Blaine speeds around the corner, rushing to get to his Intro to Theater class with his left eye squeezed shut. As he rushes through the hallway, it is a struggle between keeping the eye open regardless of the smudged state of his glasses, or muddling through the halls as a temporary Cyclops. It ends up being more annoying to try and focus past the thumb print (earned in his second period dance class when he lost his balance and turned left instead of right, paso doble-ing into another student) then to just keep that eye shut, no matter how many corners he ends up clipping with his shoulder.

He gets caught in the thick of between class traffic just as his right eye – kept open and staring – begins to water. Of course, he could clean his damn glasses with his micro fiber cleaning cloth if he hadn't picked up Sam's messenger bag instead of his own by mistake before he left for school. It was his own damned fault for insisting that they get matching bags when they first moved to New York, but he should have guessed it wasn't his on his way out the door when it was so light that picking it up and overestimating its weight nearly caused him to stumble and fall down a flight of stairs. But it had been such a hectic morning that he didn't give it any thought. Aside from his cleaning cloth, he'll have to make do without any of his textbooks, his script, or his sheet music, but he did find a three week old gluten-free muffin and a print-out of some really disturbing Wookie fanfiction.

After reading the first three pages, he makes the decision to paint a big red stripe down his bag the moment he gets home so this doesn't happen to him again.

Two halls away from class and both of Blaine's sticky, burning eyes are nearly sealed shut. He reaches out his hand to feel his way down the wall. He figures that with any luck he'll be able to hear Rachel Berry warming up her voice the way she does before every single class, and he can use her shrill vocal exercises to guide his way into their classroom. Hopefully, someone in there might have a cleaning cloth they can lend him.

Blaine anticipates the edge of the wall coming near, but instead his hand settles on something soft, warm, and possibly made of Prolen.

“Hey, watch it,” a stunningly high voice giggles, and Blaine pulls his hand quickly away.

“I…I am so sorry,” Blaine stammers, taking a step back and nearly tripping over an abandoned back pack. “I didn't mean…I'm just a little…”

“Oh,” the voice says, that single syllable sounding sincerely sympathetic. Probably because he's noticed my puffy red face and watery eyes, Blaine reasons. Therefore, if this mysterious man's face is half as stunning as his voice, Blaine will immediately crawl away and find a warm-up mat to hide under for the rest of the school year.

“I hate to ask this,” Blaine starts, pulling himself up a little taller, trying to appear more nonchalant regardless of his current predicament, “but I don't have my cleaning cloth for my glasses, and your shirt…”

“Is a Kitsbow polo, and it costs $179,” the man gasps, inferring Blaine's intent, and Blaine shrinks back, feeling like a royal fool. Who the hell asks a potentially gorgeous stranger if he can wipe his greasy glasses on their shirt?

Blaine Devon Anderson, apparently.

“But…” the man continues, his voice softer as he recovers from Blaine's offense, “I do happen to have a cloth in my bag that I use for my sunglasses…”

Blaine hears a bag unzip and some rustling – papers, books, keys – then a triumphant, “A-ha! Here…”

Blaine smiles and reaches out a hand to receive the cloth, but he feels his glasses leave his face instead.

For some reason, that simple gesture takes Blaine's breath away.

Blaine hears the man hum an upbeat showtune and then he returns the glasses to Blaine's face, paying particular attention to sliding them carefully over his ears and up the bridge of his nose.

“Wait a sec,” he says, gently pulling a few stray curls out from beneath the arms of the glasses and brushing them behind Blaine's ears. “There.” Blaine blinks open his eyes, needing to finally see this man with the exceptional voice who saved him from slamming his aching shoulder into any more walls before he decides to simply leave Blaine there without a chance of at least getting his name.

Blaine doesn't even need his vision to clear completely before he can tell that the man standing in front of him – obviously an upper classman – with his flawless pale skin and captivating glasz eyes, dressed in a powder blue form-fitting polo and tight black slacks, is definitely the most singularly gorgeous man he's ever seen in his life.

Yup. Blaine will definitely be living under a warm-up mat for the next six months.

“You know, I love a classic accessory, and these black Wayfarers are definitely all the rage,” the man comments, “but if I were you, I might invest in a pair of contacts.”

“Wha--- really?” Blaine asks, his voice suddenly becoming adolescent and kind of squeaky. The man laughs when Blaine's voice cracks, and Blaine self-consciously clears his throat. “Really?” he repeats, more confident now that his voice sounds smoother, though not by much. “Why do you say that?”

“Because the world deserves to see those eyes,” the man replies with a wink.

Blaine's mouth drops open an inch.

Did this incredible man just tell him he had beautiful eyes?

Blaine's mind whirls, searching for a compliment of his own to offer, but what should he comment on? His clothes? His hair? His voice?

His eyes, of course! Say something about his eyes, he scolds himself, and make it sound sincere.

But before the words even come anywhere near Blaines mouth, the man with the stunning voice and the prismatic eyes readjusts his things, shoulders his bag, and waves good-bye.

“I'll see you around,” he says, turning down the hall and walking away, looking back before he rounds the corner to wave one more time.

The hallway clears as student drop into their classrooms, and Blaine stands alone, looking through his crystal clear lens at the corner the man disappeared behind.

Blaine sighs.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Blaine calls down the empty hall, smacking himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Thank you,” Rachel says, popping up behind him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around, “but I knew that. Of course, a lot of people would say they're just plain old boring brown, but I like to think of them as more of a burnt sienna or a deep rustic cognac…” Rachel continues to drag Blaine down the hall to their class, rambling on about her eyes non-stop the whole way, but Blaine doesn't hear anything except the world deserves to see those eyes spoken in that man's unforgettable voice.

For days after, Blaine searches the halls for that mysterious man, loitering in the same hallway he first met him in between his Latin Dance class and Intro to Theater, earning himself three tardies in a row along with a personal escort from Ms. Rachel Berry. On the fourth day, Blaine seriously starts considering putting an ad on the NYADA website. He has most of it composed in his head:

To the man who saved me in the north hallway on Monday morning –

You are tall and gorgeous.

I am short with glasses.

Please come find me again.

I forgot to say thank you.

But while Blaine mentally puts the finishing touches on his message, he turns a corner and there he is, his mystery man wearing a black Burberry trench coat over a black turtleneck and black jeans. How he manages to look professionally chic and devil-may-care at the exact same time, Blaine will never know.

It's simply a part of this man's magic.

Blaine watches the man search in his messenger bag, and he figures this would be a decent time to make his move. Blaine wants to thank him for his help, but ultimately he wants to get his phone number.

How does he expect to do that when he couldn't even come out with you have beautiful eyes?

The man closes up his bag and raises his head, and Blaine sees him start to look his way.

Blaine becomes paralyzed. Quite literally, his feet refuse to move, and he panics, doing the only thing that leaps to mind.

He shoves his thumb into his right lens, leaving behind another print, which he figures will at least break the ice even if it is kind of pathetic. But it could also turn into a cute anecdote that they can discuss over coffee, or that they can tell their friends when they start dating…

…or that they can tell their children at their 25th anniversary party.

But instead of looking slightly disheveled while sporting a bothersome eyeglass malfunction, a passerby bumps his elbow, pushing his glasses all the way up his face and knocking them askew. Blaine doesn't have time to adjust them properly before he hears the man walking through the crowd toward him, his signature high-pitched giggle announcing his arrival.

“Hey!” Blaine says, waving a hand in the general direction of the man's voice, hoping he doesn't look too idiotic since he can't see a thing. “I never got your name.”

“Kurt,” the man says with a chuckle, putting a hand on Blaine's arm and maneuvering him toward the wall, out of the path of traffic.

“Kurt,” Blaine says. “My name's Blaine.”

“Hello, Blaine.”

“Hey,” Blaine says, trying to drum up casual conversation while ignoring the fact that his eyes are once again sealed shut with his glasses hanging off his face, “I wanted to say thank you so much for helping me the other day…”

Blaine forgets the rest of the sentence when he feels Kurt lift the glasses off his face.

Blaine opens his eyes to watch a blurry but still insanely handsome Kurt pull the microfiber cloth from his pocket and delicately wipe Blaine's lenses clean. Blaine wishes he could see him more clearly, but he can tell that Kurt is biting his bottom lip (which Blaine happens to consider a turn-on) and smiling secretively while he tends to Blaine's glasses.

“Here,” Kurt says, slipping the glasses back onto Blaine's face and perching them on the bridge of his nose. Blaine breathes in subtly while Kurt positions the glasses on his face.

He's not sure exactly what cologne Kurt uses, but he smells delicious. Blaine wants that scent on every article of clothing he owns, and he wonders if it would be creepy to ask Kurt about the scent, or should he just troll the fragrance counter of every department store he can find in Manhattan till he finds it?

“Thank you,” Blaine says, choosing option number two, “again.”

Kurt takes a step back to look Blaine over - from his messy curls to his goofy grin down to his grandpa bowtie and cardigan - and shakes his head with another light laugh.

“Here,” Kurt says, pulling a card from his coat pocket and handing it to Blaine, “I hope this helps with your eyeglass issues.”

Blaine looks down at the card, flipping it over in his fingers. It looks like a business card, but the only things written on it are Vogue and a phone number. Blaine hears Kurt's footsteps retreat the way he came, and when Blaine looks up, he's almost lost in the crowd.

“What is this?” Blaine calls out as Kurt starts to head off down the hallway.

“It's my phone number,” Kurt replies, spinning around on his heel to answer Blaine's question, “this way you don't have to blind yourself every time you want to talk to me.”