"Autumn in New York… why does it seem so exciting? Inviting?"

"…did you want that baked, or breaded and fried?" Kurt asks, pen poised over a pad of paper.

"Dreamers with empty hands, all sigh for exotic lands..."

Kurt's eyes flicker to his watch, but his face is calm and composed. It won't do at all to look impatient, but really, choosing one or the other is not a matter of life and death and certainly does not require the input of the other seven guests at one's table, and really, these people need to hurry the hell up because he's already running late. He's already traced over the Botticelli's watermark on the paper a dozen times and it's taking all of his self-control not to start tapping his foot right now so-

"The gleaming rooftops at sundown… it lifts you up when you run down..."

"-might I suggest having it baked? We just imported a new seasoning, very zesty," Kurt pipes up brightly, and, thank god, they all agree it's a wonderful idea. He scribbles it down, assures them it'll only be a minute, and hurries, as well as one can through a packed, bustling restaurant, to the kitchens.

"But it's autumn in New York. It's good to live again…"

The woman's voice and the accompanying piano grow faint as the wide doors swing shut behind him.

"Quinn's looking hot tonight, eh?" Puck says with a lascivious wink.

"Tortelloni alla zucca? Also, baccala, baked," Kurt says, ignoring Puck's commentary, as he's more than used to it by now.

Puck wipes the condensation that's collected on his forehead with the back of his hand as he scans Kurt's notes. "'Zesty' seasoning? Not giving me any help here, are you? And you know baccala's really supposed to be battered and fried, right?"

Kurt shrugs. Too late now. "I told them we got something new in."

"Something 'zesty.'"

"Right."

"I should rat you out to the boss, you little liar," Puck says, but he's teasing. "Don't worry. I'll come up with something."

"Thank you. Tortelloni alla zucca?" he repeats insistently.

"Tor-te-lloni a-lla zu-cca it is," Puck replies with a heavily stereotypical, lilting Italian accent, handing it to him along with three other orders.

Kurt sets them all on a tray, backing out of the wide swinging doors gracefully. He seeks out the corresponding table, but spots Rachel making a bee line for him out of the corner of his eye. It's too late to change direction, and with a sigh he awaits the inevitable crash.

"She's so flat!" the brunette waitress exclaims.

"Oh, I don't know about that. She's got a very nice figure," Kurt replies, trying to maneuver around her but failing miserably.

"No, no. I meant her singing," Rachel says impatiently.

"Is she tone deaf? She sounds terrible."

"As much as I'd love to play 99-Reasons-I-Hate-Quinn with you, I'm kinda busy."

Rachel makes an exasperated sound. "Here, let me take care of that. Didn't your shift end, like, ten minutes ago?"

"Thanks, Rach. You're a lifesaver," Kurt says, handing her the platter gratefully.

"But I want 50% of your tips," she adds quickly.

"50%? Are you joking? I did all the work," Kurt hisses, but they've already reached the table, and he mechanically flashes his practiced waiter's smile. "Sorry, but my shift's over. If you need anything, feel free to ask Rachel- she'll take over from here."

On cue, Rachel steps forward, beaming brightly and serving the food.

The slightly pudgy woman in an ill-fitting sky-blue dress seated at the table smiles up at him, her heavily powdered face making her very red lips stand out like a bloody slash. Kurt gives her a perfect, practiced smile anyway, fighting the urge to grimace. A nice royal blue would definitely suit her far better; a halter top, maybe, something a little more forgiving on her bust…

"Alright, 25%," Rachel says once they're done and away.

"Fine."

She's finally satisfied and leaves him alone. Kurt's too much in a hurry to prolong an argument, as arguments with Rachel can last for days. He hurries off to the kitchens again before she can change her mind.

"Where ya running off to, Kurt?" Puck asks as he haphazardly tosses spices into a boiling pot. "Azimio!" he barks suddenly at the cook on his right. "I said three shakes of marjoram, not four, dammit!"

"What's the difference?" comes the sulky reply.

"There's a big difference! You just threw off the whole balance of that fucking soup, you dumbass-"

"-Mercedes," Kurt replies as he twists his combination lock open, once again not phased by Puck's behavior. Being head cook does come with some perks and certainly a lot of authority. Although he can't remember a time when the rowdy young man had ever refrained from telling someone what he thought in the most aggressive way possible.

Kurt unbuttons his employee-issue vest, then his white dress shirt. He neglected his bow tie in his haste and ends up wrangling with it after reaching the topmost button. He wrinkles the collar in the process and curses as he hangs it up in his locker. His dress slacks are the next to go, and Puck whistles loudly.

"Shut up," Kurt says, pulling on a plain black, slim-fitting, V-neck t-shirt and skinny jeans. "Shoes, shoes, shoes…” He growls in frustration. The pair in question are in the corner of his locker, mashed beneath a calculus textbook which he places there daily in the vain hope that he will somehow find time to study during breaks.

He tugs on his immaculate white sneakers he saved two weeks’ worth of tips for, the ones with the espadrille soles, and just as he stands up he realizes they aren't so immaculate after all.

"Dammit," Kurt growls as he rubs furiously at the black smudge of grime on the tip of his right shoe, but only succeeds in making the area around it a little grayer. "Water, I need water and a rag! Noah!"

But Puck's already there, sopping dishrag in hand. Kurt wrinkles his nose in disgust and takes it gingerly, but it does the trick.

"Thanks," he says gratefully, dusting himself off and grabbing his bag.

"It's like you're getting ready to meet the Queen of France or something."

"France hasn't had a queen since 1848."

"Point is, slow down, little bro. Enjoy life a li- Goddamit, Azimio! Two slices of lemon. And fucking smile while you're cooking. Angry food tastes like shit. Anyway, did she like the risotto from last time?"

"Yeah. Loved it," Kurt says distractedly, picking up the box of take-out Puck had left on the counter beside him. "And for your information, I don't have any time to 'slow down'. I don't plan on working here forever."

"Whatever, you little braniac. By the way, I threw in something extra for you there too."

"As always, Noah, your wit and generosity are greatly appreciated," Kurt replies sarcastically, but he and Puck both know that their banter is all play. He'd be starving otherwise.

Kurt loads the boxes and his bag into the rusted metal basket of his rickety bike. Luckily for him, The Grande is only a few blocks away.

He slips into the back room that serves as lounge for the employees of the hotel when they're on break. Mercedes is there already, and upon spotting him squeals excitedly and throws her arms around him.

"Kurt Hummel, you have no idea how much I've missed you, boy! Ooh, you brought me food? How do I know Puckerman didn't slip a little somethin' somethin' into this?" she teases.

Kurt returns her bone-crushing hug. He isn't a very touchy-feely person, but Mercedes is one of the few exceptions. Between school and work, he hasn't had much time to himself, and even less for his best friend. Last week, however, he swore he'd come see her, and well… here he is. "Missed you too. How's everyone?"

Mercedes fills him in on the latest gossip. Kurt clutches at the Styrofoam cup of standard instant coffee set out for the employees that she offers him and tries to be interested- he loves Mercedes, she's always so sassy and energetic, and he practically thrives on gossip- but for some reason he finds himself glancing worriedly at the clock. He usually studies during the two-hour break he has between shifts, but at the rate Mercedes' going, those two hours are as good as gone.

"Oh! Before I forget. I got you something," she interjects excitedly in the middle of her own monologue, rushing over to her locker.

She pulls out a garment bag made of heavy black fabric. And when she unzips it, Kurt, for a moment, forgets to breathe.

"When I saw this I thought, that would look so fab and perfect on Kurt!"

It's a suit, a whole set, complete with a crisp white dress shirt, inky-black tie, and a pair of polished shoes.

It’s perfect, not a line or perfectly folded crease out of place. It’s absolutely fucking beautiful.

"This is- this is Versace!" He reaches out with a shaking hand to stroke the silky jacket sleeve. Wool-blend, double vent, unhemmed for that custom fit that makes a Versace suit look both polished and relaxed. He would know this brand anywhere, and indeed, when he lifts the notched lapels, the seven-letter word is stitched into the lining. "But-" he stutters, looking at Mercedes with wide, shocked eyes, "how did you afford this? The jacket alone is at least $700!"

She looks away and bites her lip. "Well…"

"Oh my god Mercedes, did you… No. Oh god no. Did you steal this? That's a Class-A Misdemeanor at the very least! Are you crazy- mmph!"

Mercedes slaps her hand over Kurt's mouth. "I did not steal it. I just… borrowed it. Now calm down, boy, before we get into some real trouble."

"We already are in trouble," he hisses. "No, I take that back. You are. But I could still get expelled for this! And what do you mean, 'borrowed'?"

"Okay, listen. There's this guy staying at one of the fancy suites near the top floor. He checked in yesterday and he's got a hundred of these lined up in his closet, and this morning he set this sweet thing out for dry cleaning. So I saw it and thought, why not?"

"Why not? Why not? I'll tell you why, because it's illegal!"

"Well, it's already down here. You may as well try it on."

"Try it on? You are insane. I'm leaving. I had nothing to do with this, do you understand?"

"Come on, Kurt! I had Tina clean it up for you and everything."

Kurt groans and rubs at his temples tiredly. "Please. Stop. Do you understand the agony you're putting me through?" He can't tear his eyes away from the suit, from the sheer perfection of it. He loves Versace, he's been following fashion religiously since he could read, and he's been dreaming about wearing a real suit for years. But this is wrong, this is stealing, this is very, very illegal and right now he hates Mercedes for putting him through this. "I don't see the point anyway. It's not like I can keep this."

"I know that," Mercedes replies, rolling her eyes. "Look, you've only got an hour left before you have to go back to that restaurant and play some more kiss ass. An hour, Kurt."

"You want me to make believe? Play dress up? What good is it going to do?"

"Well, what's the harm? Please, all I'm saying is, I did not run all up and down this hotel and make Tina stay up late prettying this up for you just so you can say no. Please, Kurt, pleeease? It'll only be for a minute. I just want to see how it looks on you."

He caves in (needless to say he actually caved in the moment he laid eyes on it, but he’s not about to admit that he has no sense of self control) and changes into the suit.

The fabric is luxurious against his skin, weighty but not hampering, heavy in the way that screams quality. Mercedes peeks over at him even before he's done fixing his tie.

"Oh, Kurt," she gasps. She drags him over to stand in front of the mirror installed into the locker door, and Kurt is breathless again.

It's not perfect. The waistband is a little too large and sags against his slim hips, and the hems drag against the floor. Whoever owns this suit has broader shoulders too, longer arms and bigger feet. It's not perfect, but it's close, and he can't believe his reflection. He looks older, elegant, more sophisticated. Mercedes pulls out a comb and parts his hair just right, and even though there a few fly-away strays, the entire ensemble is wonderful.
"Try walking," she says encouragingly, and he struts across the cramped room with the dignity of a model on a proper catwalk, pivoting on his heel and winking at her flirtatiously.

She laughs and claps and he can't help but gaze at himself in the mirror again. He hardly recognizes himself and he takes back what he thought about Mercedes earlier, this was a great idea and-

"Hey! Let's show Tina."

"Are you crazy?” Kurt exclaims. “Mercedes, don’t you dare- No! Let go! What if someone sees?" Kurt panics when she tugs on his arm, but she's far stronger than she looks and has him halfway out the door in seconds.

"So let them see! Kurt, you look like a movie star right now. You've got an hour- enjoy it. Not to mention that you owe her big time. You have no idea how late she stayed up for you, there was this huge coffee stain all over the…"

Somehow, she persuades him into strolling out into the lobby. He knows he's vain and he loves the way he looks right now, and she knows it too. He can't resist the temptation to be someone else, even if it's for just for a little while…

"I can't walk out with you- it'll be suspicious, you know?" she says, gesturing to her maid's uniform and waving him off.

"Where's Tina, exactly?" he asks, gulping, trying to avoid eye contact with the bellhops and the real guests at the hotel.

"Across the lobby, down the hall, second door from the left, and down the stairs," she replies quickly, giving him an encouraging smile and a thumbs up.

"Across the lobby… down the hall… second- second? Or was that seventh? Oh god. Oh god. This is stupid. I don't know what I'm doing," Kurt mumbles. He shoves his hands into his pockets, tries to look casual, like he belongs here. Like he owns this suit, and he's not a child playing make believe. Or a thief's accomplice. He wants to run back to Mercedes, but he's too nervous now to even turn his head to check if she's still watching.

He passes a gilded mirror and catches a glimpse of his reflection. He forces himself to relax. He's down and out in the open already and it's too late to turn back. He looks good- no, excellent. He may as well stick it out for the rest of the hour. It isn't so hard after all- the bellhops are tipping their hats him, the people who glance his way have nothing but friendly expressions, and all he has to do is give them that waiter's smile he knows so well.

And he looks good doing it.

He turns down the hallway and is so focused on getting out of the main lobby that he crashes right into a man coming from the opposite direction.

"S-sorry!" Kurt says, springing back.

"Don't worry about it," the man replies, waving him off easily. He's well-built and handsome, with gelled, dark hair and a friendly smile, even though Kurt just barreled into him with the grace of a bull. "Someone chasing you?"

Kurt glances over his shoulder, for a moment imagining that the real owner of this suit is after him.

The man bursts out laughing. "I'm just kidding!" The look on his face tells Kurt that he isn't sure if the terror in his eyes is real or not; it's just that extreme. "Hope I'm not keeping you from wherever it is you're going. You certainly look like you're in a hurry," he adds.

"I'm not. Well, I have an hour. I mean, this is mine, so naturally I suppose I could wear this as long as I want, an hour or maybe even less. Or more," Kurt babbles. "So I guess since this is really mine, there's not actually a hurry of any kind."

The man's watching him with a half-confused, half-bemused smile, and Kurt immediately shuts his mouth, flushing with embarrassment. He needs to leave, he really should not be talking to anyone right now, and screw Tina and if she really wants to see Kurt wear the stolen Versace, Mercedes can just take some goddamn pictures on her phone.

"I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson." And suddenly, the handsome man's holding out his hand.

"Oh," Kurt says dumbly, shaking it after a few seconds too long spent in hesitation. "I'm Kurt. Kurt Hummel."

"So you're… not actually in a hurry?" Blaine asks.

"N-no. Not at all. Not for an hour. A-are you?" Kurt ventures.

Blaine considers it for a moment. "…no. I don't think I am," he says with a whimsical smile.

Kurt realizes Blaine's waiting for him to say something. Because this is a conversation, and real conversations aren't like texting or IMing where you can wait as long as you want to come up with a reply, and Kurt really needs to come up with something because now Blaine's staring.

"So, what, um, brings you here?" he manages, but at least he's not babbling.

"Sadly, business. It's too bad, because this is one of my favorite cities, and every time I come here I never get to enjoy it the way I want to. What about you?"

"I live here, actually. But not in the hotel. I was just visiting, um, a friend."

"Stratford has better monthly rates, but the service here is way better so I prefer to-" Blaine's phone goes off, and he sighs when he sees the name flashing on the screen. "Ugh, Wes… Sorry, I guess I am in a hurry after all," he chuckles with disappointment. His phone continues to ring but he ignores it, instead looking at Kurt thoughtfully.

"Are you doing anything tonight?"

"Um, n-no, I don't think so," Kurt stammers, hardly believing his ears.

The ringing finally ends.

"Do you like Thai?"

"Yeah. Sure. Um, I dunno though, I might have something later tonight, but probably not, so…"

"Aw, c'mon. I'll pick you up at eight- how does that sound?"

Kurt bites his lip. He really shouldn't. He needs to get out, now, and take this suit off so he can go back to waiting on tables and, as Mercedes put it, kissing asses for a little extra change.

But he can't remember the last time he was ever asked out (never), or went to a restaurant that wasn't Botticelli's.
That isn't important though. This screams red alert, bad idea, and the angel on his shoulder is practically ripping his ear off to get his attention-

"-sounds great," Kurt blurts out, surprising himself, and flicking the little angel off his shoulder in the process. "Yes. Eight o'clock sounds great."

Blaine smiles. Kurt feels his stomach flutter. "It's a date, then. Where do you live?"

"You don't have to pick me up," he replies quickly. "I'll, uh, just meet you there."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Eight o'clock. I'll be there."

Blaine's phone starts ringing again. "…alright. It's called Star of Siam, on the corner of 3rd and Nelson."
He flips his phone open as he waves goodbye. "Sorry, Kurt, I really don't want to run out on you but I have to- Yes, Wes, I'm here. And no, I wasn't mugged. Calm down…"

Kurt watches him exit the lobby and hurry down the street.

"Oh. My. God. Kurt, do you know who that was?"

Kurt jumps at the sudden shrieking. "M- Mercedes? Were you watching the entire time? And no, no I don't. Well, he said his name was Blaine."

"Blaine Anderson. Blaine freaking Anderson."

He gives her a blank stare.

"Oh my god, Kurt. He's the producer of Warbler Records! And he was top of the charts all of last year."

"I haven't really had time for music," he replies. The realization of what just occurred to him finally hits. "Mercedes, I don't get off my shift until nine! I can't do this!"

"Yes, you can! Just ask your boss if you can get off early."

"I just broke the law for you. I'm not getting into any more trouble."

Mercedes grabs his hands and pulls him close, looking into his eyes with a fierce expression. "Think about it, Kurt. When are you going to get another chance like this? Have fun for once in your life. You deserve it, boy. It's just one date. What could go wrong?"

Once he's back at Botticelli's, he makes his way up to his boss' office. The exchange goes surprisingly well- perhaps due to Kurt telling him that he's got a paper to turn in tomorrow- and he's allowed to leave early that night without any repercussions.

He can't concentrate that night. His mind's still buzzing with thoughts of that suit and of Blaine, and he feels as giddy as a school girl just thinking about tonight. Giddy, though, not being the predominant feeling, which is actually complete anxiety. Before leaving The Grande, Mercedes asked him what he was going to wear, which led to Kurt agreeing to wear whatever she could sneak away from dry cleaning. It isn't really illegal, right? Because he's just borrowing it, not keeping it for himself, and don’t people try on clothes that don’t belong to them in stores all the time?

He replays his conversation with Blaine over and over in his head. He physically cringes just remembering the way he stuttered; he must have looked like an idiot. Stratford had better rates, Blaine had said. Kurt knew Stratford, everyone knew Stratford; it was one of the most expensive 5-star hotels in the city. Blaine had talked about monthly rates. No one inquires about monthly rates unless they're rich, filthy rich, and can afford that sort of extreme luxury. Which means that Blaine thinks that he, Kurt Hummel, is that kind of filthy rich.
And if he wants to maintain that image, he has to have the wardrobe to prove it. So he loves Mercedes with all his heart right now for digging out some Armani for him- not too formal, but a casual sort of elegance. As much as he loves that Versace suit and was more than sorry to see it go, he and Blaine- yes, he and Blaine, the word 'and' making him giddy all over again- aren't going to the opera, nor the Emmy's. Kurt may be dirt poor and living in a dingy apartment with a roommate, but he knows what's appropriate, and exactly how he'd dress if he only had the money.

He's so jittery he nearly drops the trays, and bumps into Rachel and the other waiters far too many times. She gives him strange looks but he really has no explanation for her, and when it's finally 7:30 he dashes off to his locker to change. He slinks out without Puck or Azimio noticing him, but Brittany, the new girl, spots him right before he makes it to the door.

"The bathrooms are on the other side of the restaurant, sir," she says, pointing.

She isn't that new not to realize who he is, is she? She's been here for at least a month, long enough for Puck to hit on her, sleep with her, and dump her, which is usually a two-week process if he's more than just slightly interested. But he shakes off the moment and makes it out onto the floor.

"Thank you for coming, sir. Have a good night," calls Santana as he passes from her post as ma�tre d’. She doesn't recognize him either- well, his back was to her that time, and she's infinitely brighter than Brittany- and a feeling of elation washes over him.
He’s home free.

He takes a bus but gets off at the wrong step, and ends up running ten blocks to get to the Star of Siam. He checks his watch- he's only a few minutes late. He tugs down the back of his Armani blazer which rode up while he was running like an idiot through the streets and pats down his hair. He desperately wishes he had a mirror.

Blaine's waiting for him outside. "Did you run here or something?" he chuckles good-naturedly, reaching out to smooth down Kurt's hair.

Butterflies explode in his stomach and he steps away, embarrassed. "The town car went to the wrong restaurant so I had to walk a few blocks," he replies quickly. He follows Blaine into the foyer.

"Mr. Anderson, table for two. If you'll follow me, please," says the woman at the counter after consulting her register.

Kurt glances around the restaurant, the paintings and delicate carvings that line the walls, and the people they pass. They're all dressed well, but not too formally, and he exhales in relief just knowing that he isn't sticking out like a sore thumb like he feared.
They have a table near a window, with miniature candles that create a warm glow. Blaine pulls out his chair for him before seating himself and he takes off the stolen- no, dammit, borrowed- blazer, hanging it on the back of his chair and fiddling with his sleeves nervously. It's a charcoal-gray dress shirt that shows off his slim figure, and to occupy his restless fingers he rolls his sleeves up. There. It's casual, it's fine, and he really needs to relax.

A waitress comes and hands them menus. His stomach's a little queasy so all he asks for is water; Blaine bestows a wide smile upon her as he asks for tea.

"Sorry I left you hanging like that. It was pretty rude of me," Blaine says when they’re left alone.

"It's alright. I mean, I'm the one who wasn't looking where I was going to begin with."

"So, ah, where were we before my manager kindly interrupted us?"

"Well, you said your name was Blaine. And I told you my name is Kurt."

"Is that as far as we got?" Blaine laughs, and Kurt decides it's a nice sound. "I guess that's alright. We can start over. Hi," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Blaine."

Kurt grasps his hand; it's warm and he's got slightly calloused fingers, and it's nothing like Kurt's slim, freezing vampire hands. "I'm Kurt. Nice to meet you."

"So, Kurt, tell me a little about yourself."

Kurt snatches up his glass of water and takes a drink, his mind racing frantically. "I… don't know where to start."

"How about… where are you from? Any pets? Hobbies? Pet peeves?"

It doesn't feel like an interrogation. Blaine is warm and inviting, as if he’s politely requesting information, just for recreation. It's nothing like the inquisition he expected and he finds himself loosening up.

"I'm from… here. But I used to live in Ohio. No pets. I like fashion, I make a lot of my own clothes. Pet peeves… bad grammar? Oh, wait, I really hate wrinkled clothes. Especially collars.” His breath stutters and his mind draws a blank. “…what about you?"

"That's funny, I'm from Ohio too, although it's been years since I've been there. No pets either, I don't have time for hobbies, and I dislike chain letters. And broken guitar strings."

That explains the calluses, at least.

"You're a musician?" Kurt asks, even though Mercedes already gave him an entire spiel about the celebrity that Blaine supposedly is. But like he told Mercedes earlier, he hasn't had time for pop culture, to the point that her attempts at educating him hold barely any real significance.

"I used to be a singer. I'm a music producer now."

"Sounds… tough."

"It's one of the riskiest businesses out there. I probably wouldn't have made it very far without my manager, and although he can be a pain in the ass, I owe him one. What do you do?"

Scrounge for tips, scribble confusing orders on paper, and…

"What can I get for you today?" asks the waitress, pen poised over her own pad, eyebrow slightly raised.

Kurt's only had Thai food once before and ends up just getting a salad; he's never been one for spicy food.

"Vegetarian?" Blaine asks when they're both done ordering.
"No. I like meat."

"Oh?" Blaine says, raising an eyebrow.

Kurt recognizes the euphemism and blushes. "Not like that! I mean, I do like it, or I wouldn't be here with you-" he begins to babble.

Blaine laughs and Kurt silently reaffirms how much he likes the sound. Blaine takes Kurt's hand and squeezes it reassuringly. "You're nervous. Calm down, I won't bite. Sorry I'm so crass, but I've been watching The Office and I couldn't help it."

"It's alright. I walked right into that one."

"So, like I was saying… what do you do?"

He inwardly curses; he had, for a moment, thought that the subject was forgotten. "Fashion. I like fashion. I'm, um, an intern. At Versace," he replies, remembering the suit.

"Versace? Hold on a second, I think I'm wearing one of your pieces." Blaine checks his own blazer that he hung on the back of his chair; the label does in fact confirm it. "I don't really know anything about fashion, but I love this blazer."

"Thanks," Kurt says, even though he knows that said blazer is from the Fall 2008 line and it's impossible that he would have had any input as a fledgling intern on that piece.

"How long have you had that internship?"

Think, think, think. "…about a year."

"That sounds like a really great opportunity, and if you've already been there for a year, I think you're pretty set in the job field. Did you go to, uh, a fashion school?" Blaine asks uncertainly. "Must have had some crazy parties there."

"I went to Columbia for a year." It's partially true, because he does go there part-time. "I had to drop out once I got the internship. And I'm not really into… partying."

Blaine sips at his tea. "Good thing. I can't stand college students- they're too rowdy, no sense of real responsibility. And some people never really grow out of that college ego, even after they graduate."

Kurt nods frantically and gulps at his water to steady himself.

"You're pretty young, then, huh? A year at Columbia, a year out…"

Kurt can see him processing the calculations and grips at his glass like a drowning man.

"You must be what, 20?"

"…19," Kurt admits.

Blaine whistles. "I'm robbing the cradle."

"How old are you?"

"26."

"Oh."

So they're legal. Barely.

"Where'd you go?" Kurt asks, trying to steer the conversation away from himself. He steals glances at Blaine, who's very clearly still a little surprised by how young he is. He wonders if that means that tonight will be, in fact, their first and last date. But that's okay, that's sort of the plan anyway, right?

"Down the AP student, 4.0, Ivy League path. Dropped out of my first year when I realized it wasn't for me. But you, though, you're really young. And you've already got that internship? That's very impressive. You seem really mature for your age."

Kurt lets go of the breath he's been holding. "…thanks. So you've been in music all this time?"

"Every ambitious parent's worst nightmare." He smiles wistfully.

"You play any instruments?"

"Guitar and piano. My manager's image for me didn't include any of that, though, so I guess I do have a hobby."

"And now you're a music producer."

"Yeah. Warbler Records… ever heard of it?"

"No. I mean, yes. Sort of."

The waitress brings their food and Kurt realizes how hungry he is, as he left all of Puck's cooking for Mercedes and hasn't eaten all day out of sheer anxiety.
"So what exactly brings you to town? I know you said 'business' back at The Grande…"

"Talent search. We do it once or twice a year. I'll probably be around for the next few weeks."

A few weeks? That's a lot longer than one night. But it's still a due date, still a more or less definite point that Blaine will leave and it will all be over. At this moment, though, he isn't sure if he's ready for it to end.

Dinner continues with amiable and easy-flowing conversation. Kurt ends up recommending different cuts of suits for Blaine's stocky body type; they find out that they both like The Sound of Music, Phantom of the Opera, Harry Potter, and think Robert Pattinson's hair is way too overdone, and the real star of that movie is the actor who plays Mike, even though he's got about three lines. Blaine's favorite color is blue and eggplant. Not just purple, but "eggplant", and Blaine assures him it's a shade worthy of its own name. Kurt tells him he likes blue and isn't too particular about it, as he looks great in every shade, earning a sincere fit of laughter from Blaine.

The bill comes and Kurt panics; that is an unholy amount of money to pay for a salad and there's no way he can spend that much in one night. But Blaine waves him off and says it isn't a problem. Kurt spots the Rolex on his watch and, less grudgingly, acquiesces.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Blaine asks when they're out in the refreshingly chilly September air.

If this really is the first and last time he'll be with Blaine, as it should be, he may as well make the most of it. Like Mercedes said, when is he ever going to get another chance like this?

They walk a few blocks down to a park. Kurt is shivering even though he's got his blazer buttoned all the way up. Blaine takes his hand and it's warm, and when Kurt interlaces his fingers with Blaine's it's such a smooth and easy movement, he feels like he's done this before. Like he could do this forever.

“Turkey or ham?” Blaine asks suddenly. Leaves crunch beneath their feet on the cobblestone path.

“…excuse me?”

“Turkey or ham?” he repeats insistently.

Kurt’s brow furrows in confusion. Curious to see where this is headed, and honestly because he’d do just about anything to keep hearing Blaine’s voice, he decides to play along. “…ham.”

Blaine nods sagely, as if he’s a scientist collecting data and finds the results very much to his liking. “Salmon or trout?”

“…trout?”

“Beef or pork?”
“…pork.”

“Left or right?”

Kurt laughs. “Left.”

“Up or down?”

“Up…?”

“Sweet or sour?”

“Sweet.”

“Silver or gold?”

“Silver.”

“Clouds or stars?”

“Stars.”

“Fight or flight?”

Kurt smiles down on their entwined hands, raises it over their heads, and when a gale comes their way, casts his other arm into the air.

“Flight.”

When Blaine doesn’t reply instantly, Kurt drops his arms in embarrassment. He’s about to pull away, feeling stupid, silly, and worst of all, childish…

But Blaine’s grip only tightens. And then the older man’s looking at him so intently with decidedly the most gorgeous pair of hazel eyes Kurt has ever seen, and he forgets to breathe.

“Blaine…?”

They’ve stopped walking. Blaine’s still watching him curiously, as if there’s some secret on the tip of his tongue. The older man leans forward and Kurt’s heart is hammering so wildly he’s afraid it’s going to burst out of his chest, because now Blaine’s only inches away and his lips are parted just enough for his breath to emerge as light wisps of fog, and why is Blaine looking at him that way? Is he going to-

But Kurt never finds out, because a second later Blaine’s pulling back and there’s a smile in the place of intensity and contemplation. Not a bad trade- Blaine’s smile could light up a whole room- but the swiftness at which the expression evaporated makes Kurt wonder if he imagined the moment entirely.

He expects more questions, but Blaine stays silent. And minutes later Kurt gives in to the cold, shaking like a leaf despite how hard he forbids his body to do so.

"It's late, isn't it?" Blaine says, looking up at the moon. "And you're freezing, aren't you? Sorry I've been so selfish; I'm weird, I like the cold."

"No, it's alright," Kurt tries to say through chattering teeth, but Blaine insists, and he has to accept that it is late and he has classes tomorrow morning.

"I can drive you home."

"No, it's alright."

"It's too dangerous to walk around this late at night. I'm driving you home."

And Kurt finds no room to argue.

Kurt can't give an address; technically, he can, but he isn't about to let Blaine know that he doesn't live uptown. He gives the driver general directions and says "stop" when they pass a collection of stylish lofts and studios that he's been dying to live in ever since he moved here.

Blaine exits the car with him.

"When can I see you again?"

Kurt's heart skips a beat. Blaine actually… likes him? This is a bad idea, a terrible idea, more dangerous than walking around the city at night. This could get everyone, including Mercedes and Tina, into serious trouble. He's told enough lies to last him a lifetime. He's had his one night of fun and now it's time to go back to the apartment with the broken heater and yell at Sam for leaving the refrigerator door open.

But Blaine said he'd only be here for a few weeks at most, right? A few weeks isn't a very long time at all.

A chance like this, a person like Blaine, won't come again.

"…I have a really busy schedule with Versace," Kurt says, knowing he can't keep skipping out on work.

"What about Friday night? They give you a little time to relax, right?"

Kurt agrees; he'll just ask his boss if he can rework his schedule to get off earlier for the next month. He'll just have to get up earlier to make up for the lost studying hours, that's all.

"Let me pick you up this time."

"You already paid for dinner. It's not fair for you."

"Don't worry about it. I've got my own driver, done and paid for the next three weeks, or however long I'll be here."

He's relentless, and Kurt gives in. Their date's set for eight o'clock on Friday night, leaving Kurt two days to find a new outfit at The Grande.

Blaine leans in and kisses Kurt on the cheek. "Thank you for tonight. It was fun."

Kurt remains standing on the sidewalk, too stunned to even feel the cold, long after Blaine's car disappears down the street.