Chapter 11: Cannoli

"So, this is the place," Dave says when they step into the heat of the Fratelli Nardini pasticceria, just half a block south of Kurt's apartment. He hadn't been able to resist (had barely been able to breathe, in truth) when Kurt suggested they come here, together, instead of parting ways after their shared sushi dinner at Mishima.

"It's a little late for soufflé making," he'd said, pausing in the doorway of the restaurant to look down at some invisible scuff on his highly polished shoes, "but I think I could still manage a little something sweet."

Dave swallowed back a hopeful smile, tried to keep his tone level. "What did you have in mind?"

"Hmm...how about that Italian bakery I told you about? It's right by my building and opens late. We could share a little something fancy." Kurt said, eyebrows raised in what might have been hope or humor. His use of Dave's erstwhile pet name for him, the glint in his eye and the very prospect of being invited anywhere near Kurt's building had summoned up a whole host of feelings that Dave had been trying in vain to keep at bay; he so wanted to share something with fancy.

"Sounds good," he'd nodded enthusiastically as they braved the bracingly cold night air. He'd watched, from the corner of his eye, the smile linger on Kurt's lips when they began to walk, felt the warmth of it pull him in as he dared move a little closer; testing the invisible boundary between them, allowing himself to smile, too, when he felt the answering pressure of Kurt's shoulder pressing against his own.

Their conversation had continued to drift, in the way it had all night, between easy chit-chat and ambiguously playful banter. Kurt mused about how slim his chances of actually getting to write for Vogue probably were - his self-doubt showing in a way Dave had once never imagined possible - and it prompted Dave to confess to another of his own myriad shortcomings by telling Kurt how he'd flunked his palate test in that afternoon's product knowledge class. Still, he was happy to be gently mocked. The novelty of Kurt's smile had yet to wear off, and he loved that he could make him laugh, even if it was at his own expense.

The walk had been nice. So nice. But he'd ached to make it nicer still; his cold hand had itched to reach out and touch, to cement his intentions, to entwine their fingers as they strolled the city streets, talking, laughing; he'd ached to feel Kurt's warmth on his skin, but he'd resisted. He still wasn't completely sure that it was what Kurt wanted, or if he was willing to risk another public rejection if it wasn't.

And, twenty minutes of equal pleasure and pain later, here they are; waiting behind a middle-aged woman - who, if her questions are anything to go by, is allergic to everything - in Kurt's local bakery.

"This is it," Kurt says, "Home of delicious limoncello tiramisu, the most fantastic bagels and, if the sign's to be believed," he points towards a slightly faded tricolore banner above the cash register, "award winning cannoli."

"Are they worthy of the award?" Dave asks as he scans the shop; it's small and brightly lit, with custard colored walls, a well-worn checkered tile floor and a lingering, yeast and sweet cinnamon smell that gives it a distinctly old-school, homey cucina feel.

He shrugs absently, busy eyeing the counter display. "I don't know, I've never tried them."

"No?" Dave asks, genuinely surprised after all he's discovered about Kurt's gastronomic prowess lately. "Why not?"

His brows knit and he looks back at Dave, tilting his head to the side. "I don't know. Actually, I don't think I've ever even eaten cannoli before."

"Seriously? Not even at Breadstix?"

Kurt gives him an exaggerated frown, "Especially not at Breadstix."

"Well, it doesn't look like there's too much else to choose from," Dave motions towards the sparse selection of still-delicious looking cookies and pastries that dot the shelves of the glass fronted display case beneath the counter, the bulk of the day's wares mostly gone by this time of the night, "and I don't think I should be the only one to try something new tonight."

"Hmm, I'm all for adventure, as you know, but they still have black and white cookies and they are really good here, so…"

Dave studies the vast board that lines the wall behind the counter. "Well, they do black and white cannoli, too," he says, nudging Kurt lightly with his elbow, enjoying the smile it elicits, as he proceeds to read aloud, voice pitched low as he squints to make out the loopy cursive print of the description: "Our original award winning, hand-rolled, freshly fried pastry shells, dipped half in rich dark chocolate and half in milky white chocolate, filled with sweet ricotta cream and topped with your choice of chopped nuts, chocolate chips or candied—"

"Okay, okay! It sounds good," Kurt says, conceding with a full on grin. "You're hard to resist."

Dave feels his mouth open and close to say something - anything - in response to that but doesn't manage a word before Kurt's gaze drops and he amends, "I mean, you make them sound hard to resist. The black and white cannoli."

Dave licks his suddenly dry lips and shrugs his shoulders, "They are award winning…"

"I'm completely sold," Kurt says and moves forward as the woman in front of them turns to leave with small, bow-wrapped box, "Let tonight's culinary exploration continue."

~o~

The black and white cannoli are totally award worthy, and just as described on the board; crisp and sweet, dipped in equal parts bitter dark and contrasting creamy white chocolate, ridiculously over-stuffed with a rich, velvety ricotta filling, and finished with a liberal topping of chopped green pistachios. They opted to take them loosely wrapped in wax paper, making them relatively easy to eat as they amble slowly towards Kurt's apartment.

Dave chews slowly and feels his heart thrum a little harder, a little higher, in his chest the closer they get to Kurt's place; unsure if he's more afraid of saying goodnight so soon or getting his hopes up that he might not have to, just yet.

"So, what's the verdict?"

"You know it's good," Kurt answers, slightly muffled around a mouthful, his tongue absently chasing a little splodge of escaped ricotta at the corner of his lips before he goes on, "when you can feel your ass getting fatter with every bite."

"Shut up," Dave laughs, "your ass is—" perfect, he wants to say, because fuck, seriously, he's had more fantasies about that ass than he cares to admit, but he feels himself begin to blush just at the thought, so he pauses, swallows, and settles instead for, "just fine."

Kurt smiles at him, small and lopsided, but says nothing more before going back to tonguing obscenely at the cream-filled opening of his pastry.

"And anyway," Dave adds, trying to refocus on his own dessert instead of Kurt's, "the sushi was super healthy so this just balances it out."

"True," Kurt nods thoughtfully as he chews, seemingly content to concede to Dave's flawed logic. "Although, as good as this undoubtedly is, it's still no match for my famous rum chocolate soufflé," he turns his head towards Dave and brandishes the remainder of his cannoli at him, "Don't think you're getting out of my masterclass that easily, mister."

Dave shoots him an innocent look. "Wasn't it your idea to go get sushi instead?"

"Yes, but you agreed with barely any hesitation," he counters, smirking.

"Well, I—"

"Just so you know, we're simply rescheduling," he says in a no-nonsense tone. "The masterclass is still very much a go."

"Fine by me," Dave says, quietly grateful that Kurt had cut him off before he had time to say anything potentially embarrassing. He tries to conceal his spreading smile behind the remainder of his dessert.

"By the sound of it you need all the help you can get."

"Hey! That's not fair."

"Didn't you just tell me that in your blindfolded palate test – which, by the way, sounds like entirely too much fun for the classroom – you mistook a potato for an apple? And what was the other one? You thought a piece pork chop was turkey? I'm seriously having second thoughts about being your culinary guinea pig, David…"

"That pork was dangerously overcooked!" Dave defends, "And I was...distracted."

"Yeah, yeah," he says dismissively, smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "You're technique's good, but your palate could obviously use a little supplementary education."

"How can I even argue with that after tonight?"

"You can't," Kurt agrees, "and you shouldn't. We should get you back into the kitchen ASAP."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" And he says it – means it – with humor, but even so, Kurt's eyes darken and his smile temporarily drops. Dave wishes he could kick the habit he has of reminding Kurt of his past; their past.

"Hey, no rest for the wicked good," Kurt cautions seriously before his expressions lifts, along with his tone, "Or at least, the potentially wicked good."

Dave laughs, the warm air from his breath billowing out in a quick, white plume that fades before he can try to focus on it. He sucks in a breath before speaking, "I'm ready to get back into the kitchen with you whenever you want me."

Kurt turns to look at him, though his eyes are hidden in shadow as they pass a darkened shopfront, "The sooner the better. How about tomorrow night?"

"I can't, shit," he mutters and there's a beat as he bites the inside of his cheek, internally debating whether or not tell him why.

"Oh, okay, just...whenever you're free, then," Kurt says in response, but his voice is higher than it was, faux-casual, and even the barest flicker of anything resembling hurt in that face is enough to make Dave's decision for him.

"This is kind of embarrassing, I guess," he starts and Kurt turns his head back to Dave, quirking his brow in gentle query as he listens, "but I have therapy on Thursday nights. And, y'know, going to that is kind of a big condition of me being out here, so..."

"That's not embarrassing," he says softly, reassuringly, and drifts a little closer, so that their shoulders brush again as they continue to walk slowly, "not at all. You shouldn't be ashamed of anything you do in the interest of self improvement, David. Just look how far you've come."

"All the way to New York City," he says with a little huff of forced laughter, hoping the deflection from behaviour to simple geography will lessen the burgeoning awkwardness. Dave knows Kurt's right, but he still feels self-conscious to the extent that his cheeks are warm even in the cold, ashamed of the fact that Kurt has had to experience most of the issues he's working through first-hand.

Kurt pouts and gives him a clear 'that's-not-what-I-meant' look but gratefully lets the subject of his reformation drop and, instead, grabs for the wrapper of the finished cannoli in Dave's hand, and tosses it, along with his own, into an an overflowing garbage can on the sidewalk before slowing to stop in front of a weather-worn apartment block, "All the way to my glamorous abode."

Dave stills beside him and looks up, shoving his now empty hands into his pockets. "So this is your building."

"It is indeed."

"I guess the doorman's on a break."

"Naturally," Kurt says, mirroring Dave's actions by pocketing his gloved hands and grinning as he turns slightly so they're fully facing one another.

"So, um, I'm helping out at school all day Saturday, but Sunday's good, or Friday night again if you're not already—"

"Friday's perfect," he cuts in, softly enthusiastic, but seems to catch himself. He bites his bottom lip and looks up and away for a second before his eyes are back on Dave's and his lips settle into a small, sheepish smile.

Dave bites back a nervous, giddy smile of his own. "Friday, then," he says, eventually, because otherwise, he realizes, he's just standing there, staring silently into Kurt's eyes that, under the orange glow of the streetlight, look an incredible, inconceivable, shade of green.

Kurt nods slowly, but doesn't move, or say anything more, though Dave's gaze falls back towards his mouth, where his tongue darts out again - yeah, he does do that a lot - just for a fraction of a second, leaving a small, glistening trail of moisture on his previously dry lips before disappearing back between them. Suddenly, all Dave can think about is how he wants nothing more in the world than to chase the path of Kurt's tongue with his own.

"I—"

"Hey you!"

"Oh," Kurt starts and jerks his head in the direction of the dark, handsome stranger who's suddenly behind him "Hey, Cam."

Or dark, handsome not a stranger, as it turns out.

"I've been looking out for you," Cam says, poking Kurt lightly, playfully, on the shoulder, "Where've you been hiding?"

"Oh, y'know, run ragged at work and—"

"Tsk, tsk!" Cam chides, yet to acknowledge Dave's presence, "You know what they say about all work and no play."

"Do I?" Kurt asks, looking a little discomfited as he glances fleeting at Dave.

"You should," Cam responds with broad, too-white smile before following Kurt's gaze to look questioningly at Dave. "Who's your friend?"

"This is David. David, this is Cam. He lives here, too."

"Right under Kurt, actually," Cam says, dazzling smile never leaving his lips as he looks Dave up and down. "Nice to meet you, David. Are you new to the building or new to Kurt?"

"Uh, neither," Dave replies, cursing this guy under his breath. "Kurt and I went to school together, back in Ohio."

"Of course. How nice," Cam says, smiling at Dave, his words instantly grating as he turns his attention promptly back to Kurt. "Well, I need your professional opinion on my newly completed interior decor. The place has changed a lot since you last paid me a visit, especially the bedroom, and—"

Dave bites his tongue and tries to tune him out as he feels his blood roll to a slow boil.

Of course this guy's flirting with Kurt right in front of him, he reasons. This is the kind of guy Kurt goes on dates with. This is the kind of guy who's worthy of Kurt's attention; the kind of guy who doesn't have to hide behind a mask to make a move. He's brimming with the kind of self-confidence that Dave has only ever been able to fake; and he's hot - taught olive skin and dark coiffed hair and a smile that would blind you in the right kind of light – though he's not exactly Dave's type, he definitely looks like what he's pretty sure is Kurt's type, judging by his last boyfriend. And it's nothing at all like him.

He watches Kurt's face begin to flush and feels like he's been tackled to the ground; outplayed by the opposition in a game he never stood any chance of winning.

"—But I better go. My public awaits!" Cam looks away from Kurt and towards Dave with a slow-spreading smirk. "Tell him to call me, David."

Kurt rolls his eyes as the guy saunters away.

Dave pulls in a deep, unsteady breath, "So, uh, you should call him, I guess."

"Are you kidding?" Kurt barks out a quiet laugh, still smiling, but it's less pronounced, and his brow is furrowed a little as he turns back to face Dave fully.

"Yeah, well, his bedroom's changed since you were last there, so I guess you should go take another look."

"David, it's not like that—"

"He's obviously into you, and you could do a lot worse," he knows his tone is suddenly too casual, too detached, but it's all he can manage in place of the petty, jealous rage he feels inside.

Kurt's smile collapses and his brow knits. His gaze turns into a glare, "Well, maybe he's not my type."

"No?" Dave huffs, and the harsh blast of white-cold air clouds the space between them. He can't help himself, the next words leave his mouth before they're even fully formed in his mind, "I guess I should know about that. I'm no preppy prettyboy myself."

Kurt's jaw sets and he blinks his eyes hurriedly, suddenly looking up at the clear night sky, at the illuminated windows above them, anywhere but at Dave. He knows then that he's really fucked up. The moment from before, whatever it was, is well and truly gone because he's a petty, pining idiot, and if Kurt had actually managed to forget any of that, he knows he's just done a pretty good job of reminding him.

And the saddest part is, he can see the spark of anger in those more-green-tonight-than-blue eyes fizzle to plain old disappointment. He nows because he's seen it before.

"Goodnight, David," he intones - a flat, soft sound that hurts just as much as any other words he could choose to say - before turning towards the graffitied security door of his building.

"Kurt, wait," Dave calls after a second, doing his best to sound as contrite as he feels, because he will not fucking run away from Kurt Hummel again just because he's feeling shitty about himself, damnit; he won't undo everything that he's done, that they've just done, together. Kurt looks back over his shoulder, hand stilling on his key as it turns in the lock, "I'm—Is Friday still...?"

"Maybe—" He pauses, looking back at him for a long, inscrutable moment, and sighs, "Only if you want it to be."

He nods mutely, throat clogged with a million jumbled words, all of them useless; all of them already, previously, spoken. He squeezes his eyes shut and, when he opens them, Kurt is pushing to open the heavy entrance door in front of him, almost gone.

He turns to make his own way home, nauseous with regret and something like relief. He knows he may have come a long way, but it's still not where he needs to be.

"David?" Kurt calls from behind him, and Dave instantly stills, turns back, hope and fear battling his wits as he sees him backlit in scant light, framed by the doorway. "Just so you know," he says softly and Dave braces himself for rejection that doesn't come, "I have no desire to date another Blaine. What I want is...someone different."

A/N: I am, again, not too happy with this chapter. This whole section of the story just grew arms and legs and ran away from me, but I have most of the next chapter written, and I actually do like that one, so…let's just get on with it, shall we? I hope you enjoyed this part anyway! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Oh, and sorry for the angst. Don't hate me. There are happy funtimes ahead ;)