Kurt pulls Blaine into the apartment behind him and closes the door. He's almost giddy. Done. With Blaine's help, he could conceivably get this done. He giggles to himself as he sets his plan in motion.

“Take off your coat,” Kurt instructs his makeshift model, outlining in his head everything he needs to get done and prioritizing – pin the pieces, match the seams, check the drape, adjust the bias…

“Where do you want me?” Blaine asks, slipping out of his coat and hanging it over the back of one of Kurt's vintage flea market chairs, his naturally sensuous voice dripping ludicrous amounts of sex appeal with his attempt at seduction. Kurt stops organizing his mental checklist and lifts his eyes to meet Blaine's gaze, glowering in disgust when he sees Blaine's hazel eyes sliding luridly over his body, shamelessly devouring every subtle curve. Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and taps his toe loudly on the wood floor.

“Look,” he says in a sharp tone that instantly redirects Blaine's attention from his unsolicited gawking, “I just…I have to ask - I know that Santana hired you, and I know why she hired you, but did you really expect to come over here and have sex with me?”

Blaine jerks his head back, again thrown of his guard, but he recovers quickly, retorting with a smug grin, “That's usually the way these things work.”

Kurt sighs and shakes his head, chuckling out of exasperation instead of from any real amusement. He doesn't have time for jokes – or for flirting with this admittedly adorable albeit arrogant man.

“Well, here's the deal,” Kurt says in his no-nonsense voice, “you are about to earn the easiest paycheck of your life. All I need you to do is stand in the center of the living room with your arms out so I can finish putting together my suits.”

Blaine nods in understanding, but his smile doesn't budge, which makes Kurt fume.

“You look tense, though,” Blaine says, leaning a hip against the kitchen table and crossing his feet at the ankles, trying unnecessarily hard, Kurt thinks, to go for the casually sexy look. “Are you sure there isn't something else I can do for you? Maybe a massage?”

On any other day, in any other situation, Kurt would laugh off the ridiculous way that Blaine is trying to toy with him. He could even forgive Blaine if Blaine wasn't wasting Kurt's precious time. Wasting time, to Kurt, is a sin, and Blaine's infractions are steadily piling up.

“I have fifteen suits I wanted to have finished before midnight,” Kurt says, panic raising his voice a touch, “and at this rate I won't be done till July!”

Blaine's face pales, his smile slipping, but Kurt has stopped looking at him, staring down helpless at his hands. Kurt doesn't notice the shift in Blaine's attitude, the way he backpedals, modifying his approach.

“Kurt,” he says, pushing off the table and stepping over to him. “Kurt, I'm…”

“You said you would do anything I wanted,” Kurt interrupts, his voice shaking, not looking for apologies, “so can you just do this for me? Please?” Kurt runs his hands through his hair and then buries his face in his palms, breathing deep, on the verge of hyperventilating. Nothing is going right. Even when he thinks he has the answers, even when he finds a way of making things work, it all falls apart. Maybe designing his own line was a mistake. Maybe he isn't cut out for this. Look at how badly he handles pressure? That can't be good for a designer. He used to think that his strive for perfection, his diva attitude, his short fuse, were all a sign of hidden genius and incredible passion.

Maybe it's just the sign of him being a failure, or worse - a wannabe.

He takes a long breath in and lets it out slowly. He gets no answer to his question but he doesn't hear the door open and close so he knows that Blaine is still there, watching him have a meltdown. As he continues to breathe, trying his best to calm down, he realizes how much he sounds like a spoiled brat. He takes one last cleansing breath and dares to look up. Blaine stands before him, his lips pushing down at the corners, hazel eyes full of concern…and possibly a tad hurt.

“Blaine, I'm sorry,” Kurt says with a sigh. “I'm stressed out and…”

“No…no you're right,” Blaine cuts in. “You already turned me down. I should learn to take a hint, huh?” He follows his rhetorical question with a self-depreciating chuckle that tugs at Kurt's heart. This is the real Blaine, not the over-actor from before pulling out all the lame and cheesy stops to get Kurt's clothes off.

The real Blaine seems like a man that Kurt wouldn't mind getting a chance to know.

Kurt puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder and squeezes gently.

“I'm jumping to assumptions,” Kurt says. “You don't have to stay and help me. I know this isn't what you signed up for. You must have something better…”

“No, no,” Blaine rushes out before Kurt can continue. “I want to stay and help you.” Kurt raises an eyebrow at Blaine's reaction, confused as to why a male escort would be eager to help him with his suits. Maybe working as a male escort isn't as fun and exciting as swinging 70s movies make it seem.

Still, Blaine's reaction is a bit of an overreaction, and Kurt can't escape the feeling that he's seen Blaine somewhere before. He just can't put a finger on where.

“I mean,” Blaine says, putting a subdued version of his cocky grin back on his face, “your friend already paid, and I have nothing else to do for the next few hours. Let me stay and help you out.”

“A-ha,” Kurt says suspiciously. Santana did pay for this, which meant that she's behind Blaine being there…which also meant there's a chance that none of this it what it seemed.

“You mentioned dinner. Are you hungry?” Kurt gestures with his hand towards the living room and Blaine gets the hint, walking in the direction of the sofa. He rounds the end and stops when he sees the patterns and fabric laid out on the floor.

“Maybe a little,” Blaine says, eyes glued to the half-sewn jacket waiting for him to help fit it, “b-but I don't want to put you out or anything.”

“It's no biggie,” Kurt comments, opening the refrigerator door and perusing the shelves. “I cook all my meals on Sunday night, that way all I have to do is heat them up during the week, and I always make extra because I know my roommate's going to steal half anyway.”

“Wow,” Blaine says with an appreciative smile, “you sound organized.”

“I try,” Kurt says, feeling more at ease with this polite back-and-forth conversation than with the obnoxious flirting. “We have salmon roulade, chicken marsala, jambalaya…”

“That all sounds great,” Blaine says, “but I don't want to eat into any more of your time by having a full meal…so to speak.”

“How about this…” Kurt pulls out a block of cheese and a bag of grapes from the crisper, and arranges them on a mahogany board, “I'll bring out a fruit and cheese platter and a glass of white wine, and whenever you want a bite, let me know and I'll feed you.”

“I think that sounds perfect,” Blaine answers, smiling down at his feet. Kurt bites his lip when he glimpses Blaine's cheeks color at the mention of Kurt feeding him. Kurt opens a bottle of chardonnay and pours Blaine a glass.

“Now, I know that most people like to pair strong red wines with firm cheeses,” Kurt says, carrying the wine along with the platter into the living room, “but I prefer a nice dry white, especially with the grapes to highlight all those fruity tones.” He sets the platter on an end table at the arm of the sofa, but hands the glass to Blaine. “Besides, it won't do as much damage if you accidentally spill.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says, accepting the glass. Raising it to Kurt in a silent toast, he takes a sip. “So, you design clothes, you know wine, you cook, you sing. You're a real Renaissance man.”

“I guess.” Kurt picks up a cube of cheese and offers it to Blaine, who smiles and opens his mouth obediently like a baby bird for Kurt to pop it inside. “I didn't know anyone used that term anymore.”

“My dad uses it all the time, but about me,” Blaine confesses, taking another sip of wine and losing himself in the glass. Kurt frowns as he watches Blaine down the wine, getting the feeling that when Blaine's dad uses that term to describe Blaine, it doesn't sound like a compliment.

“Alright, arms out,” Kurt says, removing the empty glass from Blaine's fingers. “Try not to move.”

Blaine puts his arms out, his smile happily returning. Kurt picks up the jacket and slips the sleeves over Blaine's arms, inching it on him carefully to avoid sticking him with the pins.

“Renaissance man,” Kurt repeats, then furrows his brow. “How do you know I sing?”

Blaine doesn't answer right away, and from the corner of his vision, Kurt can see Blaine's eyes dart around furiously.

“Those pictures on your wall,” Blaine says. “Show choir?”

“Yup,” Kurt says, tugging the front edges gently to check the fit around Blaine's waist. “The not-so-much-pride of McKinley High School, located in backwater Lima, Ohio.” Kurt scoffs, “I'm so glad I'm out of there.”

“Lima, Ohio?” Blaine asks, his face brightening. “I'm from Westerville.”

“Wow,” Kurt says, taking his tape measure out of his pocket and re-measuring the waist of the coat. “Small world.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “We're almost kindred spirits.”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but affectionately.

“Well, from a distance, at least,” he agrees.

Blaine goes silent while Kurt moves the tape measure up around Blaine's chest. Kurt can feel Blaine watch him, and he ends up measuring Blaine's chest twice when the tape measure slips out of his hands. He moves the tape measure up to check the length of Blaine's shoulders when he looks into Blaine's face, inches from his own, and catches Blaine's gaze. Those hazel eyes – honey-gold with flecks of auburn - stare at him in a way that makes Kurt's heart slam in his chest.

“Is there something wrong? Do I have something on my face?” Kurt asks, averting his eyes and making a joke to mask what that look from those eyes does to his body.

“Uh…I…no, there's nothing on your face,” Blaine says with a nervous laugh – one sweet and sincere that doesn't help Kurt's situation any. “I was just noticing that you make the most interesting faces while you concentrate.”

“Really?” Kurt asks, going back to his measuring when all he really wants to do is stare into Blaine's eyes until things like school and deadlines and stress become meaningless.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, following Kurt as he starts measuring his wrists. “Your brow wrinkles, you scrunch your nose, and you bite your lip…”

Kurt lets his lips part, realizing in that second that he's biting his lip. Kurt straightens, pulling at the hem of the jacket.

“So, do I get a bite now?”

Kurt's head snaps up, his eyebrows shooting straight up to his hairline.

“Ex…excuse me?” he asks softly.

“A cheese cube,” Blaine answers. “You said to tell you…”

“Right, right, right…” Kurt stutters, turning back to the cheese platter beside the sofa. He plucks a cube of cheese from the plate, walks back to an awaiting Blaine, and places the cheese up to his mouth. Blaine opens his mouth and takes the cube gently between his teeth, suppressing a smile when Kurt gasps.

Kurt watches Blaine chew his cube of cheese, eyes focused on how his mouth works, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip.

“You know, I think I could get used to this,” Blaine says after he swallows.

“Did you…want some more wine?” Kurt asks, trying not to openly stare, captivated by Blaine's mouth.

“Please,” Blaine says. He watches Kurt pick up the empty wine glass and head back to the kitchen, his eyes drifting down Kurt's back to his ass, moaning in his head at the fluid way Kurt moves. “Do you still sing?” Blaine calls after him, needing the distraction of conversation as a way of keeping his mind off Kurt's incredible body.

“Every once in a while,” Kurt answers, pouring Blaine a second glass of wine. “Jukebox karaoke mostly, down at a place called Callbacks in The Village. You been?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, “uh…maybe once or twice, I think.”

Kurt nods, wondering if that's why Blaine looks familiar. They could have run into each other there.

Kurt returns with the wine and Blaine moves an arm to reach for it, but Kurt quickly puts a hand out to stop him.

“Don't move,” Kurt scolds. “You don't want to stick yourself.”

Blaine watches Kurt bring the glass to his mouth. When the chilled glass hits his lip, Blaine closes his eyes. Kurt tips the wine into Blaine's mouth, and again Kurt is drawn to the way Blaine's mouth moves, the way his throat moves, the way his lips purse to drink. He stops paying attention to what he's doing and almost gives Blaine too much. He stops when he hears Blaine sputter.

“Oh my gosh, I am sorry…”

“That's okay,” Blaine says with a laugh while Kurt runs to grab a napkin for him. Kurt returns with a blue fabric napkin from the kitchen and cleans away the dribbles of wine around Blaine's lips, thinking for a second that if he had taken Blaine up on his offer at the beginning of the night, Kurt could be licking that wine up off Blaine's chin right now.

After that, Kurt's mouth becomes too dry to speak.

Kurt fits the jacket on Blaine in silence, trying his best to concentrate on his work and not the body beneath his fingertips, but it becomes difficult, especially when his fingers accidentally graze over Blaine's abs, or he is forced to measure Blaine's biceps for the umpteenth time to get the sleeves correct (sleeves that were perfect an hour prior).

“Tell me about these suits you're working on,” Blaine says suddenly, and Kurt, threading his needle, misses the eye.

“Huh…come again?” Kurt asks, looking past his needle at Blaine, who's rolling his wrists and shaking out his hands to get the blood circulation going again. “Oh...” Kurt puts his needle back in his tomato pin cushion and rushes over to help Blaine out of the coat. “I think you've earned a break.” Once he slips his arms out of the sleeves, Blaine breaths out with relief, shaking his arms, raising them above his head, and then letting them fall down at his sides.

“Thanks,” Blaine says, dropping down onto the sofa beside the tray of half-eaten, lukewarm cheese. Kurt sits on the opposite end with the coat in his lap and continues the task of threading his needle. “Tell me about these suits you're making,” Blaine continues. “Is this a school project or…”

“It's pretty much the ultimate school project,” Kurt says. Leaning forward and reaching a hand beneath the sofa, he pulls out a leather portfolio. He hands it over to Blaine, who wipes his hands on Kurt's napkin from earlier and takes the leather book in his hands. “I'm attending college on scholarship, and keeping my scholarship relies entirely on this.”

“How good a scholarship, if you don't mind my asking?” Blaine starts undoing the binding that holds the cover together.

“Pretty good,” Kurt says. “Full plus some extra. It pays for my classes and my books, with an allowance that covers studio costs. Since I do all of my work here, I use it to pay my rent.”

“Wow,” Blaine says, unable to hide how impressed he is. “I got a scholarship, too. It paid for one book, and I had to buy it used.”

Kurt laughs lightly, sewing his seam, peeking up every so often to watch Blaine open the portfolio and flip through the pages, his heart fluttering at Blaine's drop-jawed, wide-eyed response to his designs.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, slowly turning the pages, examining the intricate details of Kurt's designs, “these are incredible. These are all yours?”

“Yup.” Kurt sets the coat aside on the sofa arm and scoots closer to Blaine to look over his shoulder. “I've been working on these designs all through high school. God, some of them look so juvenile to me now.”

“Juvenile?” Blaine coughs out, his eyes landing on an elaborate floor length ball gown of midnight blue satin adorned with crystals he's sure are hand-sewn, modeled by a beautiful young woman who looks like a modern day Grace Kelly. “How can you say that?”

Kurt laughs at Blaine's shock.

“I guess I am a little overly critical of my own work.” Kurt reaches over and turns to a page toward the back – a page that looks professionally printed on cardstock with pictures of some of the finished suits and dresses, the word Legacy written across the top in a crisp black script.

“I called my line Legacy,” Kurt points out in case Blaine can't read the font (a few of Kurt's friends weren't thrilled with it when he showed the cover page to them, but Kurt liked it, so he kept it.)

“Legacy…like an homage to the great fashion designers of the past?” Blaine asks, turning back in the portfolio to where he left off, which makes Kurt smile.

“No, my legacy,” Kurt says. He leans back on the sofa, resting his head on Blaine's shoulder, missing when Blaine's breath stops in his throat. “It's part of the reason I was awarded my scholarship. I wrote an essay about…” Kurt stops, chewing on the next words waiting to be spoken. His scholarship essay was personal – one of the most personal things he has ever written. There was so much of him in it – his fears, his hopes, his losses, his pain. His friends didn't read it. He didn't even let his father or stepmother read it. In fact, he didn't tell anyone it existed. He's barely known Blaine two hours and here he is spilling all his secrets. Blaine is easy to talk to. He seems to be genuinely interested in what Kurt has to say, and he doesn't seem like one to judge. Kurt could be naïve, but he feels like he can trust Blaine. “I wrote an essay about losing my mom when I was eight, about my father's heart attack when I was in high school, about my stepbrother passing away. I wrote about how that affected me, and how I wanted to make my mark, leave something behind. I want to make an imprint of my own on this world, you know? Especially since my stepbrother…he didn't really have enough time to make one, and...”

Kurt sits up when he sees the water stain on Blaine's shirt from the tears rolling down his cheeks. He raises a hand to his face to wipe the tears away but Blaine beats him to it, turning his way and catching a tear on his thumb. Kurt's eyes follow Blaine's hand, lifting the tear to his lips and kissing it away. Blaine's hand returns to his cheek, and Kurt leans into it, tilting into the palm cradling his cheek.

“You're so amazing, Kurt,” Blaine says, running his thumb over Kurt's cheek. “I've never met anyone as amazing as you.”

Kurt ducks his head, hiding from the awe in Blaine's eyes. He was never good at taking a compliment. Unfortunately, he can't seem to make himself start now.

“H-how long did Santana pay for you to be here?” Kurt asks, leaning away from Blaine's touch, trying to change the subject. “I wouldn't want you to be late for…uh…someone else.”

“I don't have anywhere else to be,” Blaine admits, backing off and giving Kurt space

“Really?” Kurt asks, taking up his sewing again, grateful to return back to normalcy. “Huh. I would think that you would have more…uh…clients tonight than any other night, considering the occasion.”

“Yeah, well, I'm relatively new to all this,” Blaine says. “Besides, I'm enjoying myself.”

“You're enjoying playing human mannequin?” Kurt asks with a huff. “Instead of going out drinking and dancing?”

“I'm enjoying myself right here,” Blaine says seriously, “being with you.”

Kurt looks up from his sewing with shy eyes and a small grin.

“Okay,” he says, accepting Blaine's answer. “If you don't mind staying, I'd love the company.”

“I don't mind,” Blaine says, sitting back against the arm of the sofa and popping another cheese cube into his mouth.

“Alright,” Kurt says. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” Blaine says with a playful wink. “Any time.”

***

Kurt's eyes start to water, then they tear as he sews his last stitch into the last seam of the coat lying over his lap.

“There,” he sighs, smiling victoriously, “it's finally finished…“

Kurt looks over at Blaine, sitting on the other end of the sofa, lifting up the coat for his approval. But Blaine's eyes are closed, his head resting against the sofa arm, breathing softly. Kurt looks at the sleeping man with a fond smile. He doesn't remember when Blaine fell asleep. The two of them were making idle chitchat while Kurt worked, talking about their favorite of the turn-of-the-century movies currently playing at the revival theater downtown, and then about auditions for the off-Broadway reprisal of The Magic Man. At some point after that, Blaine must have drifted off. Kurt remembers seeing Blaine yawn a few times, and then – silence. Kurt hadn't minded. It had been a comfortable silence. Kurt usually has a problem with people hanging out, especially when he's working. But Blaine's presence was different. It wasn't an intrusion. Him being there was soothing,

Having Blaine there in the room with him was nice.

It was a variety of nice that Kurt missed.

Kurt looks into Blaine's sleeping face and feels a sad knot bloom in his chest. He may not see Blaine after tonight. Blaine is an escort. Being with Kurt was his job – just a job. Kurt could definitely see himself falling for a sweet guy like Blaine – one that likes fashion, musical theater, old black-and-white Gary Cooper movies, singing karaoke. Kurt can picture the two of them on stage at Callbacks, harmonizing to some upbeat Pop 40s hit or a Sondheim showtune. But dating a male escort – knowing what male escorts do with their clients, what Blaine had been planning to do with him – Kurt doesn't think that he's strong enough to handle that. He wouldn't want to share Blaine with anyone, even if it was just a job.

So a relationship between the two of them would probably never work.

Before Blaine leaves, Kurt wants something to remember him by.

Kurt rises carefully from the sofa so as not to wake him and drapes the finished coat on a chair across the room. He grabs his sketch book from an end table and opens to a blank page. He sits on the floor a short distance away from Blaine and, with his favorite charcoal pencil in hand, starts to draw. It's been a long time since he's drawn something for the pleasure of it. He's glad that he has such a handsome subject to inspire him. He draws a quick portrait of Blaine, a torso view, adding to it the design for a coat that's been knocking around his head, something not normally his style but that he had thought about experimenting with. With Blaine's look – his retro 50s appeal – the style fits. He alters the design here and there to make it into a dinner jacket, something that would be constructed in a rich velvet fabric, maybe something in burgundy to offset Blaine's eyes, which lean towards a shade of gold in the low light. Kurt adds a light, flowing scarf around his neck, the ends hanging over the lapels – a classic twist to accent the more contemporary design.

Kurt moves to his knees in front of Blaine, crawling forward to get a better look at some of the finer details of Blaine's face – the curls that dip down onto his forehead, the shadows his eyelashes cast on the apples of his cheeks, the delicate curve that leads from his eyebrows to the slope of his nose, those entrancing lips, so full, so inviting.

They look like they'd feel incredibly soft against Kurt's skin.

It's been so long since Kurt has kissed someone.

Kurt doesn't know why he does it. It's not because he thinks he can get away with it. Maybe he doesn't want to get away with it. He doesn't want to take advantage of Blaine, but Kurt needs to know. He leans in close, presses his lips lightly to Blaine's, and kisses him. Blaine's eyelids flutter open quickly, not quite as asleep as Kurt had assumed. Kurt jerks away, cheeks flaming red, rambling apologies. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Blaine. I shouldn't have…I…”

Blaine grabs for Kurt's hand before he can stand, and squeezing gently, he pulls Kurt back.

“Please,” Blaine whispers, his eyes flicking down to Kurt's lips and back up to his eyes. “Please, don't stop.”