“Kuuuuurt.”

Kurt looked up to see Blaine staring at him across the counter. “Yes?”

“Kurtkurtkurtkurtkurt.” Blaine was shaking his head.

“What is it Blaine,” Kurt asked with a sigh.

“Your whisking is all wrong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re whisking counter-clockwise,” Blaine informed him, then reached across to scoop some whipped cream out of Kurt’s bowl with his index finger and brought it to his lips.

“It’ll taste better,” he said with a mouthful of cream, “if you do it clockwise.”

“You’re mental!” Kurt shouts as Blaine walks away cackling. He had been working at Coraggio for three months now, and he was still constantly taken aback by what Blaine says or does everyday. At first, everything seemed to be a game to him. Kurt never knows when to take Blaine seriously. And it is the most frustrating thing ever.

“Eventually, you just have to stop trying to explain it,” Quinn tells him one day, “And you have to accept that it is what it is. I don’t know anything about Blaine’s past, or even what he does in his spare time, but all I know is he makes life interesting and fun and kind of worth it.”

So, Kurt took Quinn’s advice. He stopped trying to understand Blaine, and it was like the wall Kurt had put up between them, that made him an outsider to Blaine’s world, crumbled.

And that was probably the most unexpecting thing for Kurt to look back on. How, once Kurt released his inhibitions around Blaine, they became best friends without even trying; and Kurt uses the term “best friends” very, very loosely, because “best friends” USUALLY don’t spend every moment together shamelessly flirting.

But it didn’t stop there.

When Blaine realized he got on the subway only one stop before Kurt, he began walking three blocks to Kurt’s stop so that he was sure he could sit with him.

And when Kurt found out Blaine liked to stay hours after closing to experiment, he started staying sometimes, too, so he wouldn’t have to ride home alone (so he said).

And they’d always end up bumping elbows in the kitchen. Blaine would end up chopping parsley next to where Kurt was dicing an onion, or Kurt would sautee mushrooms on the eye next to Blaine’s searing chicken.

They would talk quietly about nothing and giggle at each other’s jokes, upping the physical contact--Kurt’s hand on Blaine’s forearm, Blaine’s hip bumping with Kurts--until Puck would teasingly shout ‘GET A ROOM!” They’d then part with silly grins, Kurt’s face bright red. But Blaine would keep glancing over his shoulder at Kurt’s turned back every so often, when he thought no one was looking.

In no time at all, they had perfected their own dance, a give and take that kept each other at arms’ length, not really holding on, but never letting go, either.

***

“So, uh, what’s up with you and Kurt?” Mike asked one Sunday as the two friends sat together on the sofa, sipping cheep beer and watching Ohio State whip some LSU ass.

“Whaaaaat are you talking about?”

“You and Kurt.”

“What about me and Kurt,” Blaine asked faux-innocently, eyes glinting with a mischief Mike missed as Ohio State intercepted a pass with only two minutes left in the half.

When the network cut to commercials, Mike turn to face Blaine. “Are you,” he gestured aimlessly, “you know.”

“NO, no I really don’t KNOW.”

“Blaine.”

“Michael.”

Mike glared at his friend. “Forget it.”

“NOOOO Michael, say it!”

“No.”

“Sayitsayitsayit.”

“Blaine, stop jumping on the couch! You’re spilling your beer and Tina will kill me!”

“JUST SAY IT!”

“BLAINE!”

“Come on, Mikey!”

“FINE,” Mike sighed in exasperation. “Are you sleeping together?”

“WE’RE. NOT. FUCKIIIIIIIING!” Blaine yelled with one final bounce.

“You are a piece of work.”

“Yes, yes, we all know I’m five.”

“I though it was five-and-a-half?”

“And THAT’S why I love you.”

Mike didn’t bring that up anymore.