“Kurt, can you get me some more pins from the back?”

…

“Kurt?”

…

“Kurt.”

Dropping his copy of the newest Vogue and barely regaining his grasp on his half-full coffee cup, Kurt Hummel started.  “Hmm, what?”

“I need some more pins, Kurt.  Come on, quickly.”

Kurt nodded, sighing, and stood up from the sleek leather sofa he had been lounging on.  He stretched briefly- surely it was far too early to be at work- before catching the eye of his boss and hurrying into the back room of the little tailor shop. 

Grumbling under his breath, Kurt pulled the small plastic container of pins off its perch on the shelf next to the window.  Why can’t she just bring the whole box in to begin with? 

But he knew the answer.  Amber Chase was one of New York City’s best and most widely-known tailors, used by the rich and famous to alter their both expensive and expansive wardrobes when they needed a better fit.  Amber’s service didn’t come cheap, but if you were using her service, you wanted high-quality tailoring and would pay any price to get it.  And Kurt knew that Amber liked to feel even more important than she was, so she sent her employees on somewhat menial errands.  While grabbing the box of pins was easy enough, Kurt was still bitter about the time she had sent him on a wild goose chase to find the exact shade of boysenberry-colored thread she needed to bring up the hem of a diplomat’s daughter’s gown.  For her twelfth birthday party.  Kurt had perused through quilting stores for four hours before finding the right spool, and then it had turned out that the dress was actually not boysenberry, but a deep pomegranate instead.  Amber had sent him out again, though this time it took only three hours to locate the necessary thread and return it to the shop where Amber had given him a lashing out about wasting time. Because obviously he had just been skipping around Times Square the whole time, enjoying himself and buying salty pretzels and hot dogs from street vendors and feeding the pigeons, the spool of thread tucked safely into his pocket.

Right.

Kurt rolled his eyes and, the container of pins in one hand, headed back into the front room, shouldering the door closed behind him.  Amber grabbed the box from him and scowled before returning to her customer, a soon-to-be-bride, saying loudly, “I am so sorry about that… Kurt just sometimes takes his own time with things, even when others are depending on him….”

The bride peeked at Kurt, who had returned to the sofa and had the issue of Vogue back in his hands.  He saw an apologetic look in her deep brown eyes, and he gave her a small smile and shrugged.  Amber was a little harsh, but she paid well and Kurt actually was learning a bit about fashion by working for her.  With his natural skill and his degree in fashion design from Pratt, Kurt had been on the fast track to success.  Unfortunately, his life had been put on hold when he woke up in the middle of the night to his ringing phone.  Carole told him that his father had had another heart attack, and by ten the next morning Kurt was back in Lima where he remained for a year, living with his father and Carole, both of whom had reassured him that he didn’t need to stay longer than a month or two.  Kurt, however, could not leave.  He felt the need to stay, the need to make sure his dad was and would be healthy.  He knew that if he lost his dad, he would lose everything- his life would come crashing down around him.  So he couldn’t lose him.  But after ten months even he had to admit that being back in Lima was stifling.  Such a conservative town, so close-minded, so against who Kurt was.  He couldn’t find a way to be happy there; it was hard enough in high school and damn near impossible now that he had every right and ability to leave. 

So as soon as he felt he could, Kurt packed his things and headed back to New York, the place he felt he could truly be himself.  But getting a job was harder now- the economy had taken a turn for the worse and all the best jobs were taken by his previous classmates at Pratt (who, he thought resentfully, were far less talented than he)- and finding an affordable place to live even more difficult.  After searching and searching and building up quite a debt on his tab at a local hotel, Kurt finally found an apartment.  It was small and a little shabby and decidedly not where Kurt wanted to spend his life, but it was shelter and something he could decorate to suit his own tastes, and that was good enough for the time being.  Then he got the job working for Amber through a former classmate and everything seemed to be falling into place. 

Everything, that is, except Kurt’s two biggest wishes in life- to make a name for himself in the fashion industry, and to find true love.

Blaine Anderson groaned and rolled over to slap his blaring alarm clock.  The numbers shone bright green in the darkness of his room: 4 AM.  He quietly cursed his early call time.

Swinging his legs from his bed, his feet found his fuzzy Ohio Buckeye slippers and he pushed himself off his memory foam mattress.

"Good morning," he said out loud to no one, walking groggily into his bathroom.  He flipped the light switch, eyes closed; he wanted to see neither the bright fluorescent light shining in the large room nor the challenge his thick, curly brown hair would give his hair dresser today.  Finally he cracked an eye open to chance a glimpse of himself and groaned loudly; half of his hair was matted down and half was sticking straight up.  He sighed before stepping into the shower to quickly shampoo and condition his untidy mop.

Blaine dried off after his shower and, a towel wrapped around his waist, brushed his teeth and shaved before running a comb through his curly locks.  Then he headed to his walk-in closet and pieced together a paparazzi outfit- a pair of tight-ish black jeans and a red button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up.  He slipped on a pair of black Converse All-Stars and a leather jacket. 

Before heading out the door, Blaine poured himself a mug of coffee from his preset brewer, grabbed his keys from their hook, and pocketed his sunglasses (for later in the day when the Los Angeles sun was at its worst) and his iPhone. 

He tapped in the code to turn on his alarm system and closed the door to his roomy apartment, locking it.  P!NK’s “Raise Your Glass” started playing and he slid his phone from his pocket, clicking the talk button when he saw it was his personal assistant. 

“Morning, Les,” Blaine said.  “What’s up?”

“Blaine, we’re in the car, are you coming?” she replied, foregoing all formalities.

Nodding, he answered, “On my way out right now.”

“Good; shooting starts early today and they can’t do it without you, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Blaine chuckled.  “Be there in a sec.”

“You look exhausted.  Have a bad morning?”

Kurt looked up from his iPhone to his coworker Zoe Watson, sitting across the small glass café table from him.  They were the only two semi-permanent employees Amber had- the rest had quit after working for her for a week or so- and they had lunch together just about every day at this local restaurant just across the street from the shop.

“Eh, just Amber being… you know… Amber.”

Zoe laughed.  “So in other words it was awful.” 

“Well, yeah.”  Kurt put his phone down on the table and took a sip of his Diet Coke.  “But don’t worry, I already sorted all the pins she dropped all over the floor according to their size, and rerolled all the tape measurers, and also went out and picked up the new flowers for the window displays from the florists, and then went back to the florists when Amber declared that the arrangements were all wrong.  Oh, and then I went to the firehouse to take some pictures of the trucks so that Amber would know just what color to use when she makes her own dress for the Firemen’s Ball coming up.”  He sighed and rolled his eyes.  “Zoe, I’m practically dead on my feet, to be honest.”

Zoe gave him a sympathetic look, taking a dainty bite of her BLT on toasted wheat.  “That’s Amber for you.  But that’s definitely more work than she usually gives out in one morning.  Anyhow, I have the afternoon shift”-she wrinkled her nose in distaste- “so you can head home and get some rest.”

Kurt sighed again and tapped his fork against his empty salad plate.  “I wish I could, but, alas, I’m meeting the Miss Rachel Berry for coffee.  It’s her first day off from her show and she wanted to catch up.  And by catch up I obviously mean that I’m going to sit in a generic Starbucks for two hours while she talks about all the brilliant performances she’s given and tells me off for not actually going to see the show yet….”

“You know,” Zoe said, swirling her straw around in her glass of sweet tea, “that’s a fair enough question.  The show’s been going on for weeks, why haven’t you gone?  I thought you’d be there opening night.”  She raised an eyebrow in question.  “It’s a new musical and you’re Kurt Hummel, after all.”

“Zoe, we’ve been over this… going to musicals… you know I left music behind in high school.”

“But I still don’t understand why.”  Zoe took another bite of her sandwich, dabbing at her face with her napkin.

“I can’t… I can’t do this right now, okay?  Not after this morning, not when I’m so....”  He trailed off, his mind wandering back to his senior year and purple pianos, secret kisses, cute puppy plushies….

“So…?  So what, exactly, Kurt?  Why can’t you handle music?  Music is such a big part of natural-”

“Zoe. I- just… drop it.  Please.  Drop it.”  Kurt set his fork down with a clatter and gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.  His head was spinning with memories and he pressed his fingertips firmly against the cool glass of the table.

“I- okay.  Kurt, I’m sorry,” Zoe said.  She reached out and patted his hand.  “I really am.  I know something happened and it’s tough for you, I’ll leave it alone, my curiosity just got the best of me.”

“Yes, I know.  It’s okay.”  He shook his head slowly, releasing the table from his vise-like grip. 

“But, Kurt…” Zoe paused, looking down at her lap.  “You know you can tell me anything, right?  Even if it’s hard?”

Kurt nodded, giving his friend a small smile.  But only if I can tell myself first.

“Put the rock down.”

Blaine gripped the rock tighter in his hands, stumbling slowly towards the window.

“Put it down now! I said now, Cranson!”

Blaine hesitated, chancing a glance at the backlit man standing in the doorway.  A look of terror crossed Blaine’s face when the man pulled a gun out of his belt, but it was soon replaced with one of steely determination.  He lifted the rock to his shoulder, and, planting his feet, hurled it across the room at the man.  At the same time a shot rang out and Blaine crumpled to the floor.

“Cut!  And print!”

Applause rang out as Blaine grinned and stood up, wiping his dirt-covered hands on his fake-mud-stained jeans. 

“Nice one, Anderson.”  Porter Dupree, Blaine’s best friend and cast mate said, approaching him from the doorway of the ramshackle house they were shooting in.  A props assistant appeared and took the fake gun from him, picking up the foam rock, too.

“Back at you,” Blaine said, punching Porter lightly on the shoulder.  “I was half afraid you were really gonna shoot me.”

Porter laughed.  “I would never! Besides, it was a fake gun.”          

"True.”  Blaine checked his watch- it was only seven in the morning.  He yawned, remembering his five AM call time, and ran a hand through his hair.  “Ugh, I’m beat.”  He raised his voice and called, “Hey, Paul,” to the director.  “I can head back to my trailer, yeah?”  When Paul nodded, Blaine gestured for Porter to follow him out of the house. 

“So, when did you get home last night?”

Grimacing, Blaine replied, “Eleven.  But I didn’t fall asleep for a few hours.” 

Porter smirked.  “Oh, didn’t you?  Was Charlie with you?”

Blaine’s face turned bright red and he shook his head.  “No… actually, I don’t think I’m going to see him again.”

“What?  Why?”  Porter turned to face Blaine, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking further. “I thought you guys would be perfect together!  That’s why I set you up!”

“Yeah, well.”  Blaine twisted out of Porter’s grip and crossed the remaining distance to his trailer, unlatching the door.  Porter followed him in and plopped onto the leather couch.  “We didn’t click.”

“How do you know for sure?  You only just met….”

Blaine went to his closet and pulled out some grey sweatpants and a blue t-shirt.  “Porter, I could tell.  Trust me.  I mean, I took him back to his house and walked him to the door and- uh....” He trailed off, holding his change of clothes to his chest.  “It just wasn’t right.”

“Wait,” Porter said, sitting up and waving a hand, gesturing for him to continue.  “What happened at his house?”

Sighing and setting his clothes on the counter, Blaine crossed his arms.  “He invited me inside for coffee.  I said I had to go, I had an early call time, but he insisted.  So we had some coffee, and then he pulled down a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass.  We only had like two a piece, and I was fine, but he….”

“Tipsy?”  Porter grinned, amused.

“Past.  He was gone.  Again, I said I had to go but he wanted to watch some lame TV show and dragged me over to the sofa.  Then, next thing I know, he’s all over me.”  Blaine shook his head in distaste. 

Porter’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“And you didn’t like him why, exactly?”

“Porter.”  Blaine gave his friend a stern look.

Porter raised his hands in the air as if declaring his innocence.  “I’m kidding, only kidding.  Although, heck, if I rolled that way I'd give it a shot.”

“Oversharing, thank you.  Anyway, it didn’t feel right.  He kissed me a few times and it- no, it wasn’t right.”  Closing his eyes, Blaine tried to forget the awkwardness he felt with Charlie.  The way Charlie was so controlling, and… no.  Blaine didn’t like Charlie, not like that.

Porter stood up and yawned.  “I’m sorry, man.”  He patted Blaine’s shoulder.  “And I was hoping you two would double with Kenzie and me,” he said, referring to his fiancé.  A frustrated sigh escaped him and Blaine smirked.  “I can’t believe there are still four months until our wedding.  So.  Long.” 

“You two still have a lot of planning to do though,” Blaine pointed out.

"Correction,” Porter replied.  He grinned.  “Kenzie has a lot of planning to do.  I already finished mine.  You’re the best man.  Done.”

Blaine shook his head.  “Lazy butt.  Now, get out of my trailer so I can take a nap.  My next scene isn’t till one.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n."  Porter saluted and headed for the door, pausing with a hand on the handle and turning back around to look at Blaine.  "Oh, but a note on that whole best man thing- when you're planning my bachelor's party, remember who it's for.  We're not into the same... erm... equipment if you catch my meaning.”  He winked, and Blaine rolled his eyes.  “I’ll see you, and I’ll keep my eye out for any studly guys to send your way.”  He winked and the door banged shut behind him.

“Of course you will, nitwit” Blaine muttered under his breath.  Despite Porter’s many attempts to find Blaine a guy, he was so different from Porter, so different from even who Porter thought Blaine was, it was hard for him to connect to anyone his friend suggested.  Especially since he just compared everyone to…. No.  No, don’t think about him.

“Oh well,” Blaine said aloud to himself.  “Temporary solution: take a nap.”