His life has turned from an endless succession of classes and work, days without true beginning or end, just a continual rolling of scheduled appointments and requirements, assignments and espresso shots, into something better, something more. His life had been monotonous, boring, safe, and he hadn’t even realized it. But now there’s Kurt - bold, beautiful Kurt with his incredible talent and drive and ambition. Kurt with his arresting eyes and the subtle strength of his hands enfolded with Blaine’s; the warmth of his smile and the scent of his scarf when he drapes it playfully around Blaine’s neck and uses the ends to pull him into a kiss. Now Blaine’s life is more.

Kurt who has a last name (Hummel, one day people will know it) and an address (the very outskirts of Greenwich Village, I only got the place because I’m subletting from a desperate person) and a father (Burt, he’s a mechanic and he wants to talk to you) who still lives in Ohio and calls him at least three times a week and worries when he doesn’t send an email or text message for more than a day. Blaine hasn’t spoken to Burt yet, fathers intimidate him, but he wants to. He wants to impress the man who gave him Kurt, and prove to him he’s worthy of his son. Sometimes he listens as Kurt talks to his dad on the phone, pacing around Blaine’s cramped apartment, touching the mementos on his bookshelf, laughing at some anecdote, reassuring his dad over and other that yes, everything’s good, yes, work is hard but he loves it more and more every day, yes, he’s happy.

He says the last looking straight at Blaine from across the living room, eyes a deep blue in the warm lighting of Blaine’s floor lamps.

Sometimes Blaine has to sit back and wonder what it is in Kurt that he’s never met before.

It’s not that Blaine doesn’t have friends, he does, good ones, but now Blaine’s cellphone buzzes with texts from Kurt throughout the day, little messages of nothing at all.

Miss you. Why isn’t it tomorrow?
Guy on the 23rd floor - his pants are offensively yellow.
The office coffee sucks.
This fabric is the color of your eyes when I kiss you.

Blaine goes on dates. There are dates, with Kurt. He is dating Kurt. Lunch dates and dinner dates, tiny restaurants and vast museums, art galleries and parks. There is the top of Rockefeller Center with the sunset in Kurt’s eyes and the wind ruffling his hair.

There’s a bit of a crowd that evening - couples, families, tourists - but Kurt takes his hand anyway and presses a sweet kiss to his knuckles before sliding his arm around Blaine’s waist and fitting him close to the curve of his own body. Blaine leans his cheek against Kurt’s shoulder and watches the last rays of October sunlight glimmer off the Empire State Building. Blaine has been happy before, but he’s never been content, not the way he is in that moment.

There’s a glorious Sunday morning as well, when he meets Kurt in Central Park only to find Kurt with an honest-to-god picnic basket and huge plaid blanket waiting for him. There is fruit and cheese and crackers and all manner of delectable little treats that Blaine doesn’t know if Kurt made or bought, and he doesn't care either way. No one has ever fed him persimmons before. The weather is cooling, autumn sliding into New York as the leaves turn and twist and fall, but Blaine wore a thick, comfortable sweater and the look in Kurt’s eyes, the curve of his smile when Blaine let himself lick delicately at the juice on Kurt’s fingertips, kept Blaine warm.

And there are dates that aren’t really dates at all. There are times when Kurt shows up at his Starbucks an hour earlier than usual (Kurt keeps Blaine’s ever-changing schedule on his phone) and takes a seat at a small table near a window and facing the bar, where he can look up from his book and catch Blaine’s eye, make him blush and fumble with his cups. He orders his drink in a for-here cup, and Blaine takes care to warm the mug with hot water before crafting the mocha. He won’t pour steaming milk into a cold mug, especially not for Kurt. He wants to draw a heart, a fucking heart, in a thin layer of foam on top, where the lid of a paper cup can’t cover it. He settles for an intricate rosette and Kurt’s eyes light up with delight when Blaine brings the cup out to the table and sets it down in front of him.

Those mornings, Blaine finds reasons to slide out from behind the bar (even though it’s always busy and he’s the best) and linger around Kurt’s table. He brings a sanitizing rag and plays at wiping down nearby tables, the condiment counter, the windowsill. Anything to stay close to Kurt for a few moments. He can’t stop the flutter of his heart and the flush in his cheeks when he feels Kurt reach out and tug gently on his apron strings. Jeff winks obnoxiously at him and bumps his shoulder when he finally makes his way back behind the bar where he’s supposed to be.

There are other things that change, things that Blaine hadn’t even considered, but of course they must. Where once his apartment was still and silent, save the gentle strains of his music, it’s now so often filled with the quiet sounds of Kurt. The creak of his footsteps against the floorboards; the clatter of his pencils on the table and the rustle of his sketchbooks; the whisper of his clothes when Blaine remembers that he can pull Kurt onto his lap and run his hands through his hair, down his back, across his thighs. He has permission. He’s wanted.

It’s where they are now, twined on Blaine’s couch, Kurt’s sketches knocked aside and Blaine’s sheet music scattered on the floor. He’d forgotten what this could be like - heat and closeness, lips and hands and needy breath ghosting across his ear. He’d shoved want and desire deep down where it wouldn’t get in the way, wouldn’t get rejected or bruised.

But he wants now. He wants the weight of Kurt pressing him down into the cushions, thighs spread, knees on either side of his hips. He wants the scratch of Kurt’s fingers through his hair, the way his thumbs brush across his cheekbones as he angles his head for a better, sweeter, deeper kiss. He wants Kurt, whose eyes turn a stormy grey as the heat rises, whose lips taste of cream and oranges, and whose skin is so soft and hot to the touch when Blaine finds the courage to get his hands under Kurt’s layers.

“You taste like coffee,” Kurt says, he whimpers, against the prominent muscle in Blaine’s neck, the one that has his hip shifting restlessly under Kurt’s weight.

“Oh god. I’m sorry.” Blaine wants to push him away, but he can’t get his hands to do anything but pull him closer, fingers digging desperately into firm flesh. “I showered, but it never comes out.” He’s sure he must stink. Kurt’s never said anything, probably never would, but Blaine’s sure his whole apartment must reek of espresso and milk.

“No, it’s good.” Kurt presses his face deeper into the curve of Blaine’s neck, tongue mapping the veins. Blaine shivers and tastes crema on the back of his tongue. “It’s coffee and earth and sunlight. It’s you.”

Oh.

Blaine wants Kurt to know everything about him. His family - his brother who Kurt probably actually knows of and just doesn’t realize it; his fears - the little ones (spiders, foul ball territory at a baseball game) and the massive (failure, his ten-year anniversary at Starbucks). He wants Kurt to know that his master’s work is centered on discovering the lyrics of the breadth of his shoulders and the composition of the depth of his heart.

Blaine’s sheets and pillows smell of coffee, he’s sure, and Kurt’s about to find that out too.

***

Blaine has a new key to his front door cut. He has a spare that hangs on a board in his kitchen, but he needs that for when his brother comes into town and crashes on his couch instead of in the hotel that would certainly be provided for him. And besides, Blaine likes the way the new key looks - shiny and sharp to the touch when he presses his thumb against the teeth.

He hasn’t given it to Kurt, not yet, but it sits in the top drawer of his dresser. Blaine is waiting for the opportune moment to press it into the palm of Kurt’s hand, tentative hope fluttering against his ribs. He has to be sure Kurt will accept it; he doesn’t know what he’d do if Kurt said no thank you.

Blaine is thinking about it, one night a few weeks later, when he buzzes Kurt into his apartment. He thinks about how nice it would be to just hear the door open, followed by the soft padding of Kurt’s boots against the old hardwood as he lets himself into Blaine’s space. Or to come home from class or a late shift and find Kurt already comfortable on his sofa – maybe with the TV on in the background while he contemplates any work he’s brought with him. Or maybe he’ll already be asleep – those rare nights when Blaine stays much too late at school – curled up in Blaine’s bed. His body will shift; make room when Blaine slides in with him, shuffling into his arms.

That night, Kurt greets him with a long kiss when Blaine opens the door, almost playful in the way his tongue teases against Blaine’s lips. Blaine is never going to get over the wonder of kissing Kurt. How is he even allowed this?

Kurt’s fingers brush against his stomach as he passes and he drops his satchel (distressed leather, maybe two weeks rent) on top of Blaine’s book bag in the chair by the door, toeing his boots off at the same time. Blaine is so quickly coming to love the messy pile their belongings make.

“How was your day, dear?” Kurt asks with a flirtatious little grin that makes Blaine’s stomach wriggle happily. It might have something to do with the way Kurt’s fingers touch his wrist as he says it.

“Just lovely,” Blaine returns. Someone threw an entire cup of coffee into the trash and it leaked all over the floor, but the sticky memory of it fades as the closeness of Kurt takes over. Blaine curls his fingers into the edge of Kurt’s scarf, forest green this time and cool to the touch, and tugs Kurt down into another soft kiss. His breath comes on a gasp, the way it always does at the touch of Kurt’s mouth on his.

“And how was yours?”

“Better,” Kurt’s fingers tangle in his curls. “Now that I’m home with you.” He says it with such uncomplicated conviction, such truth, that it aches deep in Blaine’s chest, his fucking soul. He can hear his future in six simple words.

Blaine follows Kurt into his tiny kitchen and together they rustle up something to eat. Kurt is so good at turning the random purchases in Blaine’s kitchen into something grand. And Blaine loves the way Kurt’s shoulder bumps against his, the way his hand slides, low and possessive, down Blaine’s hip. He’s never going to get over this either – the ease with which Kurt touches him, like he’s beloved and worthy of it. No hesitation, no concerns - just effortless intimacy. Blaine soaks it up, holds it safe just under his skin, for the times when Kurt might not be there.

They eat in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, taking bites off each other’s plates even though they have the same thing.

“So,” Kurt begins, when the food is gone and Blaine’s been stroking the line of Kurt’s thumb for a few minutes, careful not to aggravate what looks like a vicious papercut. Or scissor-cut. He sounds a little nervous, if excited. Eager.

“There’s an event coming up, a gala, if you will, celebrating a new line or some such. Will you accompany me?” Kurt takes a step back and sketches a messy little bow, extending his hand out to Blaine. His eyes are bright and sparkling, a shade shy of mischievous.

But Blaine blanches; his fingers go cold. It’s like when Kurt paid for their first date, only worse. It’s so much worse. He has a couple of suits, but nothing in his small wardrobe will do for a Vogue party. A gala. He’ll stand out, stick out – the poor kid in the old clothes. He’ll embarrass Kurt, who surely has a collection of expensive, designer suits and tuxes, tailor-made just for him. The food churning in his stomach threatens reappearance.

“I’m not, I don’t-” he tries to take a step away, but the counter is right there, digging into his lower back. “I don’t have anything to wear,” he says, helpless, drowning. The look on Kurt’s face – confused, sharply hurt – floods his veins with ice. He’s never refused Kurt’s hand since the day they met. He’s never wanted to make Kurt anything less than perfectly, ridiculously happy, and he can’t even do that.

“I don’t have any money,” he confesses on an agonizing gust of breath, as if it weren’t painfully, horribly obvious.

And this is how it tastes when the milk goes sour, when the espresso turns bitter.

“Oh, Blaine.” Kurt’s face softens, the sharp edges from the moment before smoothing. His body twitches, like he wants to step forward, but he catches himself. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I don’t give a shit about that. Wait, do you think I’m rich or something? Oh my god, you think I’m rich. Blaine, I’m not. I get by. This job - it’s the first time I’ve had extra cash to my name.”

“But your clothes?” Blaine shakes his head. It doesn’t make any sense.

“My clothes? I make them, some of them. Others, I get on sale. So what if they’re last season? If it looks good, it looks good. Spring collection, fall collection - like it fucking matters.” Kurt finally does step forward, right up close into Blaine’s space, and slides his arms around his shoulders. His eyes are so bright, so full of something unnamable that it breaks Blaine’s heart, just a little.

“My dad’s a mechanic,” Kurt says softly, his forehead pressed to Blaine’s. “I went to school on a scholarship. I live in a studio outside of the Village that I can only afford because the woman I’m subletting it from ran off to Bucharest for a year. Blaine,” his voice is aching, seemingly desperate for Blaine to understand. He’s starting to.

“Blaine, whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’ve assumed, we’re not that different from each other. There isn’t some insurmountable socio-economic distance between us. We’re both just getting by in this big, crazy, stupid fucking city. But I think,” Kurt brushes his lips across Blaine’s temple, and Blaine trembles. “I think we could get by so much better if we do it together.”

Blaine sucks in a breath, sharp and aching. His heart is full-to-bursting and cracks are spreading all along his skin; he thinks he’s being held together just by the strength of Kurt’s arms around him. He surges forward, finding Kurt’s mouth in a desperate kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He needs to fix this, and he needs to let Kurt fix the broken, jagged pieces of him.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Kurt’s hands slide up his neck, into his hair again. “Let me dress you.”

“What?”

“Let me dress you, for the gala. I want to. Carrie knows, about you, about us. Of course she knows. I’ve been blathering on about you since day one. I’m sure she’ll let me, uh, appropriate some things from the Vogue closet for you. She’s the one who told me to invite you anyway. I wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed a date or not. I didn’t know if assistants got plus-ones.”

Blaine closes his eyes and thinks about every dance he didn’t go to.

He’ll go to the gala with Kurt, of course he will. He’ll gladly take his offered arm and wear matching bowties or pocket squares if that’s what Kurt wants. It’s what he wants too. He’ll dance the night away if there’s dancing to be had, and if not he’ll sit with Kurt at their designated table, making small talk with his coworkers, his boss. He’ll try not to be completely intimidated by the fact that the room is full of industry giants and celebrities. Kurt will be there, holding his hand on top of the table, thumb swiping rhythmically, comfortingly across the metal band on his middle finger, the only jewelry he wears.

Blaine feels the brush of Kurt’s lips against his damp cheek; he didn’t know he’d been crying. The doubt, the fear leaves him, and it brings him one step closer to love, to Kurt.