Kurt Hummel loves his job, he really, really does. Blood, sweat, and tears (all three literal and figurative), and a tremendous amount of luck, had brought him to it. He’s going to do absolutely everything in his power, and his talent, to keep it.

He’d worked his ass (pert and toned thank you very much) getting his BFA in Fashion Design at Parsons, and had planned on moving right on to the new MA program in Fashion Studies. The faculty had loved him, his professors had nurtured his growth, had pulled things from deep inside of him that he hadn’t known were there, and they were eager to keep him at their school; loathe to lose him to the Pratt Institute or god forbid the West Coast. But instead, by chance, happenstance, serendipity, whatever - the world opened up for him in a way he’d never imagined, never even dreamed it could. At least not as his young age.

Kurt is nothing if not determinedly optimistic about where his life is going, and so far, it’s going pretty well.

And now he wants it all. Wants to design his own line, wants sew every piece himself. He wants to travel to Milan or Paris for a few years, intern there, scratch out a living by the length of his tape measure and the sharp edge of his scissors. Kurt wants to experience the world, get a taste of life and love and art and culture, get as far from small-town USA as he can. And fuck it all if it’s not his deepest ambition to somehow, someday take over Anna Wintour’s position as editor-in-chief at Vogue. He’s got a foot, well maybe a toe, in the door for the latter at least - he works at Vogue now.

A delicious shiver works its way up his spine and raises the hair on the back of his neck,
the same way it does every time he remembers it. He works at Vogue. Vogue. And he doesn’t just work there; he doesn’t just fetch coffee and deliver mail as a harried, overworked and underpaid gopher-intern (although he does the former and is fucking glad to do so).

No. He is the assistant to Mrs. Bradshaw (Carrie, goddamn it Kurt call me Carrie before I fire you, you’re making me feel even older than I already do), current fashion editor at Vogue, contributing columnist to the New York Star, and author of four, soon-to-be five bestselling books. Nevermind the whole fashion icon aspect. It’s almost too much.

Kurt Hummel gets to walk through the front doors of Cond� Nast in Times Square every morning (six mornings and counting) with his chin raised. It doesn’t matter that he’s carrying two cups of coffee and only one of them is for him. So what if his heart still beats so hard, so fast he’s sure the security guard who checks his ID badge can see it fluttering in his throat, can see the rattling of his ribs through his clothes.

But he is twenty-two fucking years old and he is the Assistant to the Fashion Editor of Vogue.

How is this his life?

Kurt knows there is a host of people working for the magazine who already don’t like him. Who’s this kid? They whisper when he walks through the halls carrying proofs and drafts and whatever else Carrie needs or wants. He didn’t pay his dues, they accuse when he gets to sit in on his first editorial meeting that first Friday morning.

He doesn’t have a spot around the huge table with the heads of the departments, but he sits off to the side, with his laptop open and typing away every note, every detail of the meeting, desperately trying to focus while Anna Wintour sits just feet away from him. She’s not often at those meetings, but she was at that one, and Kurt was dumbstruck, star struck.

Kurt wants to absorb absolutely everything he can, to learn and grow from the best of the best. He knows he’s got a natural talent, but with the proper guidance he can, and will, get better. And there he was in a room with some of the most talented, powerful, influential people in the business, his business, and they were sitting around discussing the future of fashion. In front of him. It felt a little like a dream, that meeting, until Carrie leaned back in her chair a bit, caught his eye, and winked at him.

He almost can’t blame them, his coworkers who don’t like him. This job had come to him, almost too easily if he’s perfectly honest with himself; he hadn’t sought it out. But he’d work so hard for so little for so long; why shouldn’t something come to him easy, sweet and smooth, for once? And why shouldn’t that thing be something as incredible, as life-altering as this? There are men and women out there who’d kill to be in his position. There are employees at Vogue who’ve been striving for his job since they started. And he was plucked out of thin air, off the Brooklyn Bridge, by Carrie Bradshaw herself.

He knows he’s lucky, but he also knows he deserves it. He works hard and he’s talented - he’s not going to apologize to anyone for either of those things. But he’s also not going to rub it in their faces. He’s going to prove it to them that he deserves to be there.

Kurt Hummel is going to be damn good at his job.

***

Kurt checks himself out in the mirror, preening just a little, as he gets dressed that Tuesday morning. He’s wearing the white Ralph Lauren jacket again and he doesn’t care that it’s two days in a row. It’s a beautiful piece and he’s going to flaunt it while he can. He has to return it to its rightful owners today, so he’s wearing it every moment he can until they pry it off his back. It looks amazing on him though - showing off the breadth of his shoulders and the long curve of his back. It’s a sample piece - literally off the rack - and somehow it fits him perfectly, down to the length of the arm and the nip in the waist.

He’s sad to see it go, but if this is any indication of the perks of his new job, then good things, gorgeous things, are in his future.

And besides, Blaine had commented on it. That’s reason enough to wear it again.

Kurt’s pulse flutters a little at the thought of the adorable, endearingly shy barista and he catches himself grinning stupidly into the mirror. It feels like it’s been forever since he cared enough to dress for someone other than himself, and the anticipation of Blaine’s appreciative gaze bubbles, happy and hopeful, through his veins. He doesn’t know much, or anything at all about Blaine, but he knows when someone is interested in him, and Blaine is. Even if he’s trying, for some reason, to hide it.

He throws a scarf of his own design around his neck, loose and light and baring his throat because he’d noticed Blaine staring the other morning, and checks one last time that he hasn’t somehow gotten any New York City grime on the borrowed coat. It’s one thing to get his own clothes dirty - he can always wash them - but this is designer and one smudge, one tear has the potential to cost him his job, everything. But the jacket is perfect, pristine, and Kurt heads out into the early, filtered morning light of the East Village.

There’s someone else back behind the bar when Kurt walks into the ever-bustling Starbucks. He’s a tall, slim boy with a shock of blonde hair almost falling into his face. It throws Kurt off. He’d expected to see Blaine there. Blaine with his whiskey-gold eyes and expressive mouth. His narrow waist, somehow accentuated by the unflattering apron he wore, and the strain of his biceps against the sleeves of his black polo shirt as he steams milk and reaches for cups. Blaine who blushes so prettily whenever Kurt tries to flirt with him a little.

Kurt orders his usual drinks from the tiny, dark-haired girl who’s almost always on register and glances around for Blaine, wondering if this is his day off or something. It’s strange, how suddenly the thought of the mocha isn’t as appetizing as it was a minute ago.

But as Kurt moves down to the counter to wait for his drinks, he finds Blaine with his back to him on the other side of the bar, mop in his strong hands and a bright yellow bucket next to him. The remnants of some drink is puddled at his feet.

Now that he’s not hidden behind the bar and the giant espresso machines, Kurt takes a moment to, well, to check Blaine out. He’s shorter than Kurt, with curly hair that looks soft to the touch and broad shoulders that taper down to an absurdly narrow waist. Kurt thinks his hands would fit just perfectly in the notches above Blaine’s hips. His black pants skim close to his strong thighs and Kurt can see the flex of his muscles against the fabric. Kurt blinks a little when he notices that Blaine’s hems end a good inch and a half above his shoes, exposing a stretch of smooth, tanned ankle. It’s not that the pants don’t fit and are too short for him; they’re designed that way. Kurt can’t help the little thrill that rushes through him with the realization that Blaine manages to instill a bit of thought, a bit of fashion into his basic, boring dress code.

And when he bends over to squeeze the excess water from the mop, Kurt appreciates the truly magnificent ass in those fitted pants.

Kurt startles when his name is suddenly called out by the barista and he smiles when Blaine straightens up and turns around. His eyes, a wonderful kind of golden in the light of the cafe, are wide, almost panicked, and when he spots Kurt, still staring at him, color rises fast to his cheeks.

“Kurt, hi, good morning,” Blaine says.

“You’re out from behind your usual prison.” Kurt tips his head towards the bar, where the younger blonde barista is watching them with dancing eyes. He looks pleased by their exchange, and Kurt hopes it’s a sign that Blaine’s been talking about him to his coworkers. He’s certainly been gushing to Carrie about Blaine.

“I,” Blaine glances at the mop in his hand. He looks almost embarrassed to be caught with it. “There was a tragic latte suicide.”

“What a loss.”

“It really was. It was a good drink - it will be mourned.” Blaine’s lips twist wrly and he blinks slowly.

This is good, Kurt thinks. I’ve got him joking with me. And he’s definitely looking me over.

Kurt can see the way Blaine’s eyes rake over him, from top to bottom, and is inordinately pleased by the blush that continues to darken his cheeks. Whatever else Blaine is (and Kurt’s just aching to find out), he’s definitely shy. Kurt wonders why Blaine always seems so surprised that he’s showing interest in him.

“You’re wearing the jacket again,” Blaine says, and his voice is low and soothing over the shrill steaming of milk, the chatter of the other customers, the beeping of the timers. Kurt’s heart thuds against his ribcage, beating a victory.

“Carrie saw me drooling over it and let me borrow it. I’m surprised I’m not under armed guard.” He fingers the cuff of the sleeve, tugging where it sits perfectly. He hopes Blaine likes his scarf just as much as he seems to like the jacket.

“Carrie?” Blaine asks, tilting his head, the name unfamiliar.

“Carrie’s my boss. She’s altogether too generous, but I think she kind of likes me.”

“Your boss,” Blaine pauses. “The latte. Mrs. Bradshaw.” The pieces fall into place, and the locking together of them chimes a terrible toll in Blaine’s head. “Carrie Bradshaw is your boss?”

Kurt puffs up with pride a little; he can’t help it. “Yep.”

“Carrie Bradshaw. Sex and the City columnist. Best-selling author. Fashion Editor at Vogue.” Blaine’s voice rises with each descriptive. “She’s your boss?”

“That she is.”

“You work at Vogue.” Blaine feels the hope and quiet, desperate longing that had slowly been building in his chest over the last week (soft and sweet like the first sip of espresso) leave him, draining out through the soles of his ragged shoes, taking the color in his face with them.

Kurt is so incredibly out of his league it hurts. There are a quarter of a million LGBTQ* people in New York City, and even if only half of them are people Kurt might be even remotely interested in, that’s still more than 100,000 people Blaine has to compete with for his bright-eyed attention. He’s lived in the city for going on five years - he knows exactly how many tall, gorgeous, wealthy, well-dressed gay men there are on the cramped island of Manhattan. Or maybe Kurt already has someone waiting at their undoubtedly perfectly-appointed apartment for him.

Blaine is just a guy, just a silly boy with scuffed shoes and a cramped apartment with creaky pipes on the outskirts of the East Village.

He doesn’t know how long Kurt’s been in New York, but soon enough someone (better than you) will catch his eye - a stockbroker with a stuffed wallet, a model with a bulging ego to match his abs, a quirky art student to be his muse - and he’ll forget all about the barista who once made him the best mocha of his life.

Kurt watches Blaine’s face fall and wonders what just went wrong, and how he can fix it fast.

Blaine looks over at the bar, where Kurt’s two drinks are sitting, waiting, and he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Your coffee is going to get cold.”

I don’t want it, Kurt thinks. You didn’t make it.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says.

“Jeff’s good. He makes a good cup of coffee. I mean, your mocha will just be to standard, it won’t be like yesterday.” Kurt sees how Blaine’s hands tighten around the mop, knuckles going white.

“I could come back?” Kurt asks hopefully. He gets an hour for lunch and his office is just around the corner. He could spend the whole time sitting in the cafe watching Blaine, watching his capable hands craft drink after drink, never faltering. “Get my proper drink from the master.”

“I’m off in a few hours.” Blaine’s voice is full of regret.

“Tomorrow?”

“Off. I have class, I don’t usually work this often.”

Kurt deflates a little, but not much, because Blaine looks honestly crestfallen at his own schedule.

“But, uhm, Friday?” Blaine finally locks eyes with his, wide and cautiously hopeful, and Kurt’s breath catches in his throat. “I’ll be here Friday.”

“Then so will I,” Kurt breathes out. The bubbles from that morning are back, making his fingers tingle. A mocha a day is going to do terrible things to his waistline if he isn’t careful, but in that moment he doesn’t fucking care. He’ll take a hundred merely standard drinks if it means getting just one more carefully crafted specialty of Blaine’s.

If it means seeing Blaine again before the weekend.

“So Friday,” Blaine says, after Kurt’s gathered up his drinks.

“Bright and early.”

“I’m,” Blaine bites his lip again, but a smile peaks through, soft and delicate like the foam he takes such care to make. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The grin that breaks out across Kurt’s face is probably visible from Carrie’s office, all teeth and fluttering hope. “Me too.”

As Kurt finally leaves, close to becoming late for work, he’s already running through his favorite pieces in his own closet, trying to imagine an outfit that might put that same sweetly stunned look in Blaine’s eyes that had been there the first time he’d walked into that Starbucks.