Friday comes altogether too fast and too slow for Blaine, the way things you’re anticipating always seem to do. Time stretching and contracting, throwing him off, making him stumble, making him fear and ache for Friday morning until the tangled, conflicting emotions threaten to burst from his fingertips and rain down onto blank sheet music. It only takes until Wednesday afternoon, sitting in one of his labs, when he hasn’t seen Kurt for a full day, for Blaine to realize, with a low throb in his belly, that he misses him. Misses the smooth line of his jaw, the careful sweep of his hair. The ways his eyes subtly change color with the light and his clothes, but always find his the moment he walks through the door in the morning.

School is picking up and his first real assignment is coming due. It makes the days so short - his classes seem to fly by in a whirl of monologues and dialogues, compositions and writing exercises. He loves it though. It’s only been a few weeks but the program fits, sits easy and comfortable on his shoulders. He feels his own personal voice, as a writer and composer, already growing, building upon his previous training. But it makes the nights too-long, when he’s camped out on the couch with his notes and books spread out in organized disarray on the coffee table in front of him. Sometimes his dinner goes cold, lost underneath his pages and pens. He’s always been a good student, bright and eager to learn, willing to go every extra mile laid out in front of him, but musical theatre is his passion. It’s his life, his breath, his voice.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever write or compose anything of worth, anything to be remembered by, but he’s going to strive for just that every day. This is who he is.

But Friday morning, musical theatre is the last thing on his mind. Blaine shaves with extra care, lathering up in the sink so he can look in the mirror instead of doing it in the shower by touch and muscle-memory alone. Even though the straight razor sits comfortable and easy in his practiced hand, it will not do to show up with nicks, not that morning. Nevermind that it’s been years since his hand has slipped and brought blood to the surface. He’s not taking any damn chances.

He picks a white polo from his closet that morning, because Kurt has only ever seen him in all-black, and even Blaine, who thinks little of his appearance on the best of days, will admit that his skin, more honey-browned than usual by the long summer, looks good against the stark white.

The early morning news, which he keeps at a barely-discernible volume so as not to disturb his neighbors so early, tells him that the day is going to be warm, almost hot. And even though the store is air-conditioned, with the espresso machines in front of him and the warming oven blazing at his back, he’s going to get warm. Too warm. He picks a pair of khaki-colored pants. The fabric is lighter in weight and the legs are even shorter than his favorite ankle-baring ones. They’re not quite capris, but they’re pushing it. They’ll help keep him cool though. He doesn’t want Kurt to see him shining with sweat before 8 o’clock in the morning.

Blaine shivers a little in his already stuffy apartment when he thinks that maybe he could stand for Kurt to see him shining with sweat for a completely different reason.

It’s not a date, he tells himself, shaking his head and sliding his feet into his shoes, it’s just his job. The man who works for Carrie fucking Bradshaw isn’t going to date a lowly barista cum grad student.

He’s almost out of the door, metro card tucked in his back pocket, before he realizes that he’s forgotten to do anything to his hair. He rushes back to his bathroom and fingers some product through his curls, getting them off his forehead and out of his eyes as best he can. He grins ruefully at the flush that never seems to leave his cheeks anymore.

***

He’s not supposed to anymore, due to changing company policy, but Blaine still makes several drinks at a time - steaming enough 2% milk for the two tall lattes down the line, pulling enough shots for both the grande americano and the short cappuccino that come next. It keeps the line moving at the pace the store, and the customers, expect. The quality of his drinks never falters, and his shift supervisor and manager never say anything. In fact, they encourage him with their winking silence on the matter.

He’s been studiously ignoring the clock all morning, and by 7:00am he’s so deep into the rhythm of the bar that the opening of the front door no longer pulls his attention away from his line of drinks.

But when Blaine’s hears a grande nonfat no whip mocha get called out from Sugar, who’s on register, to the floater who’s marking cups, his head snaps up and he finds Kurt standing there, smiling at him. Blaine almost burns his fingers on the steam wand when his hand slips.

“Morning,” Kurt mouths at him, waving a little, and Blaine tucks the look in Kurt’s eyes, happy and sweet, deep into his memory, kept secret and safe in case he never sees it again.

Blaine smiles back at him, he can’t help it, and gets a fresh pitcher of cold nonfat milk and clean shot glasses ready, waiting for Kurt’s drink until Kurt has moved past the register and down to Blaine’s end of the bar.

“So, if someone were to make you a drink, what would it be?” Kurt is leaning against the bar again, hip propped against the counter with such casual elegance that it brings a lump to Blaine’s throat. The scarf draped with such practiced artfulness around his neck is steel grey and diaphanous, and it brings out flecks of deeper color in Kurt’s eyes.

“What?” Blaine asks, stupidly, at the unexpected question.

Blaine doesn’t let anyone use his personal espresso machine, a beautiful, Italian-made work of craftsmanship that he only has because his brother bought it for him and refused to take back when Blaine had spluttered his protests and tried to reject it. He doesn’t let anyone touch his regular drip coffee maker either, with the broken lid, nor his tea kettle. Not that anyone is ever in his apartment to try such a thing.

And he’s even a little possessive, protective, of the store machines - great, hulking things with no finesse, no personality at all, but he still shudders a little every time a new hire gets on a bar for the first time. Touches his machines. Moves his shot glasses. Doesn’t time the shots properly throughout the day, or wipe down the steam wand with the sanitizing rag just so.

Blaine knows he can be particular about his drinks, and it’s not worth it to hurt someone’s feelings over a little thing like coffee if they make him something unpalatable. He’s been a barista for more than five years; he knows what he likes. And Blaine would never walk into a chef’s kitchen and offer to make them something for brunch. Or take an artist’s brush from their hands and add a few more dabs of paint.

“You know my coffee order,” Kurt says, with a tiny, too-casual shrug, his long fingers tracing an aimless pattern on the countertop. Blaine knows actors, knows how people use body language to project a certain air, and Kurt is trying to conceal something. Blaine just doesn’t know what. “It only seems fair that I know yours too.”

“Oh,” Blaine ducks his head away from Kurt’s curious, wide-eyed gaze, and stares at the still-empty cup in his hands that bears Kurt’s name in Sugar’s ridiculously looping scrawl.

Grande drip. Dark, rich roast - Verona, maybe, because it pairs so well with chocolate. With just enough cream to turn it a honey-brown. And cinnamon sprinkled on top so I can watch it swirl like a private galaxy when I stir the cream.

“Look,” Kurt continues, voice suddenly sounding a little nervous, a little choked, before Blaine can say anything. “I’m trying to ask you out, ok? I was trying to be all suave and subtle about it, because this is your place of work and all and every guy likes to be charming, but like the thing with the nametag, it doesn’t seem to be working.” Kurt tilts his head a little, trying to catch Blaine’s averted eyes and slow the restless beating of his heart.

“So, barista Blaine, will you go out with me? On a date. Somewhere that isn’t a Starbucks?”

Blaine knows he can be a little clueless sometimes, but he hadn’t realized just how fucking dense he really is. Everything narrows to Kurt’s eyes on his, brilliant and glittering, and the slight curve of his mouth, ever hopeful. He knows the store has come to a halt around them (Kurt wasn’t exactly whispering), and customers tend to enjoy a bit of gossip, and his coworkers are gaping at him. But he doesn’t care; he hardly registers it at all.

The world is Kurt - tall, gorgeous, bold Kurt, who could have anyone he wanted, anyone, and he seems to want Blaine. Blaine who is small and overlooked. Except suddenly he’s not, not by Kurt.

Blaine thinks about his assignment for class, about finding a moment, the right moment, to capture, to hold onto, to put into words and song.

This is a moment.

Blaine opens and closes his mouth, struggling for words, the right words. He wishes he had actors and a stage to play out for Kurt the precise fluttering of his heart, the pounding of his pulse - insistent, eager, yes - the twisting, knotted feeling in his gut. He’s always been better when others are singing and reciting his words for him.

“I - yes,” he finally breathes out, and the elated look that breaks out across Kurt’s face is enough to carry him through the rest of the day, the week. The fucking year.

I’m crazy about you, Blaine thinks. And I don’t even know you.

“I would like that. Very much.”

“Great! Ok. Yes.” Kurt bounces a little on his toes.

Blaine wants to reach out and take Kurt’s hand; wants to rip his apron off, leap over the counter, and run out of the store, Kurt’s hand wrapped up in his, long fingers interlaced with his own. He wants to get Kurt out of the overblown bustle of Times Square and show Kurt all his favorite pieces of the city; the little hidden away parks that are generally empty and wild with overgrown roses; the tiny one-act theatres held together tenuously by love and sweat and appreciation for the craft. But if it’s touristy things Kurt likes, then Blaine wants to get him up to the observation deck of Rockefeller so they can watch the autumn sunset glinting off the Empire State Building with the Hudson shimmering in the background.

He wants to take Kurt back to his apartment - his tiny, stupid apartment with the warped floorboard and the bathroom sink that isn’t quite big enough for his own things, let alone someone else’s. But the rug in the living room is a deep, gorgeous burgundy, and the dresser in his bedroom was hand-carved by his grandfather, and maybe Kurt’s eyes won’t cloud over with the realization of Blaine’s financial situation, maybe it won’t matter at all. Because Blaine wants to sit Kurt down on his couch and show him what he’s been working on for class; he’s pretty sure he’s been writing about Kurt since the first day he laid eyes on him.

Blaine wants, and that’s a start. That’s enough.

“Ah,” Kurt clears his throat and Blaine realizes he’s been staring moonily at Kurt for god knows how long. “How should I, uh, get in contact with you? Should I come back later - do you live here or something?”

Blaine takes the Sharpie that’s perpetually tucked into the pocket of his apron and uncaps it. He hears, even over the din of the store, the sharp intake of Kurt’s breath. He feels like a clich�, like a poorly written romantic comedy with a cheesy soundtrack and a predictable ending. But even biting down on his lower lip can’t hide his smile as he writes out his cellphone number on the cup, his handwriting neat and small. Perfectly legible.

Kurt’s fingers brush his when he takes the cup from Blaine once his drink is finished, and Blaine knows, just knows, it’s on purpose this time. He laughs, he can’t help it. It’s strange and wonderful and he’ll take it while he can get it.