Blaine doesn’t know why he does it (he does know why, he just doesn’t want to think about it), but the next morning he gets up an extra fifteen minutes early, which means it’s 4:30am and he’s sure the neighbors just love the sound of his pipes creaking as he showers that much earlier. He remembers last week, when the unruly little boy down the hall kicked his door at 9pm, waking him from a restless sleep on the couch, and calls it even.

He stares into his closet, at the collection of black polos that are crammed into the far left, as far away from the rest of his clothing as possible. It doesn’t matter; everything he owns smells of coffee. His clothes. His books. His goddamn bed. He smells of coffee. Showers and cologne do nothing to mask the scent of roasted beans and brewed coffee that lingers on his skin, seeps into his pores, twists through his hair. At first he hated it, but that was years ago. Now it just is.

Blaine grabs the newest of his standard issue polos and pulls it on. This one hasn’t been washed a million times and is still a fresh, dark black, free of Spirit spots and whipped cream stains that just won’t quite come out. He hasn’t ironed his slacks, because his iron broke two months ago and he doesn’t want to waste the cash on a new one, not with school starting up again and his hours about to drop drastically (not to mention his tips). But he’s careful to hang his pants up at night, and the ones he picks for the day, black and tailored to show just a bit of ankle (because nothing in the dress code says he can’t), are free of wrinkles. This morning, it’s very important to him to be as neat and wrinkle-free as possible.

He spends more time than usual looking in the mirror that morning, fingering a bit of product into his curls, taking care to style them just so. Long gone are the days when he’d comb his hair flat to his head. New York has provided for him a number of things, the least of which is the courage to wear his hair au natural. But that morning, he wants it to look just a little bit nicer, a little less out of control.

Blaine catches his own wide eyes in the mirror and he flushes. There’s an obvious reason why he gives a shit about his appearance that dark, early morning.

The Week of Kurt, as he thinks of it (and damn there’s the flutter of his pulse whenever he thinks of the tall, extraordinarily well-put-together young man), was a happy fluke.
He doesn’t usually work that often, or so consistently in the mornings. His graduate program at Tisch is going to be intense, exhaustingly so much of the time, and he only sticks to twenty hours a week and not less to qualify for medical insurance.

Soon enough though, the twenty hours is going to feel like too much. He knows. He remembers. He worked at Starbucks all through his undergrad studies at NYU, and he remembers the long, aching days when he thought he’d never make it another step, another note. But he put one foot in front of the other, and kept on.

It’s only the second week of classes though, and the workload is still light enough that Blaine picks up the extra shifts for his desperate coworker without worrying too much about it. He won’t be able to soon enough, or so everyone who’s already gone through the first year of the program has warned him. A few extra bucks in tips doesn’t hurt either.

But now, now he’s thankful that he did, because if he hadn’t, if he refused the extra hours, he would never had seen Kurt. Kurt with his unfathomable eyes and perfect skin. Kurt with his expensive clothing and exquisite hair. His broad shoulders and trim waist. The way his hands wrapped around the coffee cup.

Blaine realizes he’s been standing in his cramped bathroom for too long, staring vacantly into the mirror and he shakes his head. He’s being an idiot. Kurt is clearly out his league. He’s an assistant to someone important enough to need an assistant, and one who buys her assistant coffee every morning on the company card. Blaine is just a struggling grad student who can’t buy a new iron and is already worried more about his upcoming school work than having an actual social life.

Blaine grabs the apron (a black Coffee Master one you can’t earn any more) that perpetually hangs from the bathroom door and rushes out of his apartment.

***

A lot of partners don’t care for them, but Blaine rather likes the opening shift. There’s a rhythm to it - getting the coffee and iced tea brewed, the pastry case stocked, the oven warmed. If the closing shift’s done their job right, the dishes are clean, the cups are stocked, and the mocha powder is waiting on the counter to be mixed. They don’t have a lot of time between clocking in and the doors opening, but when done properly, with the right crew, it all flows together wonderfully and they’ve got everything ready by the time the first impatient businessman or sleepy-eyed tourist comes knocking at their door.

That’s not to say Blaine wants to open every time he works - he’d rather turn off his alarm off and sleep in like most everyone else, but the beauty of opening is you get half an hour without customers, and oftentimes he’s so sleepy that the time flies to his first 10 minute break in a haze of practiced repetition, fake smiles, and endless pulls of espresso.

Opening also means that he’s there, in his usual spot behind the bar, when Kurt walks in.

It’s a bright, warm autumn morning in New York and Kurt’s wearing pair of sunglasses that hide his eyes. His outfit is lighter than the week before, when there’d been a slight chill in the air, but it’s no less stunning. Blaine doesn’t know much, or anything, about designers, but the white jacket Kurt has on, zipped up over a dark grey V-neck shirt, looks like it costs at least a month of Blaine’s pay. He doesn’t even want to think about the value of the ankle boots Kurt’s wearing. He also tries not to think about the lean length of Kurt’s legs in his dark, fitted jeans.

Blaine swallows when Kurt takes his sunglasses off, tucking them into the neck of his shirt (Blaine’s sure Kurt doesn’t want to mess up the careful sweep of his hair by pushing his glasses up on top of his head) and scans the store. His face opens and brightens when he spots Blaine, and Blaine hopes, stupidly, foolishly, that Kurt notices his hair. He remembers too late that Kurt will never see his pants because he’s behind the bar, most of his body hidden from view. He’s thankful, however, that his shoes are concealed - ragged old all-black Chucks that bear the scars and stains of spilled milk and dropped Frappuccino.

Blaine ignores the fact that he doesn’t know if Kurt’s even interested in men.

Blaine holds up two empty cups - one venti and one grande - and lifts an eyebrow inquiringly. From the back of the uncommonly short line Kurt laughs and nods at him. If Blaine does nothing else of worth today, at least he’s made Kurt laugh.

Kurt leans a hip against the bar counter when he’s made it through the line and past the register. There are generally two types of Starbucks customers at Blaine’s store - those who crowd impatiently around the end of the bar, ready to snatch their drink from the barista’s hand (or someone else’s drink if they’re really not paying attention), and those who stand too far away, chattering on their cellphones and never hearing their drink get called out.

Kurt seems to be neither one; he’s standing close, but his body language is languid and casual, his torso a smooth line up from the curve of the hip he’s leaning against the counter.

This close, his chestnut hair has blonde highlights and his eyes are sea-blue, sparkling in the morning sunlight filtering through the windows. Blaine tries, and fails, not to feel self-conscious about his own boring, dark hair (hair that he spent that little extra time on that morning) and uninteresting eyes. He can’t imagine someone like Kurt could possibly be interested in someone like him, but he’d still like his effort to be appreciated.

“Your hair looks nice this morning,” Kurt says, and Blaine fumbles with the Splenda he’d been ripping open. The sweetener flies everywhere and Blaine drops the packets into the cup. He flushes a deep, shamed red, and reaches for a new one, avoiding what must certainly be a pitying look from Kurt.

“I, thanks.” Blaine finally glances over, and Kurt’s looking right at him, biting his lower lip a little, cheeks stained a pretty pink. “I like your jacket.”

Kurt runs a hand over the sleeve of the coat in question, preening, just a little. “Amazing isn’t it? I can’t believe they’re letting me wear it. Out in the real world where any number of things could happen to it.”

Blaine wants to ask what he means, but the milk is done steaming and the shots are ready. The drink is for Kurt’s boss, and there’s no way Blaine’s screwing it up because he can’t drag his eyes away from the thin skin at the base of Kurt’s throat.

“Why don’t you wear a nametag?” Kurt asks suddenly.

Blaine looks down at his chest, where his apron is devoid of a nametag, or any flare at all. “I lost it, a while ago. And never got a replacement. No one’s said anything about it yet.”

“I bet it helps keep all the lecherous customers off your case too, huh?”

Blaine doesn’t understand the comment; people don’t look at the short barista with the crazy hair and propensity for ankle-baring pants. Blaine covers his awkwardness by starting Kurt’s drink. He doesn’t see the way Kurt’s cheeks darken with his own embarrassment.

He steams the milk differently than he would for a latte, letting the steam wand drop to the bottom of the pitcher. He doesn’t want any foam to form, not for this. Maybe another morning he’ll make Kurt a cappuccino, aerating the milk to light, silky perfection. He wishes he had better ingredients than the powdered mocha mix for Kurt, wishes he had fine chocolate and orange rinds that he could craft into a truly wonderful taste experience for Kurt.

Blaine settles for adjusting the amount of mocha used, one less pump than standard, and adding a pump of vanilla (sugar-free, because Kurt ordered nonfat, no whip) as if he were making a hot chocolate. He pulls the espresso shots just long of ristretto, keeping them just a little bit sweeter. He knows he’s taking all sorts of liberties with Kurt’s drink, but he doesn’t care. He promised Kurt the best goddamn mocha he could make and that’s what he’s doing. He stirs as he free-pours the milk, making sure that this time there’s no chance the chocolate won’t get fully incorporated. He’s still annoyed that he gave Kurt that drink yesterday and wants to erase the taste of it from Kurt’s memory.

Blaine slips a lid on the cup. He would have made a pretty little design on the top - maybe a leaf for the upcoming season - but Kurt’s watching him with those bright, beautiful eyes, and his hands feel too unsteady.

He slides the drink towards Kurt, who takes it, but doesn’t stuff it into the tray with his boss’ latte.

“So,” Kurt begins, long fingers playing with the lip of the lid. “That comment about your nametag was kind of my way of asking for your name. I guess it didn’t go over quite as smoothly as I thought it would.”

“Oh!”

Idiot idiot idiot.

He twists the sanitizing rag he’d been cleaning the steam wand with. “It’s Blaine. I’m Blaine. My name’s Blaine.”

Say it one more time you moron.

“Well, Blaine, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I should go before the rest of your customers start throwing sugar packets at me.”

Blaine hadn’t noticed the backlog of drink orders until just then. He can’t quite bring himself to care. Kurt asked for his name.

“Wait!” Blaine calls out as Kurt turns to leave. “Will you...will you taste it before you go? Tell me what you think? It’s not exactly standard recipe.”

Kurt lifts an eyebrow at him, clearly intrigued, but brings the drink to his lips. His eyes are locked with Blaine’s, and Blaine can feel his heart pounding in his throat. Somewhere in the background a coffee timer is beeping incessantly.

Kurt’s eyes flutter closed briefly as he swallows, and Blaine can tell, he just knows by the shifting of Kurt’s expression, the subtle smile, the working of his throat, that the drink is delicious. Of course it is, but it means something that Kurt thinks so too.

“It’s perfect,” Kurt says, and his tongue darts out to catch a drop off his bottom lip. The warming oven could catch on fire and Blaine wouldn’t notice. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” And Blaine means it.

As Kurt slips out of the store and onto the crowded sidewalk, Blaine’s mind is abuzz with all sorts of unique and wonderful things he could create for Kurt.