So. I totally had the newest edition in the Mostly Gay Not-Couple series ready to go. And then my internet crashed for two weeks, and by the time I got a new line run to my apartment, the story completely conflicted with the actual television storyline. So I had to write a new one

Also because of the internet crash, I've been terrible at replying to reviews left on both my Glee stories and the newer ones over in the BtVS fandom (and yes, I'm definitely pimping and promoting them here—go read them, please!). I'm going to try and reply over the next week, so thank you so much for being patient with me.

Although this story stands fine on its own, it is part of the Mostly Gay Not-Couple series, which goes:

1.) Amicable Exes,

2.) Platonic Domesticity,

3.) Cordial Affections,

4.) Friendly Rapport.

And to wrap up the longest author's note ever, I don't own Glee. Or even an Anna Sui scarf :/

Brittany was confused.

Like, super, mega-confused. Even more confused than the time Quinn tried to explain that cow patties and hamburgers weren't the same thing.

Also, she was kinda cold. Probably because her hair was still wet from the shower, and the short towel wrapped around her body was pretty damp. Looking back and forth between her nearly empty closet and the enormous heap of clothing on the floor, Brittany sighed heavily.

Being a fashion icon was so much pressure.

Getting dressed was super easy when she was on the Cheerios—throw on a uniform, and maybe some underwear if she felt like it. On the weekends, and weekdays after she'd quit the squad, clothing was more complicated. Still, she'd gotten most of her clothes while shopping with her Mom, or Santana or Kurt: people with good taste who understood that patterns were confusing.

And except for that one incident where she came to school in mud-covered overalls—Principal Figgins had explained that Groundhog's Day wasn't a dress up holiday, and that it had nothing to do with the ground or pigs—she had managed to do a pretty good job dressing herself.

The whole fashionista thing had started out simply: Rachel gave her some money and told her what to wear in that bossy, super-dramatic wail that Santana claimed made her ears bleed. Brittany thought Rachel's clothes were kind of lame, but everyone else thought that she looked awesome in them, so she was happy to keep copying her outfits. But Rachel has skipped school the day before in order to concentrate on writing a song for Glee club. Brittany understood that—she also had a hard time remembering what order the letters were supposed to go in when the teachers were distracting her by talking. But since Rachel hadn't been in class, Brittany hadn't been able to see what she was wearing, and now she had no idea how she was supposed to dress that day.

It really wasn't a big deal, since it was a Saturday and Brittany didn't have to go to school. But she was pretty sure that Jacob Ben Israel was hiding in the bushes across the street, waiting to take her picture, and she couldn't call Santana or Puck to come beat him up until at least noon.

Plus, even though it was just Jacob, Brittany had been a little scared of the paparazzi ever since she and Kurt had watched all of Lady Gaga's music videos at once. She wasn't entirely sure what the word meant, but she didn't want to have to walk with sticks attached to her elbows or wear glasses that looked like Mickey Mouse's ears.

That was it! She could call Kurt—he was super fashionable, and he always knew what to do. Plus, he was always talking about how having to wear a uniform everyday was "quashing his artistic expression and creative potential in the formative years essential to his growth as a future member of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture."

Brittany couldn't speak Spanish, but when Kurt said that, it usually meant he wanted to do her makeup and play with her hair.

Grabbing her phone off her desk and tightening her towel before it fell off, Brittany scrolled through her contact list. Santana had changed everyone's names in her phonebook again, but she had a feeling Kurt was either Soprano Lady-Man or Gayer Than Dumbledore At A San Francisco Pride Parade. Kurt wasn't old like Dumbledore, so she decided to try the first one first.

And she was right! After a few rings, Kurt picked up. "Hello Brittany," he said, yawning. "I'll ignore the obvious social faux pas of calling before 8:30 on a weekend, but only because I'm already awake."

He yawned again. "Sort of. Is it an emergency? Are there pleather pants involved?"

Brittany frowned, unsure. "No. Well, I don't know," she admitted. "It might be an emergency. I'm naked and I need you."

Seriously, Kurt needed to start taking vitamins or go see her misogynist or something. Almost every time they were on the phone, he would spaz out and start coughing really hard at some point during their conversation. She really hoped it wasn't contagious, or that he was covering his mouth at least. She really didn't feel like getting sick, especially since Coach Sylvester had stopped injecting her with horse vitamins and Hydroxycut to make her healthy.

Brittany could hear some yelling and noise in the background, but no Kurt. Sitting down on the end of her bed, she waited patiently for him to not die. Finally, she heard a scuffling sound as someone picked up the phone. "Uh, hello? Brittany?" Finn asked.

Brittany blinked. "Hi Finn," she replied, a little surprised. "What are you doing over at Kurt's house?"

Finn sounded super confused. Like, even more than usual. "Um, Kurt and I live together," he answered slowly. "Remember?"

Brittany didn't remember. In fact, she was pretty sure nobody had even told her that he and Kurt were dating. The last she knew of (which was a few days ago—Tuesday, or Friday, or something) Kurt was totally over his thing for Finn and was crushing on that singing guy at Gay Boy Hogwarts. Living with someone was a serious step, and Brittany would like to think that, as Kurt's Somewhat Gay Not-Girlfriend, she had a right to know these things.

On the bright side, at least she knew who Gayer Than Dumbledore was in her phone now. Even if Finn was missing the magic wand and a big old man beard.

Finn was still talking. "Um, so…do you know why Kurt just spilled grapefruit juice all over the floor and started choking?"

Brittany shrugged her shoulders. Then remembered Finn couldn't see her. "I don't know," she answered out loud, "I was just calling to get him to pick out my clothes."

She could hear Finn telling Kurt what she had said, and Kurt muttering something in the background. "Uh Britt?" Finn was back. "He says to just throw something on, and he'll be over in 45 minutes. Oh, and, hold on—" Finn paused on the other end while Brittany fidgeted in her seat.

"He says not to really throw something on," Finn corrected, "but to carefully put on some clothes, and please for the love of Gucci don't be naked when he gets there. And that if he can't get the steel cut oatmeal out of his new pants, you're buying him lattes for the rest of the month."

Forty five minutes later, Brittany had swapped her towel for her last remaining Cheerios uniform, and was sitting on the floor, surrounded by all of her clothes. She felt really stupid. Getting dressed was something she did every day, and suddenly everyone else was making it so hard.

"Oh sweet Giorgio Armani, what happened in here?"

Without Brittany noticing, Kurt had come in. As usual, his hair and clothes were perfect; the only signs that Brittany had interrupted his morning routine were his travel coffee mug and a pair of sunglasses that she knew he only wore on days he didn't have time to apply his anti-aging eye cream.

Brittany was always secretly a little relieved when he wore those sunglasses—she had once gotten whipped cream in her eye and it really hurt; she couldn't stand the thought of Sweet Baby Kurt creaming his eyes on purpose.

Kurt had whipped off his sunglasses, and was looking around Brittany's room with his disapproving face. "Sweetie, this scarf is Anna Sui," he scolded, picking the strip of fabric up off of the carpet. "What did we say about designer wear?"

Brittany smiled. She knew this one: "No leaving it on the floor, and don't try and wash anything myself," she recited.

Kurt smiled back. "I knew you were listening." Putting his coffee down on the desk and taking off his coat, he settled himself on the bed and patted the spot on the mattress beside him. "Come here, boo," he commanded, and Brittany scampered up onto the bed. "Now. Tell me what's going on," Kurt asked gently. "We were making so much progress in the fashion department. There was no paisley, or animal prints, or plastic earrings! What happened? And how did you manage to hang onto a Cheerio's uniform? Coach Sylvester sent a team of professional thieves into my house to repossess mine before I finished filling out the transfer paperwork."

Kicking her feet softly, Brittany explained the whole situation—Rachel and her really stupid plan, her own struggle to read a calendar, Jacob Stalker Israel and the phone call from Teen Vogue, and her trouble now that she had nobody to copy and everyone expected her to wear something fabulous.

And that Santana had mentioned to Coach Sylvester that Brittany had spilled a container of buttered popcorn onto the skirt of the uniform while at the movies. Fearing that "not even a team of the best Korean drycleaners on the planet would be able to purge the offending excess triglycerides from the fabric and keep them from infecting the next unsuspecting minion with pustules of unsightly back-fat", Coach had let her keep the uniform.

Kurt had the greatest smile. "Oh, my little tragic heroine," he said kindly, patting her shoulder. "We'll get you fixed up in no time."

Brittany wrinkled her nose as Kurt stood up and started rifling through her clothes. "Are you trying to sell me drugs?" she asked, confused.

Or maybe not. Maybe he wanted to buy some—he was pinching the bridge of his nose the same way Mr. Hummel did whenever he had a headache. Which was a lot, now that she thought of it.

Kurt exhaled heavily. "Not that kind of heroin, or fix," he explained patiently. He handed her a long sleeved shirt and a pair of pants. "First of all, put these on," he ordered, turning to face the door to give her some privacy.

He continued talking while Brittany found some underwear and got dressed. "Here's what we're going to do. First, we're going to spray all the bushes around your house with a garden hose until Jacob leaves. Then, after a quick stop at Starbucks for some much-needed caffeination, we're taking a mini-road trip up to Cleveland for some shopping. It may be the Mistake by the Lake," he confided, "but the outlet malls are well worth it."

Brittany grabbed her purse and followed Kurt out of her room, happily listening as he continued to talk and watching him gesture with his baby-soft hands. "Then, tomorrow, I'm coming over with a camera, and we're going to take lots of pictures to tape around your mirror—appropriate, cutting edge outfits for every season. That way, all you have to do is pick a photo, copy the outfit, and accessorize a little."

He opened the door for her. "Any questions?"

Brittany thought about it, locking the door behind them. She couldn't think of anything to ask about the plan—it was totally awesome. Kurt was the smartest person ever. Except maybe Santana. Maybe they could both be the smartest, but about different things.

Which reminded her. "Will we be back by 5:30?" she asked. "Santana and I are going to the movies to throw Raisinets at people from the back row."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "That's charming," he said dryly. "And yes, we can get back by then. Why don't you call Santana and tell her that I'll drop you off at the theatre?"

Brittany nodded and pulled out her phone, scrolling until she found Hottest Of The Hott And Totally Worth Breaking Up With White And Nerdy For. But before she could press the send button, she remembered what she had meant to ask Kurt when he first came over.

"Hey Kurt? Why doesn't Finn have a big gay beard?"

Kurt waved a distracted hand as he started the car. "He used to. But he and Rachel broke up ages ago. Skim or soy in your latte?"