“Oof! Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

“No, I’m sorry. I should look where I’m going.”

“Well, so should I, so I guess we’re both at fault.” Kurt kneels down to pick up his dropped books, a few of them being handed to him while he shuffles through a mess of papers that are part his sheet music and part someone else’s Music Theory notes. He passes the notes along to their owner, peeking up and smiling at a set of hazel eyes he’s seen more than once, a pair of rosy lips he’s envied time and again, and a face he’s wanted to find the nerve to talk to, but hadn’t yet.

This isn’t the way that Kurt wanted to meet this man, colliding with him on his way out of the NYADA campus coffee shop, but he’s not exactly complaining.

Kurt catches a name on the cover of what looks like an essay.

“Blaine Anderson?” he asks, praying that that’s this man’s name and not the name of a close friend … or boyfriend. “Is that you?”

“That’s me,” the man says, exchanging his essay for a few manuscript pages. “And these say Kurt. Are you Kurt?”

“Kurt Hummel.” Kurt juggles a book and a few loose pages to extend a hand for Blaine to shake. Blaine has a nice, firm handshake.

A soft, warm handshake, and Kurt feels himself melt in his boots.

“Uh … so, you’re a music student?” Kurt asks, opting for small talk instead of silence since this clean up and sort is taking more time than he anticipated.

“Composition,” Blaine says. “Hoping to become a song writer. And you?”

“Musical theater,” Kurt says, slipping his books and papers into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Hoping to become the next Neil Patrick Harris.” Kurt chooses that name in the hopes that that will be hint enough about his sexual orientation, as opposed to leading with, I’m gay. And you? “I wondered why it was I only ever see you in the coffee shop and not in any of my classes.”

Another on-purpose slip, subtly cluing Blaine in to the fact that Kurt’s noticed him before. Kurt has never been forward. He usually keeps his infatuations to himself. But it’s taken Kurt this long to talk to this man. The universe pretty much had to drop Blaine in his lap. Kurt doesn’t know if that’s a sign or not, but he’s not going to let this opportunity pass him by.

“Yeah, yeah, I … wondered that, too.” Blaine smiles, looks away, adorably shy as he gathers up the last of his things. Kurt bites his lip. So perhaps Blaine has scoped Kurt out, too, once or twice? Very interesting.

Kurt’s fingers stumble through more papers while he steals a second to scowl up at two young women who groan, “Excuse me,” instead of doing anything close to helping. When Kurt looks back down, there are only two sheets of paper left. He and Blaine both reach for one.

“Uh, I think this one’s yours.” Blaine hands Kurt a blurry photocopy of “On the Street Where You Live” that Kurt had tucked away for scratch paper.

“And this one’s got to be yours.” Kurt doesn’t notice the nervous way in which Blaine reaches for it since his eyes have snagged on a dedication that makes Kurt furrow his brow. “Wait. What’s this?”

“Oh, it’s uh … nothing,” Blaine says. The top right corner curls under Blaine’s fingertips as he tries to grab it back, but Kurt moves it away. When Blaine tries one more time, inching closer to get a better hold, Kurt stands up. Kurt knows he probably shouldn’t be reading someone else’s work without their express permission, but he can’t help himself.

It’s not obvious from the lyrics (for a song entitled “The Muse”). It could just be a plain old love song. But from the dedication at the bottom (and Kurt hopes he’s not being conceited), he thinks this song may be about him –

For the guy at the coffee shop with the perfect hair and the diamond eyes, who’s never going to notice I exist.

… alongside a tiny, rudimentary sketch of Kurt’s favorite hippo head brooch.

“Blaine?” Kurt raises his eyes and finally hands the page over. “Is my ego going into overdrive, or is this …?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, resigned. He grabs the page with a little less care than Kurt would like and shoves it in with the rest. “It’s a song … about you.”

Kurt wants to smile, but he feels lousy. He really shouldn’t have read it. He takes for granted that they attend a performing arts university. Songs and plays and stories are considered assignments here, and most of those are written for public consumption. But some aren’t. Some of them are an expression of their souls. The stories of their lives. “It’s beautiful but … I don’t understand.”

“I …” Blaine shuffles out of the doorway and over to a far wall when another pair of irate students push past, and Kurt follows. “I’ve watched you come in here every day since the beginning of the semester. I’ve watched you order coffee, hang out with your friends, talk on the phone ...” Blaine smiles, a little guilty, a little dreamy “… I’ve memorized your smile, the way your eyes crinkle in the corners when you laugh, the shade of dusty rose your cheeks turn, the sound of your voice when you’re reading through a piece of music ...” Blaine sighs. “You inspire me.”

Kurt takes a breath in, but he doesn’t let go. He considers everything that Blaine just said, and goes with his gut – an anxious gut that suddenly has no filter. “That’s … kind of creepy.” Blaine stares at Kurt, mouth agape, the hurt in his eyes almost tangible. “I’m sorry,” Kurt says with a nervous hiccup. “It is.”

“I was going for romantic,” Blaine says with a self-depreciating shrug, “but …”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing then that I’m a little creepy, too.”

Under Blaine’s confused gaze, Kurt reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a sketchbook - a well-used one, the cover worn, the color faded where it’s been held for long periods, the pages bent at the edges from leaning against Kurt’s stomach while he draws. Kurt peeks to make sure Blaine is still watching - and he is, with an almost childlike curiosity. Kurt opens the book, landing on a sketch in the very middle, a simple black and white portrait … of Blaine.

Kurt offers Blaine the book, and Blaine takes it, carefully flipping through the pages. There are, of course, pictures of things other than Blaine – outfits Kurt’s designed, portraits of friends, set designs for the winter musical … but most of the pictures in that book are of Blaine – Blaine sitting at the coffee shop reading a book, writing, drinking, staring with a far-away look in his eyes, a look that Kurt now knows might have been directed at him. “You drew these pictures,” Blaine asks softly, “of me?”

“Yeah,” Kurt admits. “I did.”

“But, I’ve never seen you draw.” Blaine is no longer flipping through the pages, but examining each picture one at a time, every line, every tiny detail. “I’ve never even seen you carry a sketchbook.”

“I try not to be obvious,” Kurt explains, “so I keep it in my bag. I would …” Kurt’s cheeks pink as he confesses to being possibly creepier than Blaine “… watch you out of the corner of my eye while I was on line getting my coffee. I’d memorize your features, your expressions, what you were wearing that day, and then sketch them out later.”

Blaine reaches the end of the book. He lingers on the final portrait of him, smiling down proudly at a page in front of him, one with vague squiggles to represent words. Blaine remembers that day, remembers the cardigan he’s wearing, the paisley bowtie. If Kurt only knew what was on that page …

Well, Kurt knows now, if only indirectly.

Only one song that Blaine’s written has ever made him smile like that.

“Wow.” Blaine closes the book and hands it to Kurt.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so … clueless.”

“Again, that makes both of us.”

“So” - Blaine blows out a breath, one that’s been building in his chest, making his body heavy – “what do we do now?”

“I think,” Kurt starts, “if you’re up for it, we sit down at a table, you tell me about your song, I’ll tell you about my drawings, and we learn about each other from the inside out.”

“That’s … uh … kind of poetic.” Blaine gestures to a cluster of empty tables. Kurt takes the lead, choosing a table as far from the commotion of the room as possible. “Maybe you should be the song writer.”

“That’s okay.” Blaine pulls out Kurt’s chair, which makes Kurt swoon just a little. “I think I’m fine being a Muse.”