Kurt rolls his eyes, just a little, for what feels like the millionth time that day. Blaine’s been jittery and anxious all morning, worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth, tapping out the rhythms to the songs coming together in his head. The Vogue party is that night, and no amount of calming reassurances or gentle strokes down his back seem to be able to assuage his nerves. Kurt keeps trying though.

He’s been with Blaine long enough (although not really that long at all), he knows Blaine well enough now, to have some understanding of where his reticence and apprehension come from. Blaine is shy – sweet and kind and so incredibly caring that sometimes Kurt feels wholly unworthy of Blaine’s time and attention. But he’s shy; he worries about the impressions he makes on others, and is constantly concerned about his financial situation, which isn’t a situation at all, not to Kurt. It’s just a fact, and it doesn’t change the way Kurt feels about Blaine in any capacity.

The size of Blaine’s bank account has nothing to do with the way his fingers stroke against Kurt’s hips, the circling of his thumbs all at once soothing and breathtakingly erotic. It has no impact on the way he sets his phone alarm to buzz on those mornings when he has to get up before dawn for work and Kurt has stayed the night. Kurt still wakes when Blaine gets up, but it’s to the shifting of the bed as Blaine eases from it and the creaking of his pipes when he showers, not to the obnoxious blaring of an alarm in his ear. If Kurt has to wake up before the sun once in a while (and he’s happy to do so if it means falling asleep with the heat of Blaine’s body and the coffee-rich scent of his skin), then it’s at least better to wake to the gentle padding of Blaine’s bare feet against the hardwood as he gets dressed as quietly as possible.

And Blaine’s finances say nothing about warmth in his eyes each and every time he sees Kurt. There’s a light in Blaine’s eyes, all the time, shining from some place deep inside of him that somehow hasn’t been tarnished, some place that isn’t worn down rough and raw. It makes Kurt’s stomach swoop and his chest ache, the way Blaine looks at him, whiskey-warm and passionate. Like he’s astonishing and remarkable and perfect. He knows he’s not, no one is, but Blaine has a way of making him feel perfect. And that’s more than enough.

Kurt’s sure there are still things about Blaine, his past, and his family that he doesn’t know about. Things Blaine must keep locked down tight so they can’t hurt him anymore. But in the two and a half months (almost three) months that they’ve been together, Kurt has watched a change take place in Blaine, fragile and delicate, but there nonetheless. It’s not like Blaine is coming out of a shell – he was never hiding in one to begin with – but it’s as if he’s slowly cutting away the threads and ties that were holding him down, holding him back. Kurt doesn’t push, won’t (it’s not his place to do for Blaine what he must do for himself), but Blaine is finding himself again at his own pace. Kurt just wants to be there when he does.

He knows it’s too soon for promises or declarations, but Kurt can feel the words gathering in his throat, bubbling bright in his chest. Sometimes he looks over to find Blaine staring at him with those huge eyes of his, adoration shining brilliant and clear, and he thinks (hopes) that maybe Blaine is trying not to say anything either.

Kurt presses a kiss to Blaine’s temple, the carefully styled curls brushing softly against his cheek, and opens the doors to the Cond� Nast building. It’s the weekend and the doors are locked against the curious and lost tourists swarming through Times Square. It’s a sea of monochromatic pea coats and umbrellas, protection against the drizzly November weather rolling through the city. It’s not snowing, not yet, but there’s a chill in the air that never quite warms throughout the day. The sun shines, but the heat of it is becoming a memory only to be returned to in the spring.

Kurt welcomes it though. Winter is just around the corner and it’s always been his favorite season. He loves how the whole world seems to shudder to a halt when the first snow falls, with the high scent of wood-smoke in the air - dulled under the haze of the city, but still present. He loves the twinkling lights that people hang in their windows and along their eaves, and the crisp breeze that somehow manages to sneak under his layers and chill his skin. Being cold means he gets to get warm again; gets to wrap his hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate and snuggle under a thick blanket. Winter is when he gets to wear socks inside because the floorboards are too cold under his feet.

And now he loves the cooler weather because it means Blaine is in a fitted pea coat more often than not, nipped in at the waist and accentuating the length of his torso. He’s taken to wearing Kurt’s scarves, too which makes Kurt’s stomach swoop and clench whenever he sees the brightly colored lengths of fabric wrapped around Blaine’s throat. And winter is going to mean snowflakes melting in Blaine’s dark curls and catching in his long eyelashes when they go for a walk through Central Park. Kurt can’t wait. Maybe they’ll stay too long in the park, shuffling through the snow, taking silly photos, mindless of the cold until it’s finally too much and their fingers and noses are numb and their cheeks are pinked. They’ll go back to Blaine’s apartment, or Kurt’s, laughing and shivering as they pull their snow-wet clothes from each other and get warm again under the blankets piled on Blaine’s bed.

“Yes,” Kurt says as they walk through the grand entrance towards the bank of elevators. “It’s ok. I promise. We’re allowed to be here. I double-triple checked with Carrie. She’s all sorts of excited to finally meet you, by the way. So no pressure there. Just my boss, the linchpin of my future and my burgeoning career.” Kurt winks, he can’t help it. It’s just too easy to get Blaine flustered and worked up, and by the pink tinge in his cheeks, he’s already there. Kurt ducks in and presses a quick kiss to Blaine’s warm cheek.

“And honestly, besides Anna Wintour herself coming down and slapping the clothes from my hands, there’s no one higher up on the food-chain to tell me no. I work here. I have explicit permission from the Fashion Editor. I have my keycard and ID badge. It’s not like we’re breaking and entering, and then stealing from designers. We’re merely swinging by the office after-hours and borrowing. I wouldn’t willingly lead you into a life of crime and shenanigans. Wait, no. I can’t promise that.”

That gets a laugh from Blaine, which was exactly the point, and Kurt is grateful for the slide of Blaine’s fingers through his as they enter one of the elevators and head up to the top.

***

Kurt is enjoying himself far too much. He works with clothes day in and day out; he’s got drafts and proofs, sketches and deadlines, and all manner of things he’s responsible for these days, and he loves it. It’s what he wants to do; it’s what he’s always wanted. He respects the craft and the job, and he’s eternally grateful that it came to him. Some of the best things in his life would be different if that Friday afternoon on the Brooklyn Bridge hadn’t gone the way it did. As much as he loves it, it’s still work, and he’s got a steep learning curve to overcome. It’s only been a few months, after all, and there are some ruthless, ambitious people at Vogue nipping at his heels to try and take his job from him. He’s good at it, and he’s only going to get better, but sometimes it’s so stressful, so overwhelming, that he can’t breathe.

But not right now. Right now Kurt has Blaine stripped down to his black boxer-briefs in the Vogue men’s closet and free reign to do whatever he wants with him. Well, maybe not whatever. Kurt lets his eyes roam over Blaine’s increasingly familiar body - his broad shoulders and the dusting of dark hair across his chest; the length of his toned torso and the cut of his hips. Kurt would linger on the curves of Blaine’s biceps, the muscles in his thighs, and the swell of his ass under those shorts, but they have a gala to get to, and there are some things he probably would get fired for doing at work.

He lets himself touch though, as he slides an array of shirts and pants and jackets and ties on and off Blaine, trying this, rejecting that. There’s no way he isn’t going to let his fingertips follow down the sinuous length of Blaine’s spine, or dance along his ribs, or smooth across his tight belly. He’s allowed to, and the dark heat in Blaine’s eyes as he watches, silent save for the hitching in his breath whenever Kurt finds a particularly sensitive spot, lets Kurt know that Blaine wants him to do just that.

Blaine always seems so sweetly shocked that Kurt wants to touch him, that sometimes he can’t take his hands off of him. His eyes go so dark and his mouth falls open a little. Kurt doesn’t quite know where it comes from, Blaine’s belief that Kurt, that no one, could possibly want him. But Blaine is so beautiful, so lovely that it hurts to look at him sometimes, especially in the morning when the sunlight filters through the curtains and casts shadows along the line of his cheekbone and the curve of his jaw. Kurt, who knows the names of a thousand different shades of fabric, can’t quite put an appropriate adjective on the warm tone of Blaine’s skin. Kurt wants to spend every minute possible trying to show him just how mistaken he is.

Kurt knows Blaine will be the most at ease tonight in something simple and understated, something that won’t make him stand out in the crowd, but he can’t resist pulling a few pieces with a bit more flash, a bit more style. Just to see; he’s a little selfish like that. So often Blaine is in his Starbucks dress code, or in comfortable jeans and cardigans, and Kurt’s been dying to dress him up in something fitted, something beautiful - something worthy of Blaine himself.

Kurt gets him into a khaki suit with a bright bow tie and piped pocket square. The pants are cuffed and expose just a hint of Blaine’s exceptionally lovely ankles. It’s a fantastic suit, and Blaine looks great in it, but it’s probably a little much for Blaine’s first Vogue party, and it goes back into the rack. Then he finds a midnight blue Prada tuxedo with a blue and pink checked shirt. Kurt, apparently, loves the way Blaine looks in a bow tie, although maybe he loves tying it for him more than anything, giggling and biting his lip as Blaine just stares at him with those soul-deep eyes. He doesn’t tell Blaine the tux costs more than $3,000.

In the end, Kurt chooses a classic black tuxedo, a timelessly sophisticated Ralph Lauren piece that makes Blaine look remarkably dashing – suave and debonair. The tux is cut slim, skimming the lines of Blaine’s body, accentuating rather than disguising, and it doesn’t require any hemming or adjusting at all. The shirt is white and crisp, with a semispread-collar and French cuffs, and the pocket square matches. Blaine is handsome already, but now he looks like a goddamn movie star.

“Anderson,” Kurt whispers into Blaine’s ear, when he’s got him standing in front of a full-length mirror. “Blaine Anderson.” He smoothes his hands down Blaine’s arms; the expensive fabric is cool under his palms, not yet warmed by Blaine’s body.

Blaine flushes and drops his eyes to the floor, clearly embarrassed, but Kurt can tell it’s a pleased kind of discomfiture. He’d caught the look in Blaine’s eyes – surprised, and pleasantly so – when he first saw himself in the mirror. Kurt just wraps his arms around Blaine’s trim waist and presses a kiss to his cheek. The skin is smooth under his lips (Blaine shaved that morning), but by the end of the evening his jaw will be darkened with stubble.

“I think we’re almost ready,” Kurt says, hooking his chin over Blaine’s shoulder. His own outfit is hanging in his office, ready to be changed into. Blaine nods and finally looks up, meeting Kurt’s gaze in the mirror.

Looking in the mirror, with their hands folded together across Blaine’s stomach, Kurt tries not to think about another occasion where Blaine might wear a tux just like this one.

***

Blaine doesn’t know who three-quarters of the people packed into the beautiful New York Public Library’s Stephen A. Schwarzman Building are. He recognizes the celebrities and pseudo-celebrities who’ve shown up to make an appearance – the ones who are looking to be photographed and written about in news articles and blogs. But the rest? He knows the names of designers, a few of them at least, but he doesn’t think he could pick Karl Lagerfeld out of a lineup. He’s learning, though. He listens with careful attention whenever Kurt goes on about his job and the upcoming collections and who’s in-fighting with whom. It never used to interest him, fashion or design, but anything important to Kurt is becoming important to him.

He’s not on anyone’s radar that night, and that suits him just fine. Most of the people here, their eyes just pass right over him - the short guy in the borrowed tux - and he’s happy to stay out of their way. He’s not part of their crowd; he’s not anybody to them at all.

Not yet, but maybe...one day. Blaine thinks. If I’m lucky.

Maybe one day, a show of his will find its way to Broadway and a party, just like this one, will be thrown in his honor. He’ll show up wearing a suit of Kurt’s design and Kurt will help him remember who everyone is, his arm looped through Blaine’s, fingers rubbing gently at his wrist when he starts to get nervous and overwhelmed. His brother will probably leap in to take the attention off him if it gets to be too much.

Blaine is sitting at his assigned table, sipping overpriced champagne from a flute, and watching the ebb and flow of people. He can tell by the fake smiles and the way no one stands very close together, bodies angled away, that most of these people don’t really like each other at all. He can tell it’s all a big show, and one they’re engaging in reluctantly. Kurt is somewhere in that well-dressed, well-to-do crowd: schmoozing, making contacts, getting his name out there, doing his job. There are powerful people here tonight, important people, and every moment Kurt can spend with them is vital to his career and his future; this is really just a party in name only. Blaine doesn’t begrudge him a minute of it, even if it means he’s been sitting at their table alone for a little while.

He already made a circuit through the dimly lit, yet festive ballroom. The room is aglow in reds and purples - rich drapery hanging from the ceiling and walls and lights set up everywhere. He stuck close to Kurt’s side, shaking hands with people who will never remember his name, charming them as best he could for Kurt’s sake. But he’s just a plus-one, and the only interest in him was the fact that he’s Carrie Bradshaw’s new assistant’s date - that put him just a step or two above a few people. Even so, Blaine’s heart thrummed every time Kurt referred to him as his date - no hesitation, no fear, just the simple, easy fact of their relationship.

Our relationship. The thought twists in Blaine’s belly and makes him smile against the rim of his champagne flute.

A waiter slides up next to him, silent and unassuming, and switches out his mostly-empty glass before he can say anything. She is deferential towards him, because even though Blaine is a nobody at this party, he’s still a guest. He’s still her superior for the night, as much as he hates the very thought of it.

Blaine’s careful to thank the wait staff as often and as sincerely as he can. He knows what it’s like to be the lowest man on the totem pole; he’s in the service industry too. He knows what it’s like to have someone yell at him because they’re having a shitty day. Day in and day out people treat him as if he’s worth less than nothing, like he’s beneath the gum stuck to their shoes just because he makes their coffee. He can’t do that to someone else.

“Excuse me, sir,” comes a voice from behind him.

Blaine startles and twists in his seat to find Kurt standing there, a sweet smile curving his mouth, hand extending out towards him in invitation. His cheeks are a little flushed with heat or alcohol, or both, and his hair is starting to break free of its careful styling. The knot of his tie has come loose at his throat, the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and his jacket is fully open. He’s a shade shy of disheveled and so devastatingly gorgeous that Blaine’s breath catches. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over Kurt.

“Would you care to dance with me?” Kurt asks, and his eyes are a deep blue in the glowing haze of purple and red lights.

Blaine glances around. There’s been music playing all evening, a strange variety of jazz standards and current pop, but only now, as the party winds down, are people actually dancing. The business is done, the drinks have been had, and there’s time left for a little enjoyment.

“Yes,” Blaine says. “Yes, of course.” As if there’s any other option, any other answer. He lets Kurt take his hand, pull him from his chair, and lead him out into the crowd.

Blaine doesn’t think he’s ever danced in public before, not like this. He’s been to bars and clubs with his friends, but that was different. And he never went to a school dance. But this, this isn’t shimmying to a techno beat with a couple of buddies when he’s had enough to drink to step out of his comfort zone a little. This is closeness and heat and the press of Kurt’s body against him, the twining of Kurt’s fingers through his own, the strength of the arm around his shoulders. He fits so easily into Kurt’s arms.

Blaine leans his forehead against Kurt’s jaw and breathes in deep, smelling the traces of Kurt’s cologne still lingering on his skin. He wants to press a kiss to the soft skin, but doesn’t. This isn’t the place for that.

“Carrie likes you,” Kurt murmurs into his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the music, as they sway together to their own rhythm. Some distantly familiar song is playing and the heavy bass of it pulses through Blaine’s body. “She wouldn’t stop talking about you actually.” He pulls their clasped hands between their bodies, resting them against his chest. Blaine can feel Kurt’s heart beating.

“I didn’t mean to pull focus from you.”

Kurt huffs a laugh and Blaine feels it in his very bones. “Thanks for coming with me. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.” There’s something in Kurt’s voice, low and pulling, that sounds almost like a confession.

Blaine rests his cheek against Kurt’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“As if I would have been anywhere else.”