"This beef wasn't cooked enough."

Kurt feels exhaustion seeping through his moisturized skin. He feels the dark circles forming under his eyes, feel the ache in his muscles, the weakness in his knees. He knows he smells like French fries and beer. He's in desperate need of a haircut; he has to push his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He's been working for twelve straight hours and his feet feel like they're about to fall off.

But the pot-bellied, disgustingly dressed forty year old is shoving an empty plate in his face, complaining about the food he'd served.

"Kid. Kid, this beef wasn't cooked enough."

Kurt swallows. "Sir, you ate all of it."

"What are you trying to say?"

"It's just…You ate all of it."

The costumer raises an eyebrow, the pudgy hand that rested carefully on the table curling into a less than threatening fist. Kurt takes the plate from the opposite paw, careful to avoid any type of contact.

"Kid, that food was not satisfactory. I'd better get a discount, and you can forget about a tip. Understand me?"

Kurt can feel the exhausted taking over him. He can feel words, angry words, build up in his throat.

Because he's pretty sure that he's been nothing but kind, and considerate, and friendly to his costumer.

It takes everything, everything, in him to choke them down again.

"Yessir. Your check will be right out."

In the end, he makes a hundred dollars in tips. After a sixteen hour shift.

Kurt puts his head in his hands and pushes his elbows deeper into the oak bar. He swears he could fall asleep, then and there, but the itchy cotton of his mandatory vest reminds him that he needs to get home. Home to his comfortable California king that doesn't care if its beef was undercooked and didn't ask for fifty different refills.

Kurt sighs when he realizes that his bed was the one thing in his life that was constant. The one thing that would never let him down, never would walk away, never would ask for an extra pickle on its sandwich. Kurt sighs when he realizes that his bed is the one thing in his life that he's proud of. He's not proud of working in the uppity, over priced restaurant. He's not proud of never making it in show business. He's not proud of how his clothes line, drawn and colored and measured to perfection, his barely being considered at all. He's not proud of the fact that in the last five years, ever since he left Lima for something bigger, he's had exactly two boyfriends – both relationships destroyed and ended by him - and a countless amount of sleazy hook-ups.

Kurt Hummel is not proud of himself.

And he's very ashamed.

"Kurt."

There's a hand on his back, rubbing smooth circles between his shoulder blades.

"Jesus, dude, did you sleep here?"

There's something familiar about the voice, about the roughness of the fingers that touch his face, smoothing his hair out of his eyes. He can feel the coolness of the oak bar pressing into his cheek. Indistinctly, he can hear Manny, the bartender, say softly, "He crashed after a double shift. He looked so exhausted and peaceful, and I'm here all night anyway…I just let him sleep."

The circles being pressed into his back quicken. "He looks awful."

Kurt draws his eyebrows together and snorts. "Thanks."

"Kurt?"

He peels one eye open and peers into the bright, hamburger and vodka smelling world. When he lifts his head off the bar, his cheek sticks.

Rubbing the red spot that had surely been left behind, he swings around on his barstool – successfully knocking the hand away from his back – and faces his arouser.

Warm, chocolate eyes.

Broad shoulders.

Short hair that stuck up, just a little, in the front.

A large, dopey grin that invaded Kurt's pubescent dreams on multiple occasions.

When Finn Hudson reaches out and pulls him into a bone crushing hug, all Kurt can do is blink.

Because the last time Kurt had seen Finn, he'd given Kurt the saddest, most confused look Kurt had ever seen in his life.

Because the last time Kurt had seen Finn, they kissed.

He guessed it had been inevitable, really.

With Finn living in his house, with their close proximity, his bedroom eyes and sweet words, and Kurt's abiding crush, it was really unavoidable.

If Kurt was being honest with himself, he had seen it coming from a mile away.

It happened one night, a month or two after graduation and a week or so after Blaine had ended things. The Glee Club had gathered, one last time, to enjoy each others company before they all went their separate ways. In hindsight, providing Kurt with alcohol a week after his first break up was probably not the best idea. Although, Kurt being Kurt, neither Finn, nor Rachel, nor even Mercedes would have guessed that he'd down four beers and three tequila shots before Puckerman had even finished his first scotch.

"Kurt, buddy, that's a lot of alcohol." Finn had said, wrapping a protective arm around Kurt's waist as he tried to surge forward, laughing hysterically as Mercedes tipped a margarita on Sam's blonde head.

"Kurt."

Kurt remembers something in Finn's voice, the softness, the tenderness, that made him look up, hazy through a thick curtain of alcohol. He remembers something in Finn's eyes, a spark, that made him stare, made him wonder. He remembers an ache in his chest, a hole torn out by Blaine's harsh and blunt dump. He remembers desperately wanting to fill it.

"Let's go home."

Kurt had wrapped his arms around Finn's neck and buried his nose into the crook of his collar bone, breathing in the warmth and quintessential smell of just Finn. Finn had swooped and grabbed him under the knees, picking him up in an instant, and carrying him ever so carefully to the car.

It was when they got home, when Finn took Kurt's head in his hands and smoothed away a stray piece of hair that it happened.

Kurt isn't sure why, exactly, Finn was so close. Maybe he was concerned, for some reason, that Kurt had fallen asleep. Or maybe he was checking his pupils for drug dilation, or maybe he was just worried.

But with Finn's lips so close, so inviting, so perfect, Kurt really couldn't help himself.

The kiss was sloppy and unsure. Their lips, tasting like alcohol, lingered together, moving ever so lightly into each other.

When Kurt pulled away, he looked into Finn's face for some type of recognition. He searched for panic, for disgust, for anything.

But all he found was a wide, dopey smile.

So he leaned his thin body into Finn's, pressing the taller boy into the wall, and crashed his mouth back down onto Finn's perfect lips.

This time, though, Finn was kissing back. This time, Kurt's fingers were in Finn's hair. This time, Finn was dragging his tongue across Kurt's bottom lip. This time, Kurt was opening his mouth, allowing much desired access to the warmth of his tongue. This time, Finn's hands were slipping into Kurt's back pockets and lifting, forcing the smaller boy to wrap his legs around Finn's built waist and ramming their bodies together for shiver-inducing friction.

This time, they were moaning.

Positively mewling, gasping, groaning.

"Kurt."

He remembers being shocked. Shocked at hearing his name spoken against his own lips. Shocked to hear it spoken so tenderly. There was a thickness in Finn's voice, a passion that scared Kurt out of his mind.

So he wriggled out of Finn's arms.

He let his feet drop to the floor and took a few steps back, chest heaving, pupils blown.

Finn had stayed put, shoulder blades against the hard wall.

And there was that expression.

That hurt, confused, sad look.

Kurt had left for New York three days later.

"Finn."

He can't breathe. There's tightness in his chest that can't be denied. His body is burning from the memory of Finn so close, so warm, so indescribably perfect.

"Yes, Finn. Me. What's up?"

"What's up? What's UP? Finn Hudson, you show up at my door after three years and all you can say is what's up?"

"Technically I showed up at your work, which is different than showing up at your -"

"You are the thickest, most irritatingly insane person I've ever met in my life!"

His voice has reached a frightening octave; Finn simultaneously glances around self-consciously and shoves his hands into his pockets. His chocolate eyes land on Manny, seeking help. The bartender holds up both of his hands as if surrendering and mumbles, "You guys should work this out."

"I missed you. You know…I missed my friend." Finn's puppy dog eyes are forcing him to look away. They're so brown and large; Kurt busies himself with receipt notes that were still in his apron. He can smell the soft, unmistakable Chanel Le Bleu that wafted from Finn's American Eagle sweatshirt.

"Kurt, you should go home." Manny reaches over the bar and hands him a stack of ones. Kurt knows they all aren't really his tips; he knows Manny's thrown a few dollars of his own into the awfully small pile.

Suddenly, he's just too exhausted to deal with anything.

"Come on, Finn."

His apartment is small.

There's a kitchen, and a couch, and a very small bedroom with a queen squeezed into the very corner.

Finn's chocolate eyes sweep across the poster covered walls of the living room, the dishes in the sink, the slightly fuzzy television, perpetually tuned onto the CW. He lets his bag fall onto the dusty carpet and Kurt swears he sighs a little.

Sighs in that content, comfortable way that he only used when he was home.

Kurt leans against the door frame, eyes trained on Finn's broad shoulders. "You can sleep on the couch."

When he turns around and crosses his arms across his chest, Kurt swears his heart jumps into his throat. His eyes are soft and there's a crooked smile written across his lips. "Okay. You should get some rest, Kurt. You look exhausted."

"There are blankets in the closet." Kurt points toward the porcelain doorknob that's protruding from the wall near Finn's hip. "Good night, Finn."

It's when he's lying in his wonderful California King, his dependable confidant, that Finn's heavy feet creep across the floor.

It's when he's half asleep that Finn's arms, warm, wrapped carefully around him, holding him tight.

It's when he sighs quietly, content, that Finn presses the smallest of kisses into the top of his collar bone.

It's when Finn intertwined their legs that he finally falls asleep.

It's morning when things get awkward.

Because, Jesus, Kurt's curled into Finn's side, his cheek pressed into the Frankenteen's bare chest.

He peels his cheek away and very carefully picks himself out his bed; the mattress groans, but only Finn turns over.

Kurt runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

Because Finn looks like he's supposed to be there, wrapped in Kurt's 700 thread count sheets, breathing into his matching pillow cases.

And suddenly, he's fighting the urge to cry.

Because it's like his bed was incomplete without him lying there.

Like his apartment was deficient without Finn tromping around it, tripping over his big feet.

Like he, Kurt Hummel, was lacking without falling asleep to the smallest of kisses being pressed into his collar bone.

Suddenly, he realizes what he's been missing.

And suddenly, he really didn't want to realize it anymore.