DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title is from "His Girl Friday" by The Academy Is...

This fic is age difference, so if that's not your cup of Earl Grey, don't read. This story is also cross-posted to my Tumblr (endofadream), so a good chunk of this fic is already written and will be updated as regularly as I can keep it. The rating will go up in future chapters, as well as the word count. And, as always, thank you :)

"Rachel, don't torture me like this," Kurt complains, letting Rachel drag him along the streets toward the brightly-lit glamour of Fifth Avenue. "We can't afford anything here, not even a ring."

Rachel gives him only a cursory look back, her eyes glittering as brightly as the windows they pass. "Come on, Kurt, we've lived in New York for months now and we've never even been shopping on Fifth Avenue!"

"Window shopping," Kurt corrects, tugging her hand again to get her to slow down. His breath fogs up in a white ghost in front of him as he huffs, and try as he might he can't really be mad, not with the expensive allure surrounding them, the well-dressed socialites flitting from store to store in six-inch Louboutins, the handsome men in business suits strolling along beside wives, or shopping at their own leisure. It's where Kurt's wanted to be for years now, and being so close makes his chest ache with an unrelenting want.

Rachel holds both of his gloved hands, smiling bright and broad. "Let's just pretend that you and I finally have our dream jobs. I'm starring on a critically acclaimed Broadway show, and your designs are wanted by every boutique in the city. We don't even have to look at price tags. We can just buy whatever we want, when we want."

Kurt feels one corner of his mouth curl up, and he tilts his head, looks up toward the skyscrapers with their boxy orange glows of windows, and imagines living in a loft, a penthouse, with the world at his feet and the endless possibilities of the skies above him. "Well," he says, drawing it out and looking at the mannequins in Louis Vuitton to his left, the busy street traffic and whir of yellow cabs to his right.

"Kurt!" Rachel squeals impatiently.

"Let's go!" Kurt laughs and pulls Rachel into the store, not caring, for once, about how other people will see them when they stumble inside the warm, sweetly-perfumed air. He doesn't try to hide his awe at the racks and rows and piles of clothes and luggage and purses and scarves, at the equally-as-amazing people picking their way through the store.

"Wow," Rachel breathes next to him, her head tilted up.

"Wow is right." Kurt heads over to a table full of iconic-print scarves, picking one up and letting the supple silk glide through his fingers like a fish taking to water. "I've always wanted to own one of these, but even on my quest for decently-priced designer merchandise online they were still way out of my price range."

He unwinds his own thick cable-knit scarf, handing it to Rachel before folding up the one he'd picked up from the table, sliding it around his neck before looping it, tugging on the ends to get it to hang right. He cranes his neck, sees that there's a mirror just on the other side of the table, and he turns around, eager to see what it looks like, and runs straight into someone else.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," Kurt says quickly, cheeks flushing red and voice pitching high in nervous apprehension. He's run into his fair share of people over the months, and nine times out of ten it doesn't end well. "I didn't mean to—that was so stupid of me."

"Hey, it's okay," a smooth, slightly boyish voice says. It takes Kurt a moment to focus, but when he does he sucks in a breath that he doesn't release right away.

"No harm, no foul, right?" the man continues with a good-natured smile, lips pulling deep laugh lines into the light stubble on his cheeks. His hair is black flecked with hints of gray, like the teasing light of stars in a sky Kurt rarely gets to see now, and is gelled back away from a well-lined forehead. His suit is slim and well-tailored, hugging his thighs and biceps in sleek matte black, and his tie is a tasteful splash of goldenrod atop a pinstriped oxford.

"I—," Kurt lets his voice trial off, afraid that if he tries to speak any further it'll crack embarrassingly. He clears his throat, squares his shoulders, and nods, still aware of the heat in his cheeks. "Right."

The man smiles at him, looks down at the scarf, and Kurt sees something flash behind golden-green eyes, a flitter or a spark that Kurt can't really place. The man reaches a hand out, gently touches one of the ends of the scarf, and adjusts it slightly before smiling again. "That looks great on you."

Kurt giggles—giggles—and pets the scarf like it's one of his own prized possessions. He bounces on his toes, feels like he could float away. "Thank you. It's too bad I can't afford it." He looks down at it sadly, traces a finger over one of the metallic LVs.

The man clucks his tongue, looks thoughtful for a moment, and Kurt can't help but notice how the motion brings deep frown lines between dark brows. "Pity. What's your name?"

Kurt looks back, notices Rachel watching the exchange wide-eyed, and turns back around. "Kurt Hummel."

The man holds out a hand, and Kurt takes it, takes note of the strength in a broad palm and long fingers. "Nice to meet you, Kurt." A wink, then, "Blaine Anderson."

Kurt smiles, bites his lip. "Nice to meet you, Blaine. And thanks for not getting mad at me for running into you. It's just kind of exciting for a struggling internist at who can't afford much more than old thrift-store clothes to be here."

"Vogue. It suits you," Blaine observes with another devastatingly charming smile, and Kurt feels his knees go weak; his heart flutter like it wants to beat its way out of his chest. He appraises Kurt's outfit, then says, "Not bad for thrift store."

When Blaine parts with an explanation of work to be done before tomorrow, Kurt stands there, staring, until Rachel grabs him excitedly and turns him to face her. "He was totally hitting on you!"

Kurt blinks, says nothing for a moment as he strips off his scarf and lays it gently back on the table. "No…you think?" There's a hopeful hint of longing in his voice. "But he's so much older."

"Even better!" Rachel hugs him tightly, and Kurt only has the time to awkwardly pat her back before she's releasing him. "You should've gotten his number," she says with a frown, hand on her hip as she cranes her neck, like she'll somehow find Blaine hiding behind one of the racks.

Kurt shrugs, loops an arm through Rachel, and directs her back toward the door. "I'm sure he was just being polite. Now, I really want Chinese."

Kurt's just finished typing up a memo for Isabelle when the ten o'clock mail arrives, and he's surprised when Kenny, the cute mail guy who is unfortunately engaged, drops a package on his desk. Kurt picks it up, frowns when he sees his name in unfamiliar, slanted script on the mailing address.

"Who's it from?" Kenny asks, hovering just off to the side of Kurt's desk. Kurt could roll his eyes, but he does like Kenny, and he doesn't blame him for being surprised: he never gets mail, not at work.

Kurt tears open the package, jaw dropping when a silky sea of light blue fabric stamped with metallic LVs falls from the paper, followed by a small business card. He turns it over, already knowing who it's from, and sees the same slanted print cramped onto the back.

Kurt—

I didn't tell you this last night, but this scarf matched your eyes so beautifully, and I couldn't resist. I hope this isn't too forward, but I'd love to get dinner sometime, and I really regretted not giving you my number when I had the chance. So here's me trying—again.

xx Blaine Anderson

Kurt stares at the card for a few silent moments, reading it again and again and again just to be sure that he isn't imagining it. He flips the card over and sees Blaine's name and phone number, and from behind him, Kenny asks in disbelief, "Blaine Anderson gave that to you? You know Blaine Anderson?"

"No," Kurt says truthfully. "I ran into him last night—literally. Why? Is he someone important?"

He turns in his chair to see Kenny looking at him, slack-jawed. "Important? Kurt, Blaine Anderson runs one of the most prestigious model talent agencies in the world. He could buy this entire building if he wanted to, and the magazine, and still have enough leftover to buy out all of Fifth Avenue."

Kurt picks up the scarf, looks at the number printed on the card. "And he wants me?"

He stares at the card the rest of the morning, propped up against the metal pen holder, and wonders why someone like Blaine would want someone like him—young, inexperienced, completely poor and with all of the dreams real life has yet to squash out of him. He can't deny that Blaine is gorgeous, and breathtakingly so, and though he isn't quite sure of the age difference yet, it doesn't bother him.

By lunchtime, he finally makes up his mind. He sneaks off into the bathroom, locks the door, and dials the number written on the card. His hand shakes, palm sweating, and his heart pounds faster with each fuzzy ring.

When a voice finally says, "Blaine Anderson speaking," Kurt forces his breath out in one shuddery exhale, holds the phone closer to his ear and swallows hard, gathering up his courage.

"Blaine, hi. It's Kurt Hummel. I was just wondering when you were free, because there's this great new Thai place I read about in the Times that I'd like to try." He pauses, smiles, says, "And the scarf does match my eyes."