There are some days when Kurt just really, really hates Madame Tibideaux.

Reasonably, he knows that none of this is her fault. He knows that his NYADA audition just wasn't good enough, simple as that, and he also knows that he'll have to get over this resentment by the time December rolls around and he has to see her again when he re-auditions. But still, no matter how logical a person he likes to think himself, Kurt can't help but blame her for how horribly his life is going right now. Still in Lima, still living with his dad. . .

. . . And, most recently, spending his days working at a Victoria's Secret.

A fucking Victoria's Secret, in the back corner of Lima's run down mall, and just close enough to the food court that Kurt's begun to smell permanently of grease and pretzels. Has he mentioned how much he hates Madame Tibideaux?

And so, here he finds himself, pretending he isn't reading the latest issue of Vogue under his register while silently thanking God, or Gaga, or whoever the hell's watching over him that no one ever comes to this overpriced hellhole anyway, sparing him the embarrassment of anyone actually finding out he works here. (He might be at a low point right now, but he still has standards.)

The bell hanging above the door suddenly rings, effectively drawing Kurt out of his daily I-hate-Mme-Tibideaux session, and he subtly raises his eyes to make sure he doesn't know whoever's just walked in.

He hopes his double take of the person is just as subtle, because holy fuck is probably the only way to accurately describe this man.

Dark, messy curls spill out from his otherwise perfectly gelled-down hair, and as the man stands in the doorway, Kurt lets his eyes travel down the rest of his body, over his brightly colored (and not to mention skintight) jeans, his nerdy sweater vest, and is he actually wearing a bowtie? Kurt doesn't know whether he finds him hot or just plain adorable.

He's just started trying to figure out what color the man's downcast eyes would be (surely something equally as dreamy as the rest of him) when he looks up, right at Kurt, and he has to duck his head and act like he's been reading his magazine this whole time. He hopes his reddening cheeks don't give him away.

Hazel. Definitely hazel.

Kurt lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding as the cute stranger looks away, taking a few tentative steps into the store and letting the door close behind him. He makes his way around while facing the opposite direction, giving the smitten employee plenty of time to continue staring at him. He's pretty short, and looks to be around Kurt's age, and the longer he spends watching his shy glances around the store, the more Kurt finds himself leaning towards describing him as adorable.

He knows it's probably silly to be so drawn to someone who he didn't even know existed five minutes ago, and this definitely wouldn't be his first time misplacing feelings on overly straight guys. He's probably here to buy a present for his girlfriend, Kurt thinks bitterly, but, hey, it can't hurt to dream, right?

It's only after a full five minutes of fantasizing that Kurt notices the man has yet to really look at anything. And if his confused look and random wandering of the store is anything to go by, Kurt knows that he must be hopelessly lost. And it's in this moment that he conveniently remembers hey, isn't it my job to help adorable, messy-haired, bowtie-wearing customers find everything they're looking for? So, for the first time since he came in for his shift earlier that afternoon, he puts down his Vogue and makes his way to where the man has been staring at the lingerie section for longer than should really be considered normal.

In hindsight, it probably would have been more appropriate to simply tap his shoulder instead of leaning over it and asking, "Lace or silk?", but the cute little yelp the man makes as he turns around makes everything worth it. Definitely adorable.

Kurt can't help the smirk he feels growing on his face at the man's reaction- there'll be plenty of time later for embarrassment over what he's just said, right now he's too busy enjoying just how flustered he was able to make him with only three words.

"I'm sorry, but what?" His eyebrows are still raised with surprise- oh my god does he seriously have triangle-shaped eyebrows?- and Kurt can't tell if his voice is raised a few octaves or if it's always that high.

So he keeps going. "You know, lace or silk? Personally, I think you'd look quite good in something a little more edgy, perhaps leather? I hear that style's to be all the rage next season, but it's really up to you."

The adorable customer just gives him the same flustered, confused look, and Kurt might just have to eat his words about there being time later to be embarrassed, because he's starting to feel like now might be a good time to crawl into a hole and die. And it looks like he's not the only one who feels that way.

Kurt can already tell his face is quickly becoming the same shade as the man's, and he knows that he's got to do something, anything, to backtrack. Should he apologize? Pretend he never said anything and go back to his usual script? Apologize some more?

"I'm so, so sorry!" Apologize it is. "I don't know why I said that! I swear it sounded less creepy in my head! Can we please pretend that never happened, and I just asked you if you needed any help?" Now it's his voice that's overly high pitched.

The man looks even more embarrassed, if that's even possible, as he answers, "Oh, um, actually, I'm fine. . . I think. . ." But his tone is unsure, and it's only seconds later that he hangs his head in defeat. "Okay, yeah, I might actually need some help?"

Kurt doesn't know whether or not he's happy to hear that.

"Okay, well, for starters, do you know what you're looking for? Something fancy, practical, type?" Lace or silk?

His response is mumbled and far too quick for Kurt to understand.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

He looks mortified, as if saying it once was bad enough (which it probably was). The man darts his eyes from side to side, before leaning in and saying in a quiet voice, "I was- I was kind of hoping you could help me find a. . . a thong." He stage whispers the last word, as if anyone else ever actually came in this old store, and Kurt might've found it endearing if his heart didn't stop just a little.

Right. Of course. This man was here to buy a thong, which isn't something a guy usually buys for himself, or a friend, or really anyone other than his. . .

Oh God, who was he kidding? His girlfriend. A man only ever buys a thong for his girlfriend, and Kurt's spent the past ten minutes drooling over the poster boy for all things hetero because who else buys a fucking thong for his girlfriend?

He realizes he's been gaping at the man for far longer than is probably socially acceptable, and barely manages to utter a "Right this way," before he turns around to hide his face which by now must rival the color of the display they'd been standing in front of.

The walk to the back of the store (where some of the more intimate pieces are kept- Kurt has to keep from making a face at the thought) takes an eternity, though it isn't nearly long enough for the insane blush now spreading down Kurt's neck to calm down. Once they get there, he considers sabotaging whatever sickly sweet and romantic night the man no doubt is planning by suggesting some of their less appealing pieces, but he stops himself. Kurt, above all, is a professional, of course, and he is not about to let some silly attraction get in the way of business, no matter how much he wants to throw up.

He takes a deep breath. Well, here goes nothing.

"Okay, so I don't know if you had a specific style in mind-" God, I hope not, "-but first I need to know what size you're looking for, you know, to determine what exactly we're looking at."

Okay, so Kurt gets that it's an embarrassing situation, but this man looks like he's about ready to dig his own grave. Wow, mature much?

"Oh, I- I don't really know. . ." And the boyfriend of the year award goes to. . . "Um, probably something on the. . . larger side?" Just when I thought he couldn't get any worse.

But, hey, the customer's always right. "Alright, well, in that case you're probably gonna want something from over here. Now, I guess back to my original question: lace or silk? Or would you prefer something a little fancier?" Or perhaps something easier to rip off?

"Actually, I was kinda hoping you could maybe show me the cheapest ones you have?" Okay, really, Kurt might have actually dodged a bullet on this guy because he might just be the worst boyfriend in the history of boyfriends. Even worse than Rachel's weekly fling.

"Getting romantic, I see," Kurt mumbles to himself as he pulls a few of their not-so-nice pairs. "So, does your girlfriend have any preference for the color?" Or do you not know that, either?

He's so absorbed in his bitter thoughts that Kurt misses the look of confusion that crosses the man's face, instead opting to sort through the pile of thongs he's gathered in an attempt to find the ugliest pair.

"I'm sorry, but. . . my what?" You've gotta be shitting me. Not knowing size is one thing, but favorite color? Seriously?

Kurt can barely hide the contempt in his voice as he drily replies, "You know, color? The shade of your girlfriend's thong? I'm sure you'd know what would be her favorite."

He turns around just in time to watch the customer's eyes widen even more, his blush spreading across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. After all his dry thoughts, Kurt's caught off guard as he remembers oh, yeah, freaking adorable.

"My girlfriend? I don't- I don't have a girlfriend. . ." He what? Kurt doesn't know whether to be relieved that this gorgeous man is single, or freaked out because. . .

Because the only men who buy thongs are either buying them for their girlfriend, or because they're total perverts.

The man seems to reach this conclusion at the same time, as he throws up his hands and gestures wildly, exclaiming, "No, no! I swear it's not what it looks like! I don't have some kind of weird thong fetish! I'm just trying to find one to wear!" Kurt almost chokes at those words. To wear?! The image pops into his head, and he suddenly has trouble focusing on what's being said.

The man realizes what he's just said as his movements grow even more frantic. "Oh my God, no! Not like that! I swear I don't have some creepy fetish! I mean, I am going to wear them, but I have a reason! I don't want to! I- I. . . ugh!" And with that, he goes quiet, hiding his face in his hands and most likely waiting for Kurt to kick him out.

But instead, Kurt can't help but giggle at this man in front of him and the scene he's just created. He's just too cute. And definitely single, from what he's heard. And so, Kurt decides a do-over is in order.

"Hey, it's okay!" he laughs out as he extends his hand. "I believe we got off to a bad start. I'm Kurt Hummel, and I'd love to hear the story that I'm certain's behind this."

The man looks up in surprise before mechanically reaching out. "Blaine Anderson. And yeah, okay." His hands are surprisingly large, and warm, and Kurt's hand fits so perfectly he almost doesn't want to let go.

But, of course, he does, and offers Blaine a smile that he hopes makes up for all the awful things he'd been thinking just a minute ago. "So, about this thong. . ."

And so, Kurt finds himself listening as Blaine describes how he's just transferred to McKinley High for his senior year ("Hey, I went there! Have you checked out the glee club?"), and somehow ended up being recruited onto the so-called cheerios by Sue. And how everything had been going fine (or at least as fine as could be) until he'd been called into Sue's office yesterday.

"And apparently, there's this rule that all cheerios are required to wear thongs under the uniform? I thought she was joking, but, as has been made very clear to me, she wasn't. . ." Blaine shivers, as if thinking of some horrible consequence he'd been threatened with.

"So, long story short, I need a few thongs. . . the cheapest ones, if you can." And only now does it all make sense- the confusion, the complete lack of knowledge. Blaine's not a terrible boyfriend, he's just a cheerleader who's in a little over his head. And Kurt isn't usually one to stereotype, but. . . a male cheerleader? Please let that mean he's gay.

But, again, Kurt is a professional, and he knows his first priority is to help his customer find everything he's looking for. "Okay, well first of all, these cheap little things just aren't gonna cut it. Here, I'll find you some nicer ones we have on sale. Maybe some lace. . ." he can't help but add, almost swooning at the adorable flush once again seeping across Blaine's face.

Four thongs later, Kurt takes Blaine up to his register to ring him up. As he scans the underwear, he hears Blaine softly humming along to the overhead radio. He doesn't recognize the song- his manager insists on playing exclusively top 40, and usually it drives him to the brink of insanity- but finds he doesn't so much mind the overly repetitive tune when it's coming from Blaine, that it's actually quite. . . pretty.

"Hey, I know I mentioned it earlier, but," Kurt begins as he looks up from his register, smiling as he realizes Blaine's eyes had been closed as he hummed, "you really should look into joining the glee club. Mr. Schuester is a great teacher, and there aren't any weird dress code requirements." Well, not too many. "Besides, your voice is absolutely beautiful." And he doesn't even have time to be embarrassed, because the smile Blaine sends his way is worth it ten times over.

"Really? You think so? There used to be a singing group at my old school, but I was always too shy to join. . . You really think I could be a part of this one?"

And really, Kurt can't even be embarrassed for how lost he is in Blaine's bright eyes, or how soft his voice becomes when he can only manage to reply a short, "I do."

Kurt knows it's probably not natural how long the two of them have been literally gazing at each other, but he can't even bring himself to care. He's about to just go for it and ask Blaine for his number when they're interrupted by his receipt printing, and he hurriedly shoves it at Blaine to distract from the blush threatening to rise at what he was about to do.

In a matter of ten seconds, he's managed to completely lose any semblance of nerve he might have had.

"Well, have a nice day, and thanks for shopping here!" Kurt inwardly cringes at the formality of the preprogrammed response, but it's all his brain supplies him with. What was I even thinking? he berates himself. Just cause he's an adorable, bow tie-wearing, singing cheerleader doesn't necessarily mean he's gay. . . probably. . . Besides, who'd even want to go out with a failed NYADA applicant whose only means of living had become working at a fucking Victoria's Secret, anyways?

He doesn't know if it's his sudden formality, or if he'd managed to guess at what Kurt was about to do (please don't be the case), but Blaine seems just as flustered as Kurt's feeling as he reaches out and takes his bag, awkwardly waving as he offers a quiet, "Oh, um, yeah, thanks," and turns to exit the store. Kurt almost calls out to him, but he can't find his voice, the right words, in time, and just like that, Blaine's gone.

Kurt slams his head down on the desk (delicately, of course- he might have been upset but still, his hair), and for once he can't even bring himself to pick up his Vogue and continue looking through next season's trends. It's not every day you meet your dream guy, and it's definitely not every day he asks you for lingerie advice.

Kurt only has a few seconds to mourn Blaine's absence, though, because it's then that he hears the soft chime of the bells hanging above the door, and he whips his head up so fast he knows he's definitely just ruined his hair, but he doesn't care in the slightest because there he is. There's Blaine, red in the face, only halfway through the door when he starts to speak from all the way across the store.

"Oh my God, I know this is probably so weird, and like I don't even know when your shift ends, but I had to come back and ask you. . . ask you if. . ." and the words are stuck in his throat, but it doesn't matter because Kurt finishes it for him.

"Do you want to grab a coffee?"

And Kurt can't find it in him to care that's he's skipping the last two hours of his shift, or that he's only known this man for a grand total of one hour, because right now he's sitting across from the most adorable, curly-haired, bow tie-wearing, singing cheerleader he's ever met, holding a coffee in one hand and Blaine's fingers in the other, listening as he hums along to the least annoying top 40 song he's ever heard in his life.

There are some days when Kurt just really, really loves Madame Tibideaux.