AN: Written mostly because I feel that Chris Colfer, and by extension Kurt Hummel, is nineteen different kinds of gorgeous and I think it's a pity he never gets any attention during the show for it. This is a oneshot. Read, enjoy, and review, por favor!

Rachel Berry was positive that some day in the not-so-distant future, when press microphones would be shoved up against her nose and swarms of adoring fans would be fighting for the opportunity to lick her toes, one single reporter would have the dramatic sensibilities to pop the question "What was the happiest moment of your life?", and time would slow down and soft piano music would begin playing and this moment would be the moment that she named.

She was in New York, the city of dreams. Not drooling over free pamphlets from the tourism advisory board. Not watching Travel Channel specials. Not watching YouTube videos of people wandering around Times Square. No, she was actually, physically here in New York, seeing the sights and smelling the air. Alright, so the air wasn't exactly fresh. In fact, she had gagged at first with powerful waft of cigarette smoke and diesel fumes and cooking oil. But that was okay. A quick jaunt down to Central Park had been more than enough to stave off the churning in her stomach and fuel her up for a grand day of searching for songwriting inspiration in the city that was practically her soul.

And here she was inside of a warm, welcoming Starbucks so close to the Gershwin that she could almost taste it, with a fabulous, gorgeous friend hooked to her right elbow and the Nationals stage looming just a day in the distance. She looked around at all the people sitting around on the squashy leather seats, sipping their lattes and typing away on their overpriced Apple notebooks like it was nothing, and couldn't understand it. For heaven's sake, they were in New York and they were dozing around like it was nothing. She had no intentions to sit around herself like another one of those useless business suits. She had grand plans, grand plans that involved singing on a Broadway stage and absorbing pure, unadulterated ambition through a process of osmosis.

So, understandably, she felt it was just the cherry on top of her morning when she and Kurt arrived at the front of the line and the barista behind the register was sort of gorgeous. Chiseled cheekbones, purposely tousled hair, olive skin; he was delicious. Definitely songwriting material. She gave him her best, brightest smile, the kind of smile that showed off everyone one of her dazzling white, meticulously brushed teeth as she said "An espresso macchiato for the gentleman, and a chai latte for me, if you please. Oh, and maybe a blueberry scone," she added as an afterthought.

"Sure thing," said the cute barista, with a heart-melting grin. When he gave her the change, she would swear on her life that his fingers lingered just a half-second too long.

Five minutes later, Kurt was having an enthusiastic chat with a college age woman with strawberry pink hair and a hoop in her nose who had recognized his Alexander McQueen scarf. Rachel left him to his fashion chat as she went to go pick up their drinks. They shared a love of Broadway and Barbra, but fashion was one of those things that they would never agree on. Rachel learned her lesson from the incident where he nearly thrust a drink straw up her nose for criticizing his jacket, and failing to realize that it was "a Balmain, for goodness sakes." Whatever a Balmain was, anyway.

She picked up the steaming cups from the counter and found to her surprise that there was a cell-phone number scrawled on the cardboard coffee cup sleeve of her cup, next to the name Austin. Austin, she thought, tasting the name. Not bad for a first New York City conquest. And to think, all it had taken her was her very best Broadway star smile, a pair of hot drinks, and a blueberry scone. Of course, she'd probably never call the guy. It was nice to know she hadn't lost her mojo during all that time pining after Finn, though.

She took a sip of the drink and immediately choked. It was strong, bitter, and not in slightest bit sweet and soothing like a chai latte. Espresso macchiato, she realized in horror, and looked up to see Austin the cute barista unabashedly eyeing up Kurt.

It was all Kurt fuckin' Hummel's fault that Puck was touring NYU like every other overachieving, college-visiting dweeb on spring break. Although both Kurt and Rachel had been up in arms for hell knew how long over NYADA or some shit, Kurt had insisted on checking out NYU as well, as "an insurance policy in the unlikely but possible event that NYADA fails to recognize my overflowing fabulosity, talent, and ambition." Puck had spent enough time around Kurt thanks to Finn and Glee Club to know that this actually translated into "I pretend that I think that I'm better than you, but deep down I'm still an insecure bitch." Everyone else had scattered around the city to visit different colleges. Puck had not so subtly hinted that the equally hyperactive and irritating Rachel Berry should accompany Kurt to the NYU visit, but she'd skipped off to Julliard instead in a fit of self-confidence. Schuester had insisted that no one go wandering the city alone, and so Puck was stuck with Kurt.

Of course, Schuester's need to baby them hadn't been the only reason that Puck was dragged along. Kurt himself had dropped the hint that maybe, just possibly Puck should get information on the college for himself. Puck would call bullshit on anyone else, but he knew for a fact that Kurt was telling the truth. Because he'd seen Puck's report card.

Puck had been feeling like a pile of shit that day. Quinn had been heavily pregnant at the time and bitching him out for breathing on her when she was already nauseated from morning sickness or whatever, and he'd missed when he'd tried to slushy one of the matheletes. What a waste of a perfectly good grape-flavored batch, he'd thought. He'd slit his report card open and scanned over his grades without thinking twice, then tossed it into the jumble of papers littering the bottom of his backpack. Later on, when he dug out some of the sheet music squashed to the bottom of his bag and handed it to Kurt, he'd handed over the report card with it. He'd snatched it out of Kurt's hands in five seconds flat once he'd realized his mistake and threatened a horrific, brutal death if he dared breathe a word of it to anyone, but it was too late. The damage was done.

And that was how Kurt Hummel figured out that Noah Puckerman was making straight As in every class, AP Calculus BC included. Hell, and he'd done his damndest to make sure that no one else knew he was in a math room with a bunch of mouth-breathing academic team losers by never, ever showing up to the class and taking all of his tests in secret.

Of course Kurt, sneaky bitch that he was, didn't forget that choice bit of information. Oh, no, the bastard used it as blackmail every chance he got. And now he'd used it for Puck's "best interests," and insisted that he at least try to check out a university or two, or he'd let slip to Jacob Ben Israel that the town's top stud was secretly a gigantic-ass nerd.

Puck would sooner slit his own throat than mention it, but truth be told, at the moment he was kind of enjoying the campus visit. NYU wasn't some stuffy-ass Ivy League place that pretended to look like Hogwarts or whatever. Instead it was kind of sprawled all over the place, and you couldn't tell where NYU ended and New York City began. Plus, there were loads of hot hipster chicks. Puck had fucked pretty much every other type of girl under the sun, from twiggy blonde cheerleaders to clove-cigarette smoking Goths, and yet now that he thought back on it, he'd never actually fucked one of these boho-chic types. Probably because they didn't actually exist in Lima, just like Kurt was the one and only specimen of flaming theatre gay back home when he'd spotted at least fifteen of them around campus around here already.

There were lots of hot hipster chicks lounging around NYU. Like, lots of them. Two were practically sitting on his lap and cooing over him as Kurt stood a short way off interrogating a theatre major. A third hipster guy, probably gay (Puck sometimes couldn't tell when it came to hipsters. He figured most would take anything with a pulse) was sitting cross-legged, conversing with the girls who were fawning over Puck with a carefully detached sort of disinterest. The hipster guy finally gave up acting detached sometime after the point that one of the girls crawled onto Puck's lap and heaved a long sigh.

"Go to fucking class, then, if you're so bored," shot the girl with the lacy stockings and high heeled oxfords.

The guy puffed on his cigarette. "And what purpose would that serve?

"Don't turn this into philosophical shit," said the girl with the fire engine red lipstick (all organic ingredients, she'd been quick to inform Puck). "You'd probably have a logical fallacy anyway. You never made it out of Philosophy 101."

The guy snorted. "Okay. Fine. I'll cut the philosophical shit and make it simple: even you two look like you're gonna get some ass tonight-"

Both smirked and looked at Puck, who shrugged.

"-and I'm sitting here by myself."

Red lipstick chick snorted. "We're at NYU, for fuck's sake. Look around. Take your pick. March up and give him your number. There's a pretty sure chance whoever he is at least bats for your team."

"Fine." The guy twisted his head. His eyes landed on Kurt, who was still deep in conversation. His eyes went wide.

"Found something you like?" teased stockings girl.

"Fuck, yeah," said douche bag hipster guy. Puck's frown deepened, but went unnoticed.

Red lipstick girl frowned as well. "He looks like some kind of virgin queen."

"That's half the fun, yeah?" said douche bag hipster, stubbing out his cigarette. "He'll probably moan like a whore. Plus, look at that ass. Just look at it."

"Hey," said Puck, standing up suddenly. He and the rest of the Glee dudes hadn't stood for the subway creep patting Quinn on the ass, and there was no way he was gonna stand for this asswipe macking on Kurt. Stockings girl slid off his slap with a surprised thump. "Fuck off. He's got a boyfriend."

Douche bag hipster raised his eyebrows skeptically. There was a smug smirk on his face. "Oh yeah? Where?"

Puck made a decision on the spot that he was probably never going to live down. "You're looking at him. Me."

All three simply gaped at him. He stood up, stalked over to where Kurt was still talking, looped an arm over his shoulder and marched him away.

"Puckerman, what the fuck?" asked Kurt, but Puck ignored him and steered him away. Fucking Hobbit McDapperpants owed him big time.

"Jesus Christ. Really?" he heard the douche bag hipster say.

"I knew he was gay from the start," piped up stockings girl.

"What? How?" Red lipstick chick sounded intrigued.

"It was the mohawk," said stockings girl sagely. "I've never seen a straight boy around here with hair like that."

Puck decided that maybe he should get reacquainted with the barbershop if he planned on going to school in New York.

Waiting was a horrible feeling, Santana thought. She didn't just sit around and twiddle her thumbs and wait for life to happen. No, when she wanted something, she fucking went for it. Apparently, though, show choir judges had not absorbed this maxim that guided her life. No, the numbskulls took their sweet time sipping their tea with pinkies out and peering down winged reading glasses and comparing scores.

If Santana had it her way, she'd pull all the shaving razors she had nicked from Rachel Berry out of her hair, hold up the judges at razorpoint, and voila, a guaranteed Nationals win for the New Directions! Most unfortunately, the rest of the club had objected to her master plan. Something absurd about hostage situations and potential lawsuits and arrest. Whatever. Puckerman was probably just afraid of looking like a pussy as compared to Santana in all of her battle glory.

She reapplied a fresh coat of red lipstick and checked her appearance in her compact mirror. Flawless, as usual. She shut it with a snap and stared up at the ceiling, bored. The rest of the club was moping around, convinced that Rachel and Finn's lip action on stage was going to get them disqualified. Santana had pointed out that if they were disqualified, it would have been announced fifteen minutes ago and they wouldn't be sitting around in a depressed circle waiting for the axe to fall, but as usual, nobody listened to her. Santana couldn't always lie to herself, though. Her logic was telling her that even if they weren't disqualified, the PDA was probably going to take them down a notch or two in placing. She was going to have very strong words (and fists) with Rachel and Finn once this whole affair was concluded. There was nothing that Santana Lopez hated more than losing. Which was precisely why she got on as well as anyone could get on with Sue Sylvester.

She gave up trying to have an impromptu stare-off with one of the New Directions members, as nobody seemed much interested in entertaining her at the moment, and instead focused her attention on the masses of other clubs from around the nation milling about the hallway behind the auditorium. She'd thought she'd never seen more flamboyant stereotypical gays and metrosexuals under one roof than that one time she'd popped in at the H&M doorbuster sale to pick up a clubbing dress, but Nationals had proven her wrong.

She'd seen a few hot lesbian couples prancing around arm in arm as well. She allowed herself a brief fantasy about linking arms with Brittany and hoisting the Nationals trophy together, followed up by a passionate onstage kiss that would leave Finn and Rachel jealous and forgotten. She quashed the fantasy fast, though. Just because Brittany didn't object to a bit of recreational scissoring didn't mean that they were ever going to get anywhere. She told herself that it didn't matter anyway. She didn't need a woman in her life to be happy. She was Santana fuckin' Lopez, and she could get some ass whenever and wherever she wanted.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two nervous looking boys from a different school hovering nearby, just out of sight of the other members. Their name tags announced that they were from Wisconsin. She figured Wisconsin couldn't have much more to do than Ohio. They were probably hormonal, sexually repressed, and more than willing to have a quick fumble in the bathroom before the results were announced. They seemed pretty straight. Straighter than any of the other guys she'd met at this place, at any rate, and her gaydar hadn't failed her yet. She stretched in a would-be casual manner, and listened as hard as she could to the furiously whispered conversation between the two boys.

"Oh my God, Jace, this really isn't that difficult. I know you suddenly develop mental problems whenever you see someone attractive, but for fuck's sake, just man up!"

Santana preened a little bit, pretending not to notice the two.

Jace started to turn back. "I don't know what I was thinking when I asked you to be my wingman. I can't do this!"

The other boy grabbed his shoulders and turned him around. "Yes, yes you can. Grow a fucking pair! You're never gonna get laid at this rate."

Santana's forehead creased a bit. Awkward virgins weren't particularly fun. She really just needed a warm body right now, though, so she'd take whatever came her way. Plus, she got a kind of vindictive pleasure out of corrupting innocent minds and stealing virginities. It made her feel like a succubus extraordinaire.

Jace shuddered and took a deep breath. "Alright. Okay. I can do this."

The other boy slapped him on the shoulder. "There's a good man. Now go knock 'em dead, Jace."

Both stepped forward out of the shadows, and Santana was already prepared to jump them on the spot. They breezed right past her, though, and tapped Kurt Hummel on the shoulder.

"Um. Hey," said Jace, stuttering a bit. "You don't know us, obviously, but we saw you guys up on stage, and I gotta say, you were something else."

Kurt gave a confused but gratified smile while the other boy leered encouragingly at the both of them. Santana didn't stick around to listen in on the rest of the conversation. Instead, she stomped off to the bathroom by herself. She knew there was a reason why she didn't like men.

Finn would sooner die than admit it to either Rachel or Kurt, but he kind of didn't like New York at night. Sure, there were lots of pretty lights and ridiculously amazing restaurants and funny drunk people, but there were also scary drunk people and lots of traffic and a crime rate that made him shake in his shoes.

Normally speaking he got irritated when Mr. Schue tried to play kindergarten teacher and treat them like they were five years old (just because Finn would rather read the Bernstein Bears than Of Mice and Men didn't mean that he actually belonged in elementary school, thank you very much), but tonight he was kind of grateful for it. Schuester had insisted that they travel in groups of two minimum when they all scattered to different restaurants for dinner.

The original plan had been for them to all go as a giant group to a reasonably priced Italian place, but then Mercedes had voiced her objections and demanded that she be allowed to have some Indian food ("a hot mama deserves some hot curry", she'd explained) and then Santana had been set off by this and demanded that she be escorted to a soul food kitchen. Rachel had then jumped into the fray, claiming that that her right to break off from the group and get vegan cuisine was a constitutional one, until Schuester had finally cracked under stress and let them go off in pairs. Finn figured Mr. Schue was really just tired from the hot mess that was Nationals and was going to cry in the corner of a coffee shop for a while.

Much as Finn loved Rachel, he really wasn't interested in soy meat substitute or rabbit food or whatever the hell it was that Rachel lived on, so Kurt had taken him instead to a bulgogi place on Tina's recommendation. It turned out that bulgogi was Korean barbecue, and it was really fucking awesome. Finn had eaten enough to make the middle-aged woman who was their waitress whisper conspiratorially with the other middle-aged lady waitress, but Kurt had eaten probably twice as much Finn. That was the thing about Kurt; he started off slow and dainty, sort of picking at his food like a celebrity on a diet, but if he liked something and he got going, there was no stopping him.

It was only two blocks back to the hotel, but Finn's nerves were already on edge. He had the number of every member of the group programmed into his phone along with Mr. Schue himself (although Schue might have hunkered down in the hotel's bar by now anyway), but having nothing but Kurt between himself and the big city was kind of scary.

A drunken man stumbled sideways and almost knocked into Finn and Kurt. Kurt tugged on Finn's elbow and maneuvered them away with a sniff, while Finn stared. The man wasn't to be shaken off so easily, though.

"Hey!" said a hoarse voice behind the both of them. Kurt tilted his chin in the air and Finn lengthened his strides.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to ya. You there, nice ass. With the girl jeans."

The skin around Kurt's eyes tightened.

"Why don't ya ditch the Jolly Green Giant and come get to know me instead, yeah? I'm much more fun."

People were starting to look at them now. Finn was exceptionally offended. His brother would most certainly not be "getting to know" anybody if Finn had a say in it. And he wasn't a giant or green either.

"Hey, hey! Don't be like that!" yelled the man as they kept walking. "I'll give ya a night to remember!"

Kurt's face was red as a tomato and his lips were scrunched up. He liked to stomp through life like a supermodel, but drunken propositions were way, way out of his realm of normalcy. The hairs on the back of Finn's neck were starting to prickle now. If this guy didn't go away before they got to the hotel, he'd football tackle him, honest to God.

The drunk made one last ditch effort. "Why don't you put those pretty lips to use around my cock, yeah?"

The drunk was out cold before he hit the ground.

Blaine Anderson was busy fiddling with his most subdued navy-blue bow tie out on the doorstep of the Hummel-Hudson residence. It was the first time he'd ever been to a real dinner at Kurt's house. This would be exactly the fourth time he'd be meeting Burt Hummel; the first was the aftermath of Rachel's basement party, the second the awkward garage sex chat, and the third right before prom. The prom meeting had been alright, he supposed, but if he was given the power to wind back the clocks he'd definitely take back getting plastered as hell and passing out in Kurt's bed, and marching up to the father of the boy he'd be dating and having a sex talk.

Burt had warmed up to him despite the unfortunate first two meetings. He had the nagging feeling that the ever-trustworthy Mercedes' stamp of approval had a lot to do with it. Whenever Burt Hummel wanted to know what was going on with his son, he consulted Mercedes Jones. Carole had adored Blaine from the very beginning, from the top of his neatly-gelled head to the toes of his oxfords. Blaine gathered that she'd been secretly terrified that Kurt would bring home an enormous chain-smoking bad boy, and was relieved to get a prep school boy three inches shorter than Kurt instead.

He got the distinct impression that Finn Hudson still disliked him, though. Blaine didn't know if it was because of the unfortunate Rachel-snogging incident or if it was something he had said or done, but Finn was always slightly cold and disapproving around him. He didn't know if it was enormous, all-consuming need for approval talking again, but he really, really wanted all of Kurt's family to approve of him. Kurt had poked him in the ribs when he'd confessed this over popcorn and The Breakfast Club, and claimed that he didn't give a damn what Finn Hudson thought as long as Burt and Carole were happy. Blaine meant it, though. He had no intention of causing unnecessary friction in Kurt's life, so if that meant taking the time to earn his stepbrother's approval, than so be it.

When he rang the doorbell, he fully expected Kurt to engulf him in a hug. They'd seen each other once after the Nationals trip already, down at the Lima Bean, but that didn't mean they didn't like to hug and kiss each other like they'd been through a warzone every time they saw each other anyway.

To his surprise, though, it wasn't Kurt that greeted him with a hug. The enormous teenager that smothered him was Finn Hudson.

"I love you, man," said Finn in the most heartfelt of voices, slapping Blaine on the back.

"Um…I love you too?" Blaine patted him awkwardly on the elbow, the only place that he could reach at the moment.

"Seriously, dude," said Finn. "I hope Kurt never breaks up with you. Like, ever. Such a gentleman. I'm so thankful for you." He sniffled a bit, and then disappeared just as fast as he had appeared.

Blaine was thoroughly confused as he adjusted his rumpled cardigan. He wished he knew exactly how he'd won Finn Hudson's approval. Was it the classy bow tie?

Annnnnnnnd it's done! Hopefully it was an enjoyable, fluffy thing, yes?