Chapter Text
Kurt’s TikTok feed is a curation of beauty.
Muted piano backing. A city morning caught in slow motion. Coffee cups on chipped window sills. Long shadows cast by narrow brick buildings. Sometimes his reflection in subway glass, too fleeting to linger. His followers love the quiet sophistication. The indelible designer fits, the Broadway tunes he sings in stairwells.
He layers textures like it’s a love language—cashmere, wool, worn leather. Talks about how a good coat changes your posture. Gives tips on thrifting silk shirts and where to find vintage tailoring that doesn’t smell like your Aunt Marion’s attic. One video breaks down how to build a capsule wardrobe in under $1000, and another shows three ways to wear the same pair of trousers with drastically different vibes: “job interview,” “first date,” “power brunch.”
His content doesn’t just show the clothes. It shows the feeling of wearing them. And of course, the “outfit of the day” mirror clips are looked forward to almost as much as the cheeky captions that accompany them:
“Dressing for an ex I haven’t met yet to ensure he regrets giving me up.”
“Built a look that doesn’t apologize for taking up space.”
“Affordable staples that look like generational wealth.”
“This one’s for the version of me who used to wish for a life like this.”
“Woke up feeling like main character energy deserved a look.”
“Dressing like I’ve got a secret and dinner plans at 8.”
“If you think this coat is dramatic, you should see my color-coded laundry schedule.”
“Tailoring tip: buy the blazer, then fall in love with yourself.”
“Fashion is just wearable poetry. Here’s my latest sonnet.”
“Wearing this like, damn honey, today is yours!”
Tonight, though, he’s posted something different.
The softly lit video is framed on his kitchen, with background music courtesy of his Forgotten Broadway Hits playlist. He’s whisking olive oil into a pan with slivered garlic. A candle flickers on the windowsill. The subtitles are dry and affectionate.
“Yes, I’ve finally joined the ranks with a pasta video. No, I’m not sorry.”
“You can, in fact, make this instead of texting your ex.”
“Still pretending this apartment has counter space.”
The video extends to a close-up of a small nonstick pan. Pine nuts tumble in with a soft clatter, and Kurt stirs them gently with a wooden spoon. They begin to shimmer, then darken at the edges. “Lightly toast your pine nuts. I said lightly. If they smell like remorse, you’ve gone too far.”
Next, he’s got a clove of garlic on a cutting board. He crushes it with the side of the knife, peels it, and slices it thin. “Garlic. One or two cloves. If you live alone and love to be chaotic, you can try three. But this is pesto, not a dish to ward off vampires!”
The next shot is his blender jar. Basil leaves rain in, followed by the garlic, pine nuts, and a generous handful of grated parmesan. He steadies the lid with one hand and starts to blend, then pauses to drizzle in olive oil with a practiced swirl of the wrist. “Stream in the olive oil slowly, like you’re building trust.” He cocks his head, eye twinkling at the camera for just a moment. “The texture should be thick but not stubborn. Like... emotionally available but still mysterious.”
He’s near the boiling water again. “Salt your water before you put your pasta in like you mean it. Seriously, this is your one chance to add flavor.” He tosses in a big pinch of coarse sea salt. And then another. “Salt it like you’re seasoning your dating profile—aggressively and with delusions.”
He holds up a clear glass bowl. “Now, I’m using trofie because it holds the sauce like it has separation anxiety.” Steam curls up as the dry pasta is poured into a pot of boiling water.
The video cuts then opens again with him pouring the homemade sauce over the cooked pasta, covering it gently. He grabs a lemon and wiggles it at the camera. “Zest a little lemon at the end—it wakes everything up, like a first kiss after a bit of a dry spell!”
The final shot is of him leaning against the counter, perfectly plated dish in his hand, taking a good-sized bite, and moaning. “Damn, that’s good.” He opens his eyes with a satisfied sigh. “You could serve it with wine and set the table. Or don’t. Just eat it standing at the counter like a well-fed gremlin.”
Caption reads:
🧄🌿 trofie pesto for people who feel too much ✨
#cozykitchen #pasta #cookwithme
Elsewhere in New York, Sebastian is leaning against his kitchen counter, his phone flickers of basil green and warm kitchen gold. He watches the whole thing twice, the corners of his mouth twitching upward at the "well-fed gremlin" line. Stares at Kurt. God, always at Kurt. The way Kurt moans over that first bite makes something stir low in his stomach. He rolls his eyes and tells himself for the hundredth time in the year since he’s been following Kurt that only creeps fall in lust or love with someone through a screen and think it could be real or want it to be.
He watches again.
When the screen dims, he doesn’t even realize he’s still smiling. And decides, goddammit, I’m Sebastian Smythe. I can fucking at least try to get this guys attention instead of lurking! He pulls a few things from the kitchen, starts boiling water, and sets up his phone to record. And then with nothing more than gumption, impulse, instinct, and knowing what he wants, he taps Duet.
His apartment is modern, glass, steel, and matte black. The lighting is harsher than it needs to be, brightening the white marble countertops and casting sharp shadows across the hardwood floor. Everything looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Nothing looks like it gets lived in. But Sebastian’s got charm. And a very convincing air of someone trying to make an effort.
He sets his phone down, already smirking. “Okay, chef. You win. I’m convinced. I can’t keep eating $19 poke bowls like it’s a food group.” He holds up a bowl and then sets it on the counter and pans over to the stove, where prepackaged ramen is boiling. In another pan, he’s toasting cashews with a splash of sesame oil. Then, he adds some green onion, cut perhaps a bit haphazardly. He then tips it into the Ramen and turns off the stove, stirring it a few times before pouring it into the bowl.
“Before you judge,” he says, scooping a spoonful and grinning, “I used groceries I had on hand at a moment’s notice.” He holds up the bowl. Tilts his head, mock-pleading, and winks. “But, please help? I need a culinary mentor.” His eyes linger on the camera just long enough to be flirty as he bites his lip.
After Kurt has cleaned up the kitchen, done a load of laundry, and taken an unhurried shower, much needed to relax after his stressful day at work, he picks out tomorrow’s outfit—slate-gray trousers, a black V-neck sweater, maybe that tailored jacket with the stitched lapels if it doesn’t rain. A Broadway overture plays from the speaker in the corner, underscoring the end of the day like a final bow, and he finally slides into bed in just his black boxer-briefs. And finally opens his phone to see how the video has done, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his face.
When he opens TikTok, he expects a few hundred views and comments from the regulars. They always do well, but, after all, it’s just a Tuesday night, and it’s not his regular type of content.
What he gets is chaos.
Thousands of likes. Comments are pouring in so fast they’re still loading. People are screaming and tagging friends. Demanding more content. There’s a notification for a duet.
Kurt blinks.
He scrolls through the comments:
@noodleboss: this is rivals to lovers but make it a cookbook
@slowfoodie: this is a modern courtship ritual and I support it
@sidewalkserenade: wait. WAIT. two of my comfort creators in one video?? this is a crossover episode I didn’t know I needed.
@bookboy118: Sebastian x Kurt canon
@lettucebewrong: I’m invested. Like, emotionally.
@theboywiththebagels: I watched this five times, and I still squealed at the bite.
@sighandthecity: MY FAVES ARE COLLIDING?! This feels illegal
@museumdateapproved: i don’t want a boyfriend, i want this
@gayandglazing: SSS bit his lip. I bit the floor.
@spilledmatcha: I haven't seen this much chemistry in my actual thermodynamics lectures.
@plantsandprovocations: This is why I believe in the algorithm.
@garlic.vampire.girl: Kurt better respond in the next 24 hrs, don’t leave Seb hanging!
@biinthecity: “I need a culinary mentor” bro just say you’re in love.
@cozycorecoven: This is literally a fanfic trope come to life and I’m not emotionally prepared.
@NYCoffeechronicles: someone pinch me. did I manifest this? is this manifestation??
“What the hell?” he says, absolutely bewildered. It must be the duet?
He taps it.
It’s a guy—Sebastian, apparently? Or at least, SSSPhotography, that's the username. He recognizes it from a few comments he’s left on his videos before: short, teasing, and well-written, but Kurt never clicked through or gave them much thought.
Now he does. Because… Hello? He’s hot? In that preppy kind of way.
The duet opens with Sebastian standing in a gorgeous kitchen—sleek, immaculate, no clutter on the counters. He’s framed with casual precision, dressed in a fitted emerald green Henley that doesn’t try too hard, his brunette hair, styled perfectly, his eyes are stunning, though he can’t really tell what color they are in the lighting.
“Before you judge,” he says, scooping a spoonful and grinning, “I used groceries I had on hand at a moment’s notice.” He holds up the bowl. Tilts his head, mock-pleading, and winks.
“Oh god,” Kurt says aloud.
“But, please help. I need a culinary mentor.” His eyes linger on the camera just long enough to seem downright dangerous and bites his fucking lip. It’s barely flirtation. It’s something quieter, and seems so much deeper.
“Uhmmm… Can I volunteer as tribute?” Kurt laughs at himself.
He watches the whole thing twice. Then a third time.
He scrolls to Sebastian’s profile and understands the username better: Sebastian Smythe Studio Photography. His TikTok feed is filled with photography content—quick-cut reels showing how he sets up lighting, a behind-the-scenes look at a rooftop shoot, commentary about lenses, and time-lapses of studio sessions. Occasionally, he turns the camera on himself, talking passionately about texture, tone, and finding the right shadows to capture a moment.
Kurt can’t stop watching. Then he checks his Instagram.
His jaw goes slack, his heart starts racing. The grid is nothing short of breathtaking. Every image is thought-provoking. Stirring! Moody portraits, sunlit alleys in Chinatown, the gleam of rain on pavement at dusk, lips just barely parted in the golden hour light. Wedding photos that make you believe in love. There’s an intimacy in Sebastian’s photography that Kurt feels inside his bones. It’s art that touches my soul in a way I never expected a photo to!
He scrolls, rubbing his fingers absently over his chest, his breathing shallower. His thumb hovers over the follow button. His entire body is reacting to this guy, things stirring south, palms tingling, his mouth somehow a deluge of saliva, and the parched desert of the Sahara all at once.
”Don’t be a coward!” He taps follow on Instagram. Then, again, on TikTok.
Then he lies back, gripping his phone, heart thrumming, and whispers nonsense aloud to his dark ceiling, like he just made a counter move on a chessboard and now he’s waiting to see what this guy will do next. “…well, damn.”