First Glee fic, ergo first Klaine, even if kind of a quasi-Klaine- I wonder why my first stories for each new fandom are always weird little drabbles?

I do not own Glee; it is not mine.

And here we go.

You walk up to the counter, a little stiff in skintight jeans or high heels. You look up, tilting your head back to look at the board that never, ever changes, you know. You quirk your mouth a little to the side like you hear my exasperation. You ask, in that ridiculous high-pitched voice, for a nonfat mocha, double froth, no cinnamon. I smile my bland pretending-to-care-about-this-exchange smile, the bitter product of millions of musical theater experiences not being used quite how they're intended; acting is never as fun, even with an audience of several hundred, if they only see you one at a time.

You tilt your head down enough to meet my eyes; you're forced to look down your perfect nose to do it; I tell myself it's not purposeful, it's not your fault I'm so short.

You wait for me to tell you the price, like you don't hear it everyday. Three dollars and thirty cents are requested; you fumble with the billfold—why not just get a new wallet, you're not short on income if that jacket is anything to go by—but eventually three dollars and thirty cents are received.

You smile, a mechanical smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes and makes me think you're more like me than you'd probably care to admit. Though not outwardly—you're the prettiest boy I've ever seen.

I ask for your name, as if I don't know it. You tell me, and I scrawl it down in my messy handwriting that probably pains you, you who are so very perfect. Kurt is an odd name; I don't bother to wonder about it anymore.

I hand off your cup to Josie, rattling off your order mechanically, and hand you your order. You thank me, cursory like everyone else, and turn on your heel, a little to much wiggle in your hips, a little too much dip in your stride for you to be quite normal, and I wonder just what you're doing in Ohio.

One day you buy a cookie.

I'm so thrown off I accidentally shortchange you by twelve cents. You don't notice.

And then there's the day that you come in, and as you order your voice blends with someone else's. I suddenly readjust my worldview, and I notice you holding hands with him, with this strange blazer-clad man who's somehow almost as short as me. I think back and I remember him ordering too, standing with you; a flash of share a cupid cookie comes by and is gone while I adjust. I work through the order, you strut off with your hobbit, and then I take off my apron, pull my blonde hair out of its ponytail, and take the rest of the day off.