When Blaine wakes up the next morning, he feels different.

He still has that incredible soreness, that full body, deep in his skin and down to his bones feeling of utter satisfaction, but there's something else germinating along with it, like a dandelion sprouting among its roots. He doesn't feel sick, or anxious, he's not tired from too much exertion and too little sleep. He just feels like something's not right. As amazing as last night was, and as much as he's dying to do it again (this morning, if possible) something inside him feels…missing.

Empty.

Like overnight, a piece has been carved out of him.

He might normally not have noticed. In relationships, in work, and life in general, he's used to giving a lot and getting too little in return. Bits of himself probably litter the 591 mile stretch between Ohio and New York. But this missing piece has left a hole, and as small as it is, as insignificant in size, it resounds in his chest like a bass drum pounding out a steady rhythm every time his heart beats.

Because, he realizes as a hard knot forms behind his ribcage, that's where this piece is missing from – his heart. Blaine lifts a hand and presses the heel of it to his chest, trying to massage the knot out, but morning adrenaline kicks in, his heart starts to race, and the knot gets harder.

He figures it could have something to do with the dream he was having right before he woke up.

He was lying in bed, with his arms folded around his pillow, his bare chest pressed against his cool cotton sheets, when he suddenly got the feeling he wasn't alone. At the start, that wasn't an unusual dream for him to have. When he first broke off with his ex, he had that dream almost every night. It made him break out in a cold sweat, trapped him with the fear of moving or breathing, the way a child would be afraid of the monster under their bed finding them alone. The dreams stole his sense of security, his peace. They startled him from a dead sleep with a knot growing inside his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe, similar to this one lodged in his chest, except, in this case, less so.

But this time, when he felt a presence in his room, he wasn't afraid.

He swore he felt the mattress dip, then strong arms wind around him. There was a kiss to his temple, then the feeling of breath puffing gently against his upper arm, with a brush of lips following behind, caressing his skin, raising excited little bumps. As he started to rouse, he heard a voice singing softly in his ear, luring him from his dreams.

He felt incredibly warm, incredibly cared for.

Incredibly loved.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” an alluring high-voice whispered, and Blaine smiled.

“Good morning, handsome,” he said, turning to accept the kiss he was sure was waiting to greet him. But when he opened his eyes in search of that person, to kiss their cheek and nuzzle in their neck, to start on the harmony to the melody they were singing, no one was there. Blaine was lying with his head turned on his arm, his breath ghosting his skin, his arm wrapped around him in sleep, and he was singing to himself.

He was alone - just like he is every other day.

Blaine's not entirely surprised by this turn of events. He had a suspicion that this might happen, even though he wasn't entirely prepared for it. He always did have an overactive imagination, a rich fantasy life. But he has to push past it, remind himself that a fantasy is a fantasy, nothing more, the same way he did when the dreams were nightmares and the person in the room was out to hurt him. Blaine's not with Kurt. He made the decision not to be with Kurt, so he can't be heartbroken every time he discovers that Kurt's not there, that the dream's not real.

Blaine forces himself more awake – rubs his eyes, scratches his head, reaches down his body and massages reluctant muscles. His hand drifts to his cock, only half-hard, not as incredibly lively as it had been the morning prior.

Last night was phenomenal – the best it's ever been for him, even, sadly enough, with another person. But as he sits fondling himself, his fantasy from the evening flashing through his mind – the flirty banter, the make-believe kisses, pretending to lick down Kurt's neck and hearing him whimper -  Blaine knows he wants more. He's gone past the physical now – beyond eyes and voice and touch. He wants a deeper connection, friendship, intimacy more than lust.

He wants something he doesn't already have, he wants to learn something he doesn't know. He wants Kurt to do the one thing he does best.

Surprise him.

***

“Cream cheese and lox – the classic…with bean curd and chili dip? Dude…”

Step.

“A long shot cappuccino with a protein shot and a shot of espresso on the side…what? That's a lotta shots. Do we even sell that? We do? Well, I'll be…”

Step

“A half caff latte with a sprinkle of milk shake mix and topped with cappuccino micro foam…see, now, you're just making stuff up…”

Step.

“An everything bagel with garlic spread, a bran muffin with a smear of honey…and mustard? Is there a full moon or something, or are y'all pregnant?”

Step.

Chuckling covertly over Kurt's jokes with his customers, Blaine refers to his notes. But these aren't notes for one of his classes. They're notes he jotted down at home and on the subway here, topics of conversation he can bring up with Kurt. Lying in bed, thinking over his want for information, he realized that the most erotic thing that actually happened yesterday wasn't being fucked on all fours on his living room floor (though that was hot as hell), it was the conversation he'd had with Kurt that morning. In that few minutes while Blaine was holding up Kurt's line of customers, he'd found out more about the man than he'd uncovered in all the months he'd been coming here. He felt like he'd broken a barrier, seen the man underneath the dropped hints and the playful wit.

Behind those singular eyes and that voice.

But that was kind of a fluke. They'd never discussed anything for that long before. Nothing ever took Kurt's mind away from his customers. It was a first. Kurt's business, his customers, mean a lot to him. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who puts them on hold lightly.

Blaine has several topics written down that he's been ruminating over, but none of which he feels has the potential to engage Kurt the way the topic of cologne had yesterday.

“A six-Splenda, no-foam, 130-degrees nonfat latte, with the Splenda stirred in before the milk is added…okay, let's take a deep breath, let it out, and why don't you tell me who hurt you, baby…”

Step.

Blaine gets closer to the counter, just two customers away, and he hasn't settled on a topic. He scans the list quickly, hoping to trip on the one thing that will burst the flood gates.

“Grande? Venti? Trenta? Nuh-uh. We're not Starbucks, hun. Small, medium, large, and five-gallon drum – that's what we've got here. I recommend the five-gallon drum…”

Step.

Blaine stops scanning his list and smiles. He thinks he knows the one thing he can ask Kurt about that will make him open up.

His coffee shop.

But first, Blaine needs an ice breaker.

He watches the customer in front of him walk away with a cup and a wax paper bag, and suddenly, the clouds in Blaine's brain part and the stars align. Blaine steps up to the counter, disarming Kurt again with another of his megawatt grins.

“Do you have any scones?” Blaine asks when Kurt slides his ready and waiting coffee cup across the counter.

“Scones?” Kurt repeats. His delighted smile when he says the word is as warm as his other smiles, but this one's new to Blaine. He seems excited. “Of course, I do. Make ‘em fresh myself every morning.”

“You do?” Blaine asks, sincerely impressed. How has he been coming in here every day for more than half a year and he didn't know that? He assumed that Kurt hired someone to make them, or that maybe he got them from a bakery nearby. Some of the coffee shops near NYADA (the ones that aren't Starbucks) have arrangements with local mom and pop bakeries to sell their baked goods.

But Kurt makes his own.

So, on top of the numerous made-to-order sandwiches and one-of-a kind bagel combinations he throws together, he also bakes. Blaine knows Kurt sells about a dozen different kinds of muffins. Are those him? He probably makes his own bagels and bread, too. Gah! Why doesn't Blaine know this?

“Is blueberry alright?” Kurt asks in the midst of Blaine's mini mental episode. “We also have honey, pistachio, walnut, cranberry-orange…pumpkin spice?”

“Blueberry would be great,” Blaine says, following Kurt along the front of the counter as he walks over to the bakery case and grabs a pastry. “So, Paninis, bagels, muffins, scones…did you go to culinary school to learn all this, or do you experiment in your own kitchen at home?”

“My mom taught me when I was about five or six,” Kurt explains, putting the largest of the blueberry scones from the case into a wax paper bag.

“Oh,” Blaine says, “it runs in the family. Was she a baker?”

“No,” Kurt says, a slight tarnish obscuring his bright smile. “She was a housewife and a mom. She learned to bake from her mom, and so on, and so on.” Kurt stares at the bag, rolling the edge down while he chews something over. “She…wanted to be a ballerina,” he reveals, somewhat hesitantly, with his voice lowering to a more conversational level. “But, she was considered too curvy to make the cut. You're in the arts. You know how it is.”

“Oh,” Blaine says. “That's too bad. Was she any good? As a dancer?”

Kurt smiles wide again, but it doesn't wipe the tarnish away. As the corners of his mouth lift his cheeks, that tarnish seems to spread to Kurt's eyes.

“My father says she was.”

Blaine nods. He feels like he's missing something, something important, but he's not sure exactly what.

“So, what did she think when you opened the coffee shop?” he asks. “I mean, she had to have been a huge influence on you? Ooo” - Blaine leans on the counter – “does she hang out in the back taste testing all of your recipes?”

Kurt's eyes dart to the side, and Blaine immediately gets the impression that he asked the exact wrong thing.

“My mom passed away when I was eight years old,” Kurt says. “So, no – she didn't get to see any of this.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, feeling like the most heartless creep who ever lived considering his reasons for this interrogation. What right did he have to pry? Kurt seemed uncomfortable two or three sentences ago. Why has Blaine not yet learned to read facial cues? “Oh Kurt, I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says. “It's alright. You didn't know. And you would think, you know, that after all this time, it wouldn't get to me as much. But, she was more than my mom. She was really my best friend, and, well” – Kurt shrugs his left shoulder – “I miss having one of those. It's kind of been a while.”

God, Blaine thinks, feeling a wedge widen the space of that missing piece. So, Kurt's lonely, too. Handsome, charming, outgoing Kurt, who always has a kind word, a compliment, or a joke for most everyone who walks through his door.

Something else they have in common.

Something that Blaine didn't know about Kurt that he should have known a long time ago.

“So, uh, did she teach you how to sing, too?” Blaine asks, picking another subject from his list in the hopes of lightening the mood.

Kurt looks up at Blaine over the glass case, his cheeks flushed pink as if Blaine had unearthed his deepest, darkest secret.

If Kurt only knew about some of Blaine's dark secrets…

“Wha---how do you know I sing?” Kurt asks, handing Blaine the wax paper bag and a napkin.

“The first day I ever came in here,” Blaine says, coyly glancing down at the napkin Kurt gave him, “you were singing karaoke with another employee - the song Rose's Turn, which, I have to say, goes perfect with your voice.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember.” Kurt laughs, his eyes darting up to the left, rewinding his mind back to that day. “God. That's quite the memory you have.”

“I'm a musician, so I never forget a beautiful voice,” Blaine says, looking at Kurt through his lashes. “Will we ever get to hear you sing again?”

“Uh…” Kurt's jaw drops, and Blaine finds that catching him off guard this way is tantalizing. “I…usually only sing in the late evening or early morning, while I'm baking. If you're ever in this part of the city at, say, three a.m., you might hear me.” Kurt laughs. “Though I wouldn't recommend it. This isn't the greatest neighborhood at night.”

Blaine pulls out a five and a one from his pocket and pays for his coffee and scone. Kurt reaches for the register, but Blaine puts up a hand. “Keep the change.”

“Well,” Kurt says, folding the one dollar bill and dropping it into the tip jar on the counter, “my employees thank you.”

“Your employees are welcome,” Blaine says. “And maybe you'll be so kind as to perform for us again soon.”

Kurt's smile starts small, is bashful, but it reaches his eyes and makes his entire face glow, until none of the tarnish remains. “Maybe I will.”

***

Blaine spends another train ride home searching Google, but not for sex toys this time.

He looks up scone recipes.

There seems to be a thousand or so different variations on the scone – English, Irish, savory, sweet. Blaine goes with simple - six ingredients (that don't require him to stop off for anything), and four easy steps. Considering that his previous experiences with baking have been confined to anything he can make out of a box, simple suits him best.

When he gets home, he foregoes the shower, eager to start in on the brand new fantasy he conjured up on the train, but he does have to deal with some preparation – getting his machine ready (with the same dildo as the last two nights, seeing as it is now his favorite), and re-lighting his vanilla candles, which have already burned halfway into their jars. He switches on his iPod, but this time he chooses a playlist that's a combination of his favorite Broadway hits and complimentary older pop tunes. He goes to his kitchen and lays out his ingredients on the counter, then gathers all of his tools, putting everything in the order the recipe says he'll need them. He finds his large mixing bowl (collecting dust in a lower cabinet since the last time he used it was to make a birthday cake for his ex), gives it a thorough cleaning, and dries it with a dish towel. With each step, he moves through the mirror from real life into fantasy, taking him farther away from the places he's been and closer to the one he wants to get to. He sets his dried bowl down on the counter, props his phone against his toaster with the recipe displayed, and starts getting down to business.

He concentrates on his work, a cup of flour first, a few tablespoons of butter next, working them together until they become crumbly, setting aside his spoon to get his hands into the mix. Kneading, creating, cooking, he feels closer to that world Kurt exists in, the one where he could be now, either at home making himself dinner, or at the coffee shop getting a jumpstart on tomorrow - measuring, sifting, baking, singing...

“If you wanted scones, I don't know why you didn't just ask me to make you some.”

Blaine bites his lower lip. “Because I'm making them for you, silly. They were supposed to be a surprise.”

Blaine feels lips against his neck as eyes peer over his shoulder. “Apple sauce? Sour cream? Sugar and chocolate chips? Who the hell came up with this recipe? A five-year-old?”

“The bio on the website says he's an actual chef.”

An offended bark of laughter. “Which proves that any lunatic can put anything on the Internet, hun, and people will believe it's true.”

“Really?” Blaine chuckles. “So what have you put up on the Internet lately?”

A gasp. “Bite your tongue, young man.”

“Hmm” - Blaine grins. He likes the sound of that - “You can always bite it for me.”

“I won't if you don't behave yourself.” A hand swats Blaine's behind. “You know, you're supposed to mix the dry and the wet separately, and then combine the two.”

“That's not what the recipe says to do.”

“Well, do you want to stick with the recipe, or do you want to do it the right way?”

“Ooo, them there's fighting words.”

“So, you gonna fight me?”

“No. I was hoping to do something else with you…” Blaine shuts his eyes and licks batter off his fingers, tasting of sweet applesauce and tart sour cream, pulling on each digit until he hears a moan.

It doesn't matter that the moan's his own. In his head, it belongs to someone else.

“What did you have in mind? Parcheesi? Chess? Backgammon? Pictionary?”

“Do you enjoy playing games?”

“I enjoy playing with you. You are quickly becoming my favorite toy.”

Blaine hums. “Well, then, how about we play Hide and Seek?”

“How? You only have, like, three rooms.”

“I was thinking,” Blaine whispers, “of taking something of mine, hiding it in something of yours, and then repeating that over, and over, and over.”

A full-bodied laugh follows Blaine's comment, but it dissolves into a moan as mouths kiss, hands roam, with Blaine taking control and his fantasy man bending to his will, but only because he wants to. Only because Blaine's body around his is a gateway to ecstasy.

Blaine doesn't consciously start to walk, but he does. As he makes his way blindly to his bedroom and his machine (secured to the mattress with a harness that Blaine had to order specially) he slides along the floor in his socked feet, turning and twirling out of the way of furniture and over his shoes left lying around, almost like he's dancing. He sits on the edge of his bed as clothing is removed, teeth grazing his wrist and sucking a mark when his arms become bare, a hand softly caressing inside his boxer briefs as his jeans peel away.

Details blur, what's left of his clothes tossed to the floor, scratches appear where nails rake down his neck and chest. When and how he climbs up on the bed are inconsequential –it simply happens, as does finding the right position while lips tease his skin, hands open him up, fingers brush and stroke in an attempt to drive him wild. Then a finger, dipped in lube, circles his entrance in gentle laps like a tongue. Blaine falls back, knees spread, unraveling from his sense of self, redefining what it means to breathe, rediscovering the number of seconds in a minute, testing the limits of what his heart can take. And all the while, there's Kurt, the specter of him using his talented tongue, his fingers cupping and cradling. Blaine finds himself stretched over his dildo with his teeth biting into his palm, muffling a groan that sings with rapture. He dials the machine to only mid-way and keeps it there, letting its pace settle in the background, becoming the chorus instead of the tune.

His room is nearly pitch black, which Blaine never does. He hates the dark. But with nothing clear in front of him, he can envision Kurt with his eyes open, straddling his lap, fantastically naked, moving with deliberate slowness over Blaine's cock, smiling that new, excited smile, and just enjoying this.

Enjoying Blaine.

Blaine doesn't think anyone he's been with has ever truly enjoyed his body - the effort he puts into it, the pride he takes in the way it looks - as other than something they could use to get off. He's never had sex this way, lying on his back and gazing up, a front row seat to someone who adores him getting pleasure from him and giving him pleasure in return, enthusiastically in the case of his fantasy (which is actually his trusty fleshjack repurposed).

“Oh, Blaine…” The gasps begin and Blaine dials up his machine, his fleshjack mimicking what would be Kurt's movements as he goes faster.

“Kurt…” Blaine moans. “Kurt…Kurt…”

This isn't fucking, isn't urgent - grasping and rushed, reeking of desperation and a blatant desire to cum. This is more like making love. In a way, it goes a step beyond. It's becoming lovers – that exhilarating learning stage, the honeymoon period of exploration, understanding through trial and error what makes one another tick, not just getting clothes off and pounding away.

It's something he should be sharing with Kurt, if they are ever meant to get this far.

“Oh, God, Kurt…Kurt…Kurt…” Blaine finds himself moaning so loudly the neighbors might actually hear him, and oh, God! What if Kurt ever does come over? What if the two of them get caught by one of Blaine's neighbors in the hallway, and Blaine introduces him. Then the neighbor smiles knowingly and says, “Oh! You're that Kurt!”

Okay, well, fuck. More fallout to consider, but not right now.

Blaine's body starts to stiffen, starts to arch, coils back in its attempt to completely give way, and Blaine lets it, powerless to stop it, unwilling, muscles taking over while Blaine laughs in titillation that he has this, while he moans because he wants this, with Kurt's name on his lips because…because…

Shit! There's too many reasons, and his mind's turning into gravy. He'll pick one out later, one that perfectly fits this, one that defines who Kurt is and what Kurt is.

And what Kurt means to Blaine.

“Fuck! Kurt!” Blaine groans, his body stuttering to a halt, lifting partially off the bed, cumming, torqueing and twisting, trying to get away but keep going at the same time. He can imagine Kurt laughing, keeping him pinned by his hips, riding him till his heart's content, no matter how soft or sensitive he becomes.

And Blaine wants him to. Staring into the black of his bedroom where he's been picturing Kurt, he wishes to God he was there.

Blaine's addition to his fantasy this time isn't Kurt singing to him while they have sex. His voice sings to him when it's over, when Blaine's coming down from his high and slight twinges of depression start to bleed in. It waits till after, once he's spent, lying on the bed, readjusting to his quiet apartment, listening to the sound of his breathing as it slows – his breathing, and his alone. That's when he feels it. Something has definitely changed. It's strong, pushing away the soothing lull of an amazing orgasm and replacing it instead with regret.

Embarrassment.

And still, Blaine lets it continue. He pulls away from his machine when he turns it off, but he doesn't remove the fleshjack. He throws the blankets over himself, over all of it, pretending he's falling asleep inside Kurt, latching on to his happiness for as long as he can, even as a grey storm cloud of remorse crowds his chest.

This wasn't how it started; this wasn't what he planned, but this is what it's turning out to be.

But it's fixable. Blaine knows it is. It's all fixable.

Kurt can help him fix it. Blaine just needs a little bit more.