jones impression!) and steps into the shower to prepare for the inevitably long morning. By the time he’s ready, Mike is flipping pancakes and sausage on the stove, and Kurt gratefully takes the offered plate and sits at the kitchen counter.

“Like it?” Mike asks, spearing a sausage on the end of his fork and taking a huge bite.

“It’s great,” Kurt answers. He’s not just being polite; he’d never lie to spare Mike’s feelings. The food is delicious, and from the looks of the kitchen carnage, there doesn’t seem to be a tacky pre-made boxed pancake mix in sight. “You know, I’ve never seen you make breakfast in the month we’ve been roommates? I’m impressed!”

Mike rolls his shoulders back, accepting the praise with a gracious smile. “I don’t cook that much, but a good breakfast makes me feel better about a day of big decisions. The last time I did it was the day we got signed.”

Kurt cuts another piece of pancake and swirls it in maple syrup, popping it into his mouth and nodding thoughtfully at Mike. “You’re worried about the new guy?”

“He could be awesome, you know? Or he could be rude. He could be talented or handsome or a huge douchebag who can’t sing.” Mike leans forward over his now-empty plate, eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t know what to expect. What if we pick someone and he doesn’t fit in? It’s been months, but I feel like I’ve known you guys practically my whole life. I can deal with change, or whatever this band is going to give us. I can’t deal with losing my friends.”

Everything Mike is saying rings frighteningly true. If a new addition to the band ruins their dynamic as friends, much less musicians, he’s not sure if he’d be able to handle it.

“Then we can’t let it happen,” Kurt says with finality, pushing his chair in and carrying their plates to the sink. Mike brushes his elbow against Kurt as he stands, and they walk out the apartment door.

-

Cody Melrose is the hottest manager on the music scene. They’re lucky to have him, Kurt knows, but he has a way of making Kurt feel like he’s in high school all over again.

“All right kids, here’s the situation.” Cody claps his hands twice for attention. “Evans left. Where does that leave us? We’ve got out requisite bad boy—” Puck touches his fingers to his temple in a salute, “—our nerdy sweetheart—” Artie raises a fist, “—our shy, friendly one—” Mike raises his head, bright-eyed, “—and our babyfaced youngster.” Kurt tips his head in acknowledgement, and Cody asks “So where does that leave us?” He doesn’t remind Cody that they’re all 18. It’s not worth the “Sure, whatever” he’ll get in return.

“I’m waiting,” Cody says impatiently, making a show of tapping his wrist. He’s not even wearing a watch. Kurt finds this tic incredibly obnoxious. The boys exchange glances, Mike throwing Kurt a puzzled frown, and Cody sighs heavily. “What we’re missing, boys, is our heartthrob. Our dreamboat.” He stresses the word dream like it’s about ten letters longer than it actually is. “You were all chosen for your talent, and definitely your looks. But let’s face it—what we need is the kind of stud teenage girls would line up to throw their panties at.”

“Hey,” Puck says, affronted.

Cody raises a hand to shut him up. “Call me when you bag a chick under forty.” Puck shrugs, because well, Cody does have a point. They’re not blind to their own strengths and weaknesses. While Kurt has no trouble admitting that as a whole, they're an attractive bunch, there's still something missing; a vital component that he's not sure he can name. “So today, we’re going to bring some guys in, all left over from the same auditions you went through, and you’re going to help me decide on a fifth member, and you will pick somebody tolerable, and sexy. Got it?”

They nod.

-

The first guy is fine, attractive but bland, like a store-bought snack pack of vanilla pudding. He sings the most insipid cover of “With a Little Help from My Friends” that Kurt has ever heard. The first chorus is barely over when Cody calls “Next!”

After him comes a string of young men so determinedly unique in their approaches that they all start to run together: the one with the spandex bodysuit and actual flaming batons; the one who, in the middle of Selena Gomez’s “Love You Like a Love Song”, decides to switch his routine up at the last minute with a display of Gregorian chant; the man with the decent voice muffled by his enormous squirrel’s head mask who asks Kurt if he has a Second Life account. (Artie had wildly shaken his head at this, and Kurt felt it was best to follow Artie’s lead.)

By the time they break for lunch, Kurt can feel the tension starting to break them all. Even Mike seems to be losing it, and that’s saying something. He comes back from Bean Yourself down the street with a mocha and a bagel with cream cheese (he’s not singing today; he can afford to indulge in some dairy) when a guy stops him in the parking lot.

“Hi,” the guy says. He folds his hands—strong-looking hands, Kurt most certainly does not notice—in front of him, a endearingly charming gesture that also draws Kurt’s eye down to the trim line of a waist, snugly covered by a crisp, well-tailored shirt. “I was told to come here for the New Directions audition after lunch. Am I late? I’m afraid I got lost on the way, and...” He makes a face that’s probably supposed to be rueful, but Kurt is entranced by the slight uptwist of his pout, the flutter of thick lashes under a heavy, furrowed brow.

Kurt swallows. “No, lunch is just ending. You should be fine if your timeslot’s after.” Relief breaks on his face, like Kurt’s just told him no, they won’t be kicking his puppies after all, and it’s just Kurt’s luck that a smile makes the guy about ten times more attractive, even moreso than he already was.

“Thanks,” the guy says, looking down, and then back up into Kurt’s eyes as he stretches out a hand that Kurt takes slowly, dazedly. “My name’s Blaine.”

-

Several times after, Kurt will look back on this moment and wonder how differently his life could have gone if he hadn’t done this. He takes a breath, takes a chance.

“We’re about to go back in for the rest of the auditions. Come on. I know a shortcut.”