Needle & Thread

Why, hello! And welcome to my very second story called Needle and Thread! First, off, I'm very excited about this story, BUT as some of you know - the ones from my prior story, Porcelain and Warm Honey - you will have to be quite patient with me during this story. I of course promise that I will not abandon this, ever, but I am starting at a new... call it a boarding school tomorrow(!) so I won't have much time to write. I am currently at the ninth chapter, though, and so far I am really enjoying writing this story, so hopefully I'll steal some time from my busy schedule.

This time I've tried something new, and I've made it in first person narrator, and it will mostly follow Kurt - sometimes it will change a bit, though. But this first chapter is sort of the introduction to what is waiting. I don't really like to write too angsty stuff, but I like my drama, just so you know what to expect from this story (I know I like that before starting anything).

I really hope you will enjoy/read it at all!

Since I'm only me and English is not my first language, I am sorry for any mistakes that might occur, but please try to look past them. Thank you!

Now I'll let you read.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chapter 1

"I come bearing gifts!" Rachel exclaimed as greeting, before sitting down at our customary table. She kissed my cheek briefly and I suppressed a sigh.

After having Rachel Berry in my life for ten years, I'd come to know what her definitions of 'gifts' were; the first – and my personal favorite – she had found the piece of clothing I'd been dying to buy on knock-off somewhere, which I knew this wasn't due to her slightly too excited eyes (Rachel Berry never got that excited when she wasn't involved herself).

The second; she had somehow gotten me an audition to some play, because of the 'connections' her character in her current musical had given her – the one of which I always had to remind her that I wasn't interested in because I did not act anymore.

And then we came to the famous third, and also the one I knew it to be this time: the matchmaking (or privacy interferer as I liked to call it). Ever since she and Finn had figured their stuff out, she wouldn't shut up about my love life – or lack thereof – and no matter how many times I begged her to mind her own business, she somehow seemed to perceive the exact opposite message every time.

"No," I said plainly before she could shrug off her jacket and hang it on the chair. "I don't care which kind of perfect he is this time Rach, the answer is and will remain no."

"But Kuurt," she practically whined, and yes, she was twenty-seven I had to remind himself for the umpteenth time ever since her birthday last month. "This one's perfect I know it!"

I just rolled my eyes and rose from my seat, ordering coffee for us both. After five years of annual Tuesday-dates, we knew this place well, and I knew our coffee orders by heart. When I came back, she was still pouting excessively. I placed the coffee in front of her and ignored it.

"So, how's the play going?" I asked nonchalantly, cupping the to-stay mug between my hands, warming them a bit – I always had cold hands; it was a weird quirk of mine.

"You are not deflecting, Kurt Hummel," she said with her once scary stern voice. After said ten years – and practice on my own, which had gotten so much better than hers now – I had grown immune to it.

"Indeed," I said and sent her a look.

"Kurt, come on, you need to get back on the horse! Ever since Derek you just gave up on love," she said and her voice had grown softer; this was her 'I'm-being-your-best-friend-now' voice.

I just shrugged and sipped of my coffee. It was true, but contrary to Rachel's belief it was not because of heartbreak or needed closure; I just figured that after all love wasn't worth the struggle. I mean, yes I loved him, but those feelings did in no way make up for all the times he could be the most annoying creature on earth. We ended pretty nastily, but I had found myself relieved. Free. And after that, I knew love wasn't something I needed. Quite the opposite actually; it made me feel caged and pressured, like I had to be someone I wasn't, and even when the sex was great, it was never enough for me to want to stay with the guy (and one night stands were generally not my thing, so I had lived in celibacy for about three years now. Miss Pillsbury, my high school counselor, would be proud. My dick most definitely was not.)

"Look, Rach, I've told you a million times before, and I'll tell you again," I said slowly, like she was a three-year old trying to learn how to count to twenty. "I don't need it. I'm perfectly happy. I love my life just as it is right now, in this second. Now will you please let me enjoy it?"

"But I felt the complete same way before Finn and I got back together again, and now I'm happier than ever!" Rachel said, and I silently cursed my brother for coming back to New York to be with her. What was he even doing here?

"And I'm not you, Rach," I said, growing tired.

"Just hear me out, though, and maybe you'll consider it?" she begged. I gave her a resigned look, but shrugged, knowing that if I heard what she had to say – and if I was lucky and she was in her less-determined mood today – she would give up afterwards.

And as expected did she give an elaborated resume on the poor guy's life. Fellow dancer, tall, muscular, handsome – with emphasis on handsome – and very nice smile. He was apparently the son of the owner of the theater – I internally rolled my eyes – and had an amazing voice as well. And then she started rambling about his background and hobbies and approximately there, I stopped listening.

"Okay, he sounds lovely," I interrupted her after twenty minutes straight rambling, trying not to sound too sarcastic, "but I'll have to pass."

She sent me her famous glare and I sent her one back, unaffected. "I love you, Rach, but stop trying to help me, okay? Like I said, I'm fine."

She looked at me critically for a minute, obviously trying to decide whether I was being truthful or not, and I kept up my neutral face to convince her. Finally she gave up, and I smiled in victory.

"Just know that if I'm not the first one to know when you find someone – which you will!" she started, "I'll be very mad at you."

"Of course you will," I said, ignoring the nagging in my gut, and drank of my coffee again.

We talked for about an hour, mostly her filling me in about the theater – she was in a production of Wicked that had its opening night in about a month – and detested co-workers, while I talked about the shop and my beloved co-workers. While talking to Rachel I always got confirmed that it was the right career decision I had made. Working in such a competitive, hostile workplace? That did not do it for me. I loved my shop and my co-workers (I never called them my employees, and they never called me boss, something I had insisted on), and the fashion involved only made it so much more perfect.

After two coffees each and an hour and a half's chatting, Rachel decided she needed to get home. "Finn's probably home by now." She sounded so excited, and I tried not to feel jealous. Because just like I had reassured Rachel prior, I did not need it. I didn't.

We parted ways and I decided to walk home since the weather allowed it. I didn't have anything particularly exciting to come home to anyway (laundry and dishes that, unfortunately, wouldn't do themselves). I should have known myself better, though; as I trotted my way home, the unwelcome thoughts came instantly, and Rachel's voice rang in my ears.

…I felt the complete same way before Finn and I got back together and now I'm happier than ever…

I knew it was true. Rachel had spent years convincing me that she was happy with her life, and that men only were a distraction from her career and inevitable success. And suddenly she glowed in this way that I had never seen since high school, and of course my stepbrother needed to be the cause of it.

But I had meant what I said. I wasn't like her; I hadn't found my one true love in high school, I had never glowed like that and I doubted I ever would. Once it bothered me, the thought that I wouldn't find that, but after all these years and failed dates and relationships, I was content with it. And all of this, coming from a person that didn't even believe in 'one true love' anymore. At least not for myself.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Relax Kurt Hummel, you're only twenty-seven, you got all the time in the world to find your love. Believe me, the first five years here in New York I had been convinced that I would too – because contrary to what you're probably thinking right now I am not a quitter. More like a realist.

Anyway, I had indeed spent the first five or six years here trying to find someone. I had come from Lima, Ohio, practically bullied my entire way through high school (believe the non-quitter thing now?) and when I came here at eighteen, dewy-eyed and green, I had thought that I would find my perfect match within weeks in this magic city. As it turned out…

I didn't. I went on many dates (some of which turned into two, but never further than that). I tried a few relationships that went to hell within months. And the most embarrassing one: I tried walking in central park more than a few times, wearing my very best outfit, only waiting for the perfect man to stumble into me, or have his dog run into me, or maybe a niece – I wasn't particularly picky at that point (which was the problem I had found out later).

But he never came. And after those five years, I had simply stopped trying.

A few months later, I had gotten my shop because of my fairy godmother, Isabelle Wright, and it took up all my time all of sudden. And for the first time while being in New York I felt absolutely happy. I had spent those stupid five years trying desperately to find someone to confirm that I was special and wanted, but in that little shop with the clothes I myself had designed (some of it anyway) I truly believed it.

And about that time I had come to realize that I did indeed not need a man when I had my career. So maybe I did believe in one true love for me; my shop.

I smiled self-satisfied at my own conclusion. I had reached my apartment and walked the two flights of stairs to get to my door.

I really liked my apartment. It was small of course (anything in New York was) with three rooms: the kitchen/living room (rather big, which was really important to me; I cooked and baked a lot), my bedroom, and beside that, a bathroom. It wasn't much, it wasn't very glamorous, but it was all I needed.

I dropped the satchel that I brought everywhere by the door, and shrugged off my jacket and shoes, shivering slightly by the semi-cold outside. It was warm for late October, but still way too cold for me (I'm the kind of person who can't deal with too cold or too warm weather – my skin simply can't tolerate it).

As I approached my kitchen I almost decided to ditch dinner, way too exhausted, but a reasonable voice spoke in the back of my head, and reminded me of how bad that habit was – I had found out that not eating was a bad idea the hard way (not like a eating disorder or anything, but when I get passionate and busy with stuff, meaning clothes, food drops too long down on my priority list).

Anyway, I did decide to whip something up really fast (a light salad) and did the dishes before taking the bowl with me in my bedroom, too tired to actually eat in the living room like a normal person; Tuesday was my half-day off, which meant I was in the shop for about four hours (from ten to two) and then I had yoga class at three that I finished off with coffee with Rachel at our traditional Starbucks (after going home to shower, of course). Needles to say, I was exhausted – Rachel Berry tended to have a very draining effect on you, even after ten years.

I quickly changed into more comfortable wear, and read a book in the beloved sofa chair I had in my room (found at a flea market) while eating.

When I first moved here, I remembered, I loved this; alone, quiet time. I hadn't gotten much of that back in Ohio with Finn always stumbling over something or yelling at his video games, or Carole or Dad talking somewhere. Now though, this time of the day was around the time when I missed exactly what I kept convincing myself I didn't need. Because no matter how much I didn't need the complications that love brought with it, I did miss having someone to curl up to in the evening, and kiss goodnight when going to sleep. Someone to wake up in the morning, and to look at me like I didn't look like a troll (because I did before 7 am).

I shook my head, shaking off the thoughts, and inhaled shortly. Maybe I should just buy a cat?

Right, I hated cats. Crap.

I went to sleep rather quickly after that, afraid of letting my thoughts wander too far. I threw the useless book away and began my nightly skin regime – remember the sensitive skin thing? – and by 9pm I lay in my bed, hugging one of my fluffy pillows tight (most definitely not pretending it was a person) and shut off my mind. Or well, tried to…

It took some time falling to sleep that night.

I woke up at eight the next morning bright and early. Some people – and by that I meant my friend Santana – found me horribly annoying in the morning, since I was kind of an early riser and a chirpy one too. I had to be at the shop at ten when we opened, and as always I had good time. I let myself shower for a few more minutes before doing my morning routine, and when I hummed myself into the kitchen, I allowed myself a little more cream cheese on my morning bagel than usual. Needless to say, I had a good feeling that day; it was going to be a good day, I was sure of it.

I still hummed when I swallowed the last bit of my coffee, and then I went into my bedroom to choose an outfit from my impeccable clothes selection, and also the last thing on my morning routine list (I always waited with dressing after eating breakfast, unwilling to risk getting breadcrumbs, or worse, coffee on my clothes).

The air was chilly when I exited my apartment, but fortunately the wind wasn't too bad – wind was my hair's mortal enemy, you see.

My shop only lay a few blocks away, so it didn't take more than a few minutes to reach it.

Now I'm sure you're all wondering what this shop I keep babbling about is all about, since I've only giving off hints, so I'll spare you the guesswork and tell you the story.

I guess you can say it all started nine years ago when I came to New York at eighteen. Rachel and I had auditioned for NYADA, New York Academy of Dramatic Arts, and only she had gotten in (seen in hindsight I should probably have taken that as some kind of sign). Stubborn as I was, though, I followed her, and was adamant on reapplying for the second semester.

And now you're probably at a loss, because drama arts school?

Well, I had half a year before I could reapply at NYADA, and therefore I thought that I could dig a little into another passion and talent I had; fashion. Before I knew it, I had gotten myself an internship at , and was the assistant of one Isabelle Wright, also known as my fairy godmother. She had claimed (and did still) that she 'saw something in me', whatever that meant (that's me trying to be modest, I knew perfectly well what she meant), and I spent many years working for her, giving sage advice when she had a fash-block, as she called it, or simply giving inspiration when needed. After some time I had become her unofficial co-worker, and enjoyed it immensely, not caring about the poor salary because I felt happy there, like I belonged.

The same could not be said for NYADA. I had gotten in during that second semester, and enrolled there immediately. In some ways the school was exactly what I'd expected: competitive, ambitious, challenging.

What I hadn't expected was how wrong it felt there. People weren't motivating like I had thought; they were cruel. Even Rachel had turned her back on me to be with that guy, what was his name, Brody(?), all the time.

The environment wasn't just ambitious and competitive, it was literally everyone fighting blood and tears for their own success, practically hoping you'd fail, because the chances of their fame and achievement then would increase.

But that was just what I thought was right; it needed to be challenging, right? And I needed to be pushed. So I graduated from there, ignoring the nagging feeling of unhappiness I felt in the place. I was twenty-two, and because of my pride mostly, I searched for jobs in the dramatic arts for about a year (still working for Vogue of course) and I did manage to get a job in a low-budget production of The Wiz. And I was halfway through when I found myself in a place where I was really unhappy. I was with Derek for one, a quite arrogant, but handsome (and as earlier stated annoying) guy from the play, and second off, the musical industry was awful, to me as an individual and to people in general. People genuinely did not give a shit about you.

So one day I simply quit that life. I broke it off with Derek and dropped out of the musical (Rachel still brought that up at times and used it against me as if that was the biggest mistake of my life, even though I kept trying to remind her that it was the exact opposite). I had a talk with Isabelle and she was thrilled (to say the least) about my change of plans. She welcomed me with open arms and I was slowly integrated into Vogue.

To cut a very, very long story a bit shorter, five years after graduating from NYADA, Isabelle gave me an offer that would change my life forever (dramatic I know, but you'll understand why). Vogue planned on making a line with only natural fabric, such as cotton and wool, and they wanted to open a shop to see how interested people were in the concept. And the kicker: she wanted me to be in charge of it. Second kicker: she wanted some of my designs in the shop. I still get chills when I think about it now, two years later.

So there you have it. That's why I love my life so much. Because I'm happy. I followed my heart, which yelled that I was miserable, and I pursued my real passion. So go screw yourself, Rach (meant in the most affectionate way, of course).

The wind was getting slightly more out of control when I reached the shop. I hurried inside and started the usual routine of opening, which I would be doing alone today. I deactivated the alarm, turned on the lights, brought in the change from the locked off store, turned on the computers, and did a quick round of check up to see if the clothes hung where they should and as they should (it was important to me that it looked as presentable as possible). Finally I opened the doors and placed some of the dress rails outside in order to tempt people inside.

This was a part of the job that I secretly loved. I loved the quiet of the room when no customers had showed up yet, the clothes hanging in all their beauty, soon-to-be admired and tried on. As you probably can hear clothes is very sacred to me – especially the ones in my shop.

As usual people started to fill in pretty quickly, allured by the cozy-looking building and interior design (which I had been in charge of as well, thank you very much). It wasn't very big, my shop, but that only added up to the charm of it all. It was light and inviting inside, with bright, light green and white colors, fitting perfectly with the logo Au Naturel.

Something I had found out two year ago as well was that I was pretty damn good at servicing the customers. I suspect the fact that I loved being there to be a factor in that of course. After these past two years I had grown to love interaction with customers, and I even liked to service the ignorant assholes that sometimes crept their way into my shop – it was so fun to see their faces scrunch up in annoyance when I was being overly polite or discreetly provoking them (which I allowed myself if I knew that they wouldn't buy anything anyway).

There were too the regular customers that I had grown to adore. There was Grace, an elderly woman, and simply the sweetest creature on earth. She had been one of my very first buyers, and I remember her as the first one to express her fondness of the shop's concept. She would bring cookies now and then, and always complimented the newly arrived clothes.

Julie, a very nice young girl, also loved the shop, and always came when she needed a new killer dress or something else slightly extravagant – the other day she had come in, and announced that she needed a dress for when she was going to propose to her girlfriend. I had spent one good hour finding the most beautiful dress for her, constantly expressing how excited I was for her, and ordered her to come in and tell me how it went.

As told she came in the next day, this time accompanied by her very sweet and pretty fiancée. I may have hugged the girl a tad too tight for a stranger.

Both of them and all the other sweet customers was just another reason why I loved what I was doing.

"Hey Kurt!"

Oh, and there we have a bright and shiny second reason.

"Morning Danni," I said and winked at my favorite co-worker (yes, I know, unprofessional, but meet the girl and you'll understand). "Good night out yesterday?"

She grimaced and stuck out her tongue at me, clocking in on the computer.

Oh, and I probably need to add that, thanks to my hard efforts, she had been on the third date with my good friend Elliot the night before. That before was me hinting that something else had happened. And because of the way her eyes were glistening and her cheeks were tinted I knew the answer and smiled victoriously.

"I told you, you would love him!" I said, unpacking some new deliveries, and scanning them.

She just shrugged and smiled slightly. "No comment," she said simply.

"Fine with me, I'll get them from Elliot later then," I shrugged.

And with that she was telling me the entirety of their date, practically gushing (which was something she did NOT do normally) about how much of a gentleman he had been.

And I kept my gloating and 'I told you so's at a minimum. I had been smiling knowingly and mischievously all the way through her ranting, up until the moment she of course had to address something I did not need at the moment.

"But what about you, hon, don't you need someone to gush about as well?"

And that was the problem with Danni – she thought way too little about herself. In that way Rachel was a bit better, you just had to convince her with weak arguments, and change the subject to something including her. Danni was not like that.

"Nope, thank you, I'm fine just the way I am right now – in my shop with my fave employee," I said and smiled at her coyly, "but don't tell anyone that last part."

She rolled her eyes, and kept smiling worriedly apparently not letting my deflecting work. What was it with girls this week? I mean, even Rachel saw through it. "Kurt, I'm serious, I understood years ago because your life was such a whirlwind, but it's not anymore. The shop is a success and you're doing an amazing job with the designs. You don't have an excuse anymore."

Damn Danni and her wide, genuine eyes.

"Look Danni," I said, my voice faltering. I didn't know what to say to convince her. "To be honest, I do miss it. But just… not for the right reasons, okay? I miss cuddles, and kisses, and oh god, sex, but I don't miss the awfulness of relationships. I don't miss fighting over the dirty towels or laundry. I don't miss feeling like a caged bird."

"But you've only ever been with Derek," when I was about to protest she held up a hand, "I define a relationship as one that lasts more than a month Kurt." And to that I couldn't really argue.

"Look, Derek was just not right for you. You didn't love him, Kurt."

"Yes I did," I said, though it was a bit uncertain. "And he really loved me. And that's why it was so terrible to break it off. I can't put another one through that just because I don't know how to love someone and actually like it."

"Because it makes you feel vulnerable?" Danni asked, her x-ray eyes on (which meant that she was analyzing every word I said, so I had to be careful)

"No," I said, not really knowing what she was getting at. "I never let him so close, Danni, I never let anyone so close, you know that."

"You let me so close," she stated.

"Yeah, well you're my friend, that's different," I argued, tearing the plastic bag that the clothes were in a bit too harshly when I opened it.

She was about to answer when a customer came to the cashier and hurried to serve the woman with a kind smile. When she finished she took the scanner up and started scanning the clothes that I had put on the dress rails.

"But that's not how it works, Kurt," she said after a few moments. I looked up in confusion, and sighed when I saw her concerned eyes again. "The one you love is supposed to be your best friend, too. He's supposed to know you better than anyone, and to know all your flaws and insecurities and his job will be to love you in spite and because all of them." I focused on the clothes I was unwrapping from the plastic, not saying a word. Unable to, really.
"And I know that you say that you don't need it or that you're incapable of it or whatever, but that's ludicrous," she pushed and I flexed my jaw. I was really not in the mood for her (so damn precise) therapy right now. I told her so, a bit harder than necessary, and finished my work quickly, leaving her to scan the deliveries alone.

Instead I went to check on the customers in the shop, smiling widely and offered my help if they needed it. Luckily there was a middle-aged man who needed help finding a dress for his girlfriend, and he put my mind off things fortunately. I had just given the light green bag to the man with a smile and laugh at his comment, when I saw them.

Because I was, well, me, the first thing I noticed about them was their clothes. They were both dressed very nicely – the shorter one slightly better than the other, I thought – and very different from each other, too.

The tall of them wore a suit, and resembled unmistakably much a businessman. He had a short-trimmed haircut, and slightly pursed lips. He was handsome, with dirty blond hair and dark eyes, but had a very harsh face – I don't know how else to describe it. His jaw was defined; sharp and set. His nose was straight and slightly pointed, somehow. His expression read schooled, but since I kind of had a gift for reading people, I could see he was definitely bored and unimpressed.

He stood in deep contrast to the man on his arm – actually when I looked at them, the only resemblance I could see was their age, which I guessed was around my own.

He was shorter, and had curly, unruly – quite adorable – dark hair, with a soft face, and while his partner wore a suit, he was much more casually fashionable, in lighter colors, though not something striking or attention seeking. He was even more handsome than the man beside him, but what caught my attention wasn't his stunning, golden eyes or his delicious plump, red lips. What drew my attention was how his eyes were downcast and distant, and how his lips turned slightly downwards.

Mostly the eyes captivated me, though. They had such a kindness in them, and a soft curiosity, if I wasn't mistaken, but I saw something behind it, too, like he held up a façade. Both made it look like he was trying to hide his real emotions, which I couldn't decipher completely.

Now, there's something you probably ought to know about me. After working here I had slowly discovered that I had quite a talent for reading people, making me excellent at customer service. So, you can see how I both got extremely intrigued and plain out curious by him, when I wasn't able to read his – admittedly beautiful – eyes.

I guess I stared for longer than normal, and when they seemed to notice I had no choice but to approach them and ask politely if they needed help.

"No," the taller man instantly said, his tone rather impolite, but not really rude either.

I smiled and nodded in understanding and went to fix some clothes that had fallen on the floor nearby. When I – inevitably – looked up at the curly-haired man, I found the golden eyes already resting on me, and I almost blushed a deep red. When I caught his eyes though, he just hurried to send me a smile somewhere between apologetic and polite.

Just when he had looked away, I heard the taller partner huff not-so-quietly. "They call this men's wear? I could wear a dress and I would look more masculine in that than in this," he said to his curly-haired partner, who currently had his back to me so I couldn't see his reaction. From the way his posture stiffened and screamed uncomfortable, though, I thought I had the idea of it.

The comment wasn't anything I wasn't used to – our menswear selection was limited and some of it were rather feminine, but believe it or not, I did sell a lot of it, and not only to gay men. But the very dress shirt he was criticizing was my design, and one I had worked hard on, too – and yes, it was rather unisex, but I had been very careful to make it the perfect blend between feminine and masculine. It hurt, but then again, I had had it worse. The thing that pissed me off, though, was that he knew perfectly well that I was standing not more than five feet away, and he didn't even bother to lower his voice. Criticizing my work to me directly was a lot different than criticizing my work in front of me and directed at another human being, effectively ignoring me in the act.

I probably should have walked away, or strike that, I should have walked away, but something about the dark-haired stranger made me stay; because he knew I was there, too, and for some reason I wanted to see his reaction.

His back was still stiff and uncomfortable, and I could see his gaze flicker to me – while I pretended to be very absorbed in the sweater I was folding. I didn't dare to look up, but I heard a soft – mortified – voice speak quietly (again so contrary to his loud, rude partner).

"Come on, Paul, don't be so rude."

Paul? Hm.

"Don't talk to me like that, Blaine, I can voice my opinion if I want to," the man, Paul, said in a harsh voice, and my dislike to the man grew violently when I heard the voice he was speaking to his partner in – like he, Blaine? Hmm, was beneath him or a child. "And you can't tell me that this isn't completely gay."

And okay, that was it. I had just folded the last sweater and was about to walk over there and lead him out of the shop, but the man – Blaine – stopped me. Not by words or anything, but by the way his jaw clenched in obvious embarrassment and annoyance.

"You are gay, Paul, so stop using that word as if it's wrong," he replied, and his tone had gone harsher, but not nearly enough. He sounded off too, like he was… afraid?

"I know, sweetheart, but I don't go and flaunt it in other people's faces like others," the man responded, and I was about 99% sure he shifted his gaze to me as he said it. I felt my own jaw clench this time. Sweetheart? So they were together. Somehow that thought seemed odd to me, and it… well, it bothered me for some reason. "In business you can't do that, or you might as well, what do I know, start up a lousy, faggy shop or something."

And I snapped. The exact moment that his … boyfriend hissed his name in anger – and hurt? – I had taken two strides, facing the man with a tight, furious smile. "Are you sure there's nothing I can help you with, gentlemen? Something tells me you're a bit lost here?"

"Lost?" the man asked, not faced at all that I was obviously confronting him about his comment. One glance at the man beside him, and I knew he most definitely was. I almost felt bad, but then I directed my gaze at the sandy-haired man again, and I felt the anger ignite all over.

"Yes well, by your implying comments, I'm guessing you're at least two centuries behind and very lost concerning time and, you know, ordinary decency," I replied sharply, and watched his face scrunch up in anger. Ah, satisfaction. Before he got to reply and we made a scene here, though, I hurried to keep talking. "Now, since you've made it clear that you won't be buying my 'faggy' clothes, I politely ask for you to leave my shop. Please." I added the last in a painfully sweet voice.

And I almost smiled to myself, feeling very self-satisfied indeed, until I spared a glance at his shorter partner, and I felt it deflate immediately. His jaw was so tight it must have hurt, and I didn't know whether the anger was directed at his partner or me.

As I looked at him, though, it became clear that he was terribly embarrassed, and I actually did feel bad then. Horribly so.

His distant eyes were again down cast, not meeting my gaze, and the sadness in them that I had seen earlier suddenly became much more evident – even people without my sixth sense could have spotted it now. I wondered once again how the hell that soft-spoken, kind-looking man could be with such an asshole. Actually it bugged me more than it probably should. I was about to apologize quietly to the curly-haired in question, but before I knew it, he had gripped his partner's nicely clothed arm and dragged him out of the shop. I didn't really perceive the hateful look the earlier stated 'asshole' sent me before exiting my shop, my attention somewhere else completely.

"Who were Mr. Hot Stuff and Mr. Sour Face?" Danni asked as I made my way back to the desk.

I shrugged, playing cool. "Guess they came in to criticize my clothes," I said. "Or well, Sour Face did, the curly-haired was humble enough to at least look apologetic." I added the last, feeling slightly bitter. He hadn't just looked apologetic; he had looked absolutely mortified and as if he really wanted to defend me. But what stopped him? Wait, was I reading too much into this? Maybe the man, Blaine, didn't want to defend me; maybe he didn't like my clothes either and just let his boyfriend be the speaker of the two.

But those eyes… those damn, breathtaking eyes frustrated me, because they shouldn't frustrate me so much.

"Ehm, Kurt?" Danni's voice sounded, pulling me out of my thoughts. Gosh, what had become of me? Losing myself in thoughts over something ridiculous and probably non-existent during work? "Something wrong? I mean criticism usually doesn't get to you?"

I shook my head. "No, it's not that, I guess I'm just tired today," I hurried to lie. "Sorry Danni."

She just smiled softly, and I hated that look in her eye, something that told me she knew more than she should. "It's okay hon. You can go back and take care of the rest of the deliveries if you'd like, I got it here."

I shook my head, though, not daring to be left alone with my thoughts. "No, it's okay, you go, I can take care of it out here."

She eyed me warily before obliging, but did nonetheless without any comments. This was what I liked about Danni. If she really felt I didn't want to talk about something, she didn't pry or hover.

The rest of the day went by pretty quickly. I distracted myself by helping the customers, being even more service-minded than I usually was. At the end of the day my jaw hurt quite badly from all the smiling and laughing. Luckily – or not so luckily considering how you look at it – the people thinned out by closing time, and Danni was off an hour before me, which meant I had the last hour all to myself. The second she exited the shop, my thoughts of course came sneaking back. I seriously needed to learn how to shut them up.

It was no use though. No matter how much I tried I still couldn't get those golden eyes out of my head. Was it because they were so beautiful? I mean, they were by far the most stunning eyes I had ever seen, but other handsome – okay gorgeous – men crossed my path all the time and that had never affected me before.

Was I getting desperate? The first pair of pretty eyes, and I'm unable to think of anything else? Maybe I just needed to get laid. I scrunched up my face at the thought, my father's words replaying in my head as they always did when I was considering one-night stands (without alcohol in my system, that is).

Don't throw yourself around like you don't matter. 'Cause you matter, Kurt.

So yeah, not an option.

It wasn't like I was attracted to the man, though. No matter how handsome and attractive men are, if they are in a relationship it's no go. That was a rule, and it went for me as well – always had. I respected that.

But why did he seem so unhappy? There was just something in those golden orbs. It looked so tragic; such shining eyes should never be filled with unhappiness – hidden or not hidden – it simply looked unnatural. Like those eyes had been born to be bright and happy, and to see them otherwise was just… sad.

But why? Why did his eyes look secretly sad? I had noticed the way he looked away when the man he was with talked, like he was embarrassed, but he didn't try to stop him – not really, anyway. It looked like he had been afraid of defying him. Was that it? Did he feel like his boyfriend was in some kind of position of power over him? He had mentioned business; maybe it was something with their jobs? But why live under that? The man had not seemed particularly nice, and he hadn't been that handsome. There was another possibility of course, but I refused to see it as one. I almost shook with dread at the thought of domestic violence – because of Coach Beiste I knew how horrible that was. No. That was simply not a possibility.

I sighed to myself, and realized I had been staring into the air for the past twenty minutes. Gosh, I needed to get a grip on myself. I shouldn't be thinking about this. I had never met him before, not even seen him – I knew that because that face was not one you forgot just like that. He was a stranger. You didn't think about stranger's eyes or the cause of the sadness in them. It was weird.

And so I shook my head free of weird thoughts and I closed the shop, focusing completely on the work – honestly it was routine, but I refused to let my thoughts wander again.

I decided to take the subway home that night instead of walking. The little train was crowded as always, and as usual I felt slightly claustrophobic. The first few years here, I had absolutely loved the underground trains. Now I don't remember why – the thick, warm air, the many smelly people, who sometimes would ogle you shamelessly, while you had no way of getting out of it since you were stuck in a small wagon? Yeah, no thanks.

But still I refused to get snobbish like Rachel and get a town car – actually happened, I'm not even kidding – so I still rode them now and then, in silent protest mostly. Otherwise I would walk, which actually was my preferred way of transportation, too. Because that was something New York never failed to make me love: the streets with the many different people and tall building surrounding you, securing you. Some people found that claustrophobic and some people thought that the air was disgusting up there as well, but I loved my city nonetheless.

I was out of the subway quickly and hurried home, feeling victorious that my plan on distracting myself was working for now. I let myself in, and immediately starting dinner – I sometimes used cooking as a stress relief, yes I'm weird, I know.

Then I found my phone and ear buds from my satchel and played the music loud until I was completely unable to hear my own thoughts. I worked perfectly.

One hour, an amazing dish (with leftovers for lunch tomorrow) and about twenty songs later I sat in my bed, my head pounding with a slight ache. I ignored it though, and was adamant to read my best distraction – The Little House on the Prairie (it always reminded me of childhood and comfort, and the nostalgic, content feeling it brought never failed).

Frankly I didn't know why I was trying to hard. Because I was feeling like a creep? Or simply because I didn't want to think about what Danni had said today? Whatever it was I was trying so hard to suppress, I succeeded. After so many years I had become quite good at it after all.

That night I dreamt of swirling gold, and dark walls that, when I touched them, would fall, before building themselves right up again.

So, first chapter? Let me know what you think, please, I would really like to know if any of you may be interested? You are always welcome to come with any form of feedback or advice, I'm typically very open-minded ;)

Love,

A