When Blaine wakes in the morning, he's less sore in some places, more sore in others. But this time, it's not quite so debilitating, and he doesn't mind as much. His night with his machine in the shower sated him straight down to his core in a way he's never experienced. It ended with an amazing eight hours of sleep – the best he's had in the past five years. Lying in bed, he stretches out his legs, bends his knees, and lifts his hips off the mattress to get blood flowing to the right places. He thinks he can get a handle on walking, which will make going to The Hot Shot and seeing Kurt less awkward, as long as he doesn't run into Mrs. Filch with her helpful, and likely unintentionally offensive, advice. This soreness that he's feeling, it's the good kind of sore, the perfect variety of the-morning-after-incredible-sex sore. It's the kind of sore that Blaine wishes he could bottle, as ridiculous as that sounds, because it also comes with an intense feeling of frothy happiness and a calm, peaceful mind.

It's as close to nirvana as he's probably ever going to get in his lifetime.

Blaine wishes it came with a side order of love and affection, arms to hold him under the covers, lips to kiss him awake, and a body to sleep next to at night, but he understands a bit more of what he's in for now. If he's going to keep up this charade, use his machine night after night and wallow in a fantasy because he's determined that a real relationship is off the table, then certain trade-offs need to be made.

Technically, he should man up and keep Kurt out of this, but fantasizing about him - Kurt's prismatic eyes watching him, his otherworldly voice tempting him - put Blaine over the edge big time. Giving that up would be as heartbreaking as ditching his machine. What Kurt doesn't know won't hurt him, right? No harm, no foul? Blaine rolls onto his stomach when these fleeting thoughts of Kurt start to make him hard, and buries his face into his pillow, smiling against the cool fabric, content that as long as what he does in his apartment behind closed doors stays in his apartment, no one will get hurt.

No ethical dilemma here. Blaine can definitely keep his fantasy man – his beguiling blue eyes and his sinful voice.

Rutting his morning erection against his sheets, he pictures Kurt there with him, waking up early to get down to his coffee shop. The sign on the door says he opens at five a.m., but Blaine figures that he has to get there earlier for deliveries and whatnot. Blaine can imagine Kurt sneaking out of bed quietly, trying so hard not to wake Blaine, but Blaine, already wise to his schedule, grabs his hand and drags him back to bed, begging him to stay a minute longer for one more kiss, one more hug, one more cuddle. What would Kurt's skin feel like first thing in the morning? What does he smell like? Does he use some kind of floral body wash to rinse the smell of coffee off his skin? Or a strong, woody aftershave? Blaine has never noticed what Kurt wears.

As daylight peeks through his window, calling him out of bed, those questions swirl through Blaine's brain – tidbits of information, simple little things that Blaine doesn't know.

With Blaine's curiosity piqued, he knows that, like with the settings on the machine, the vision of Kurt's eyes and the memory of his voice won't be enough next time. Blaine wants more. He needs more. He wants to heighten the experience, make it even more personal.

But exactly how he can do that, Blaine hasn't got a clue.

***

Standing in line at The Hot Shot, Blaine does something he's done dozens of times before, just not with his current motivation in mind. He watches Kurt, observes how he moves in the space behind the counter, how his clothes fit his body, how he exists in his own skin. Blaine notices that Kurt tosses his hair out of his eyes when he pauses to take an order, that he drums his fingers on the countertop before he hurries off to pour the coffee. Blaine listens to the way he talks to each customer, sees his patient smile, his eyes light up, notices the things he tends to comment on about his customers:

“Your sweater is way too cozy! You know, I've been looking for a comfy, oversized, cable-knit sweater in that shade of ecru…”

“That is such a fun hat! And what a bold choice with the wide brim. How do you not fly away with that breeze blowing outside? Say what's up to Sally Field for me…”

“That bracelet is fierce times a thousand! If I wasn't working with food, I think I'd wear one myself…”

“I have a scarf just like that one at home! Alexander McQueen? I knew it! Love the skulls…”

Blaine furrows his brow as he puts all those comments together. Fashion. How did it take Blaine this long for him to realize that Kurt has an eye for fashion? The day they met, Kurt commented on Blaine's Gucci blue cream bowtie. And didn't he mention reading Vogue? Now that Blaine looks back on the compliments he can recall Kurt giving, most of them dealt with (what Kurt often called) say something accessories.

God! Blaine could kick himself!

But the one habit of Kurt's that Blaine has probably taken for granted is the way Kurt reacts when he catches Blaine on line. It's not only his tone of voice that changes. His eyes widen, his chest stutters, and his smile grows, lifting his entire face. On this foray through line, waiting his turn, he sees Kurt's eyes flick up and search him out after every order, his cheeks getting progressively darker until Blaine realizes why.

He's staring.

Blaine reaches the counter. Kurt opens his mouth to say hi, but Blaine beats him to the punch.

“Hey, handsome,” Blaine says, and whatever Kurt had been planning as a greeting stops dead on his lips.

“H-hey,” Kurt says, Blaine's flattery adding dimples to Kurt's cheeks. “How's your day going so far?”

“I've been awake for a grand total of two hours,” Blaine says, “and the first person I've spoken to is you, so I'd say it's going pretty well.”

“I…” Kurt stammers, momentarily taken aback, “that's nice of you to say.”

“You know,” Blaine moves on, reaching for his wallet, suave as he continues to sail on last night's high, “I don't think I've ever asked you, but what is that delicious smelling cologne you wear?”

Kurt bites his lower lip, eyes following the stream of coffee he's pouring. “Cologne? I don't wear cologne.”

Blaine cocks an eyebrow. “You don't?”

“Nope,” Kurt says, capping Blaine's cup and sliding it across the counter.

“Why not?” Blaine asks, handing Kurt his money. “Are you allergic?

Kurt peeks up at Blaine with incredulity in his eyes.

“I don't mean to invade your privacy,” Blaine backpedals. “I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“It's not that. You're just…asking a lot of questions,” Kurt points out. “A bit more than usual.”

“Well, I'm a curious guy,” Blaine says, having the decency to cringe internally at how frickin' cheesy that sounds.

Kurt snickers at Blaine's lame comeback. “I'm actually very fond of cologne,” he says, leaning his hip into the counter and his shoulder on the glass case beside him. “I personally think the right scent is as important in a person's personal arsenal of expression as the clothes they wear, their makeup, their hairstyle. It's like” – Kurt's gazes up and away, searching for a way to put his thoughts into words, and as he does, Blaine stays fixated on his face, watching Kurt's tongue wet his lips, his eyes crinkle at the corners, his teeth pinching the corner of his mouth. The way Kurt's mouth works fascinates Blaine in particular, and he memorizes each tiny detail - the lines on his lips, their rosy shade touched by a hint of blue, the way the lower lip settles into a natural pout – “a fine wine. Alone, it's good - exceptional, even. But, let's face it - it's really just a glass of fermented grape juice. But pair it with the right entrée, and it becomes an invaluable part of the meal. You don't swig it, you chew it, savor it. I've always wanted to create the perfect scent to match my individual body chemistry. You know, something that no one else in the world has.” Kurt's gaze comes back down to earth with a sigh, and he shrugs that daydream away. “But I don't like to wear anything too strong here in the coffee shop. I don't want to put the customers off their lattes and muffins. You know, smell is such a big part of taste, and instrumental in appreciating food. I wouldn't want to overwhelm the palate with things like cedar and musk, when what I really want is for people to enjoy their Italian Roast and their sun-dried tomato bagels.”

“That's very considerate of you,” Blaine says, astonished by Kurt's explanation. None of that had ever occurred to him. The fact that Kurt puts such thought and care into what he does, his consideration for his customers, is extremely attractive.

“Oh, well, I don't think it's only me,” Kurt says, ringing Blaine up with a guilty glance at the line that's been forming behind him while they've been discussing wine and personal scent preferences. “I think anyone who makes a living teasing the taste buds of others feels that way.”

Blaine licks his lips, relishing that particular turn of phrase.

Teasing the taste buds.

Blaine can't help but wonder, simply for the sake of science, how Kurt tastes.

“But there is…a scent that seems to hang around you,” Blaine says.

“Is there?” Kurt asks, scrunching his nose and taking a sniff. “Well, my shampoo is vanilla, but I don't think you can smell it from across the counter. And I use organic coconut oil on my skin.”

“Vanilla and coconut,” Blaine repeats. “That sounds like an intoxicating combination.”

Kurt looks from the register to Blaine with pink cheeks and extremely inquisitive eyes.

“Will there be anything else for you today?” Kurt asks, handing over Blaine's change.

“Uh, no,” Blaine says, taking the dollars and coins, and holding up his cup. “Not today, thank you. I think I've got everything I need.”

***

When Blaine leaves work, he goes on a mini shopping excursion. It takes him hitting a total of six different bed and bath type stores to find a vanilla candle that smells anything like the inside of Kurt's coffee shop. He's able to find coconut oil at Whole Foods, and while he's there, he buys a fillet of salmon for dinner, along with a bottle of Pinot Noir. Salmon and Pinot were always Blaine's go-to fare when he invited someone over to his place. After his conversation with Kurt that morning, Blaine has an inkling to do something special, to treat himself.

He also has a ravenous craving for wine. Go figure.

He gets home, and immediately starts his evening of pampering with a long, hot shower. He doesn't touch himself while he's in there. He wants the buildup brewing in his body there for later, when he's on all fours at the mercy of his machine. The purpose of the shower is to wash the day away - the two private students who canceled on him last minute, the five car pileup that made him late for his first lecture, the girl on the subway who dropped two scoops of a vanilla cone on his calfskin leather shoes. He wants it gone, all of it except for his morning conversation with Kurt. That he holds on to, going over their conversation in his head, recounting snippets, letting certain words that Kurt says and how he says them curl inside his brain, weave into the folds, and take root there.

Blaine keeps his shower brief, lets his body air dry, and then after, he smooths the coconut oil on. It feels super oily at first, but Blaine was prepared for that. The girl at the register, who spent a good fifteen minutes regaling Blaine with the health benefits of coconut oil (as if she needed to persuade him, and not like he hadn't purchased the product from her seconds before) said that a little bit goes a long way.

And boy, does it ever.

Blaine rubs it into his skin, amazed at how his skin sucks it up. He thought he had been doing well with his moisturizing regimen, but apparently he's been suffering from dry winter skin without even knowing it.

Thank you, Kurt.

Once the aroma of coconut mixes with the humid air in the bathroom, the room smells heavenly. Blaine now knows that that sweet undercurrent his nose picks up when he walks through the coffee shop's doors isn't coming from the pastry in the cases.

It's coming from Kurt.

Blaine has to make it a point to breathe in deeper the next time he goes there.

Add a pot of brewing coffee, and his bathroom would smell almost exactly like the inside of Kurt's shop.

Blaine throws on a pair of indigo jeans and a crisp, white button down. He rolls the cuffs up to his elbows and fixes them in place with a pair of gold links, thinking that Kurt would very much approve. Then he heads to the kitchen to get started making his dinner.

For the last few years, dinner hasn't been an event, not the way it is when he's dating someone. Lately, dinner has been a meal comprised of whatever he can throw together, microwave until hot, and eat on the sofa in front of the TV, or at his dining room table with a book open in front of him.

Dinner devolves into such a non-occasion when there's no one there to share it with.

Preparing the fish, seasoning it, chopping up vegetables to go with it, then wrapping it in parchment, each step from fridge to oven is an opportunity – to reflect, to unwind, to ground himself. Engaging all his senses, using his hands, connecting with something intimately, salivating with anticipation – it's almost like making love.

Down at The Hot Shot, handcrafting his specialty drinks, making those scrumptious-sounding sandwiches (that Blaine's never thought to try), Blaine wonders if Kurt sees it that way.

Blaine decants his bottle of wine. Then he takes the time to set his table with a champagne linen tablecloth and ruby-colored taper candles, standing in an arrangement of three crystal candlesticks his mother gave him when he moved in to his first apartment. While his fish rests on a mesquite plank, he preps for later, positioning his machine in the dead center of the living room. He lines the mantle and the coffee table with his scented candles – seven of them total, in thick glass jars. One by one, he lights them. He'll let them burn during dinner, giving the room time to fill with the warm, milky scent of Madagascar Vanilla.

Blaine arranges his dinner on one of his favorite, thrift-store find China plates, and carries it to the dining room table. He sets his plate down, and pours himself a glass of wine. He sits in his chair, pulls it in, and takes a moment to appreciate the overall splendor. He stares through the candlelight at the seat opposite him.

The empty seat opposite him.

The dining room is quiet. It's always quiet, but going through all this trouble to prepare a romantic dinner for one seems to emphasize exactly how quiet the room is. He gets up and turns on his iPod, sitting in a dock on the coffee table. He selects a playlist of classical piano concertos to fill in the void created by a lack of company and conversation. If Kurt were there with him, sitting in that chair on the opposite end of the table, partaking in Blaine's salmon, he would probably appreciate it.

Though Kurt might prefer a playlist of Broadway hits.

But the music would be a backdrop. If Kurt were there, Blaine wouldn't eat in silence.

He starts to imagine what he would talk to Kurt about if he were right there with him.

He might talk about his past, his relationships, why he didn't want to date anyone when they first met.

No, that's not first date conversation, though maybe Kurt wouldn't actually consider this a first date at all, seeing as Blaine's been going to his coffee shop for almost half a year. But still, Blaine would want to keep it light.

He could tell Kurt about this one student he has – Rachel. Ugh! Total diva. Wants to be the next Barbra Streisand. And what's worse, she's actually a prodigy. Only twelve-years-old and studying at one of the foremost universities for musical theater in the country. Plus, she's been on Broadway already…twice! And Blaine can't even cut a record.

Where's the justice?

Sigh.

He can't talk about that. Kurt might think he's petty and insensitive. At The Hot Shot, Kurt is never anything but patient and polite, even when the coffee shop is loud and his line's out the door.

No. Cutting down a twelve-year-old as a basis for making conversation is not the way to go…even if she maybe deserves it. Just a little.

A joke, Blaine thinks. Maybe he should tell a joke.

Blaine mentally scrolls through his repertoire of jokes.

Currently, he only has five – three are knock-knock jokes he learned in the third grade, one's kind of gross and a little misogynistic, and the other – shoot. He doesn't know the punchline to that one. Damn! That one's the only funny one he knows. Maybe he can Google the punchline. Or maybe he can Google some jokes.

Or maybe he should pass on the jokes, the anecdotes, and the stories, and talk from his heart.

He can tell Kurt what he thought of his singing that first day, how his voice was like a magical flute calling him in from the sidewalk when he didn't know where to go. He can tell Kurt what it means to Blaine every day to go to his coffee shop and see him, talk to him. He can tell Kurt how much he appreciates that, even with his hundreds of customers, he seems to go out of his way to make Blaine feel special. He can tell Kurt how handsome he is, how seeing his smiling face every morning fills him with unspeakable joy, a happiness he thought he'd be denied for the rest of his life after his last relationship failure.

He can tell Kurt how lucky he is that he's had this chance to meet him and to know him.

Blaine lifts his glass of wine in a silent toast to the empty seat.

Yeah. If he ever gets a chance to have Kurt over, he's definitely starting with that.

Blaine finishes his dinner and his wine, glancing over the rim of his glass at the living room with everything in it, ready for him to begin.

He chose the living room to play with his toy in this time because it seemed spontaneous and fun.

If Kurt were there, at this point, they'd be done eating dinner. They'd be laughing, drinking a second glass of wine, talking about their lives. Blaine would start to clear the table, but Kurt would put a hand to his wrist, stopping him, and then…

A hand reaches up his chest, snaking around the back of his neck, grabbing and holding hard. The aggressive contact pulls a moan from Blaine's throat, and he slides down in his chair, head thrown back, pushing into the hand massaging his neck with firm fingers. Another hand creeps down his torso to his jeans, shaking fingers tugging at the top button, unable to get it undone, so it strokes him to hardness through his jeans with urgency, with raw desire, with hunger. The hand on his neck disappears, returning to Blaine's mouth with a drop of wine hanging heavy on the tip of the middle finger. It traces over Blaine's lips, and Blaine's mouth follows it. Blaine catches it, sucking it into his mouth, and when he does, a high tinkling laugh rings inside his head.

“I didn't know you were a wine drinker.”

“Yes,” Blaine says, accepting another finger of wine dipping inside his mouth. “Every now and then.”

“So, you like the taste of fermented grape juice?”

Blaine smiles.

“I do,” he says. “But I like the taste of you better.”

“Mmm, I like the way that sounds…”

Blaine pushes to his feet, a hand back in his hair, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, heading back to his fly, palm kneading the erection crowding his jeans, bringing him to his knees. He's a stumbling mess, undressing amid the fantasy of Kurt struggling with his button fly, giggling when he pulls hard and the denim slips from his nervous fingers.

“It's okay, baby,” Blaine says. “Pull all you want. You can't rip it.”

“Good. Because it would be such a shame if I did. I have to say that these jeans…mmm…they're my favorite on you. They fit you so well.”

“You'd know. You're the expert.”

“Well, in my expert opinion, they'd look so much better down around your knees.”

His shirt unbuttoned, jeans dragged sloppily down over his ass, Blaine butts up against his machine, lining up to the arm without even needing to look. With his machine secured to the hardwood floor, Blaine crawls backward, stretching himself over the slicked up dildo. He strokes his cock with one hand while he holds the dildo steady with the other, this process going much smoother after two nights of this. He opted to go with the slightly larger dildo from the night before because he feels, in his own mind, that it might best represent Kurt – around seven inches, narrow, uncut, and absolutely beautiful.

“Oh God,” Blaine moans, the stretch more dramatic from not being opened up beforehand, but like the soreness from this morning, it's a good feeling, a burn that starts his heart pumping, his knees wobbling, his cock pulsing in his fist. He switches the machine on, four above low. He pushes and pulls with the arm, strokes and shudders with his hand, and as soon as he has his body completed seated, he closes his eyes…and there's Kurt.

His Kurt – here, at least.

He imagines Kurt under him, grabbing his shoulders, kneading his biceps, head tossed back to expose the pale column of his neck. The image doesn't match the position that Blaine's in, but fuck it. It's hot, and he hardly cares. Blaine licks down his arm, but in his mind, it's Kurt's neck that he's licking, caressing his soft skin with his tongue. He stops at a pulse point, lapping over the thrumming skin, nibbling gently, then sucking hard, until Kurt, inside his head, squirms.

“Oh, Blaine.” That tortured voice in Blaine's head makes his heart leap, but this time, Kurt's around him, too, his body bathed in that comforting smell of coconut, the room immersed in silky vanilla.

He bucks back against the machine, giving himself the impression of riding Kurt's impressive cock, Kurt whimpering with pleasure at every backward thrust.

“Oh, Blaine…oh, God…oh, Blaine…oh, God…”

A simple chant of total surrender, sung to the tune of the piano music still lilting through the air.

Blaine doesn't want this to be over so quickly, but after his daydream this morning of waking up in bed with Kurt; talking to Kurt at The Hot Shot about cologne and wine; the expectation building up inside his stomach beside his rational brain counting the hours, one by one, until he could come home and enact this – he was done before he even started. This session with his machine is the result of an all-day seduction, starting with Kurt and ending with Kurt – and the man doesn't even know.

Blaine starts panting, drooling, kissing hard at his own flesh with the machine turned up nearly full blast, teeth digging in when he thinks he's about to scream. He turns his head into his shoulder to wipe the sweat off his brow and inhales in, that scent of coconut heavy here with the heat of his body exciting the aroma, and without so much as a warning, a coil of energy winding in his stomach and pulling up his balls, he cums over his fist and his hardwood floor, much the way he did the first time, except when he drops his head to his arm folded in front of him, he's repeatedly kissing his own skin with the fantasy of Kurt underneath him, kissing him back.

The kisses slow, and so does the machine, Blaine dialing down the thrusts without taking his mind off the dream of his barista, whose eyes fade from his mind as other sensations fade, bringing Blaine back to reality and dropping him face first onto his living room floor.

“God,” Blaine groans, looking back at the dildo stretching his ass as he slides off his machine. “That is definitely the cure for what ails you, hmm?” He lowers himself to the ground and rolls on his side. “So,” Blaine pants, raising an eyebrow at the mechanical marvel that's been servicing his ass tirelessly for three days so far, “how was that for you?” He laughs, his head suddenly spinning like a Roulette Wheel, his living room sliding from left to right. The pinprick lights of the candle flames dot his vision, swirling like the stars in a Van Gogh painting, and then straightening. Blaine shifts to his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting it all fall back into place.

“God, that was just…God, Kurt,” Blaine mutters, holding on to the fantasy of Kurt being there a second or two longer, lying on the floor beside him, holding his hand, his head resting against Blaine's shoulder, as they both contemplate the recessed ceiling above their heads as if they were gazing up at the moon in the night sky. “I wonder…what that would be like with the real you.”