If You Leave

The first week was a long, tiring blur. By the end of it Blaine felt exhausted but accomplished: he’d hauled in all his boxes and bags, sold his now-useless-and-burdensome car off Craigslist and taken care of the paperwork, made a few visits to the bodega around the corner to stock up on necessities, acquired a monthly MetroCard pass, and managed to survive living with Santana, which in itself was a pretty notable feat.

Except when he stopped to actually, like, breathe for the first time in days, he realized it didn’t really look like he’d gotten much done at all. Surviving Santana wasn’t so impressive when she wasn’t even there most of the time—every day she slept in late, left in the early afternoon to do god knows what, came back to shower and get ready to sing at April’s place, The Jupiter Lounge, and didn’t come home until Blaine had already fallen asleep. So there wasn’t a lot of face time to endure there, really; their longest conversation was her sniping at him for keeping twice as much hair product as she did in the bathroom. He’d walked around the neighborhood a little, enough to locate the grocery and the Laundromat and somewhere to pick up coffee, but he hadn’t even ventured on the subway once yet, so it didn’t feel like he’d seen much of anything. All of his things were in his room, except he hadn’t unpacked much, if only because there was no room for most of it.

It was all a little overwhelming, and he wasn’t sure where to start.

He called Kurt and said, “So I have a problem.”

It was the third time they’d spoken on the phone since Blaine had arrived—between Kurt’s ridiculous schedule and Blaine being knee deep in moving his entire life several states over, there hadn’t been time yet to meet up face-to-face.

“Uh oh,” Kurt said. “That sounds ominous. Should I be sitting down for this?”

“I promise it’s not that serious,” Blaine assured him. Compared to previous life crises he’d come crawling to Kurt with, this one ranked pretty low on the severity scale. “I just have too many things and not enough closet space. Is there any chance you’d be willing to come over and help me unpack?”

“You just so happen to be speaking to an organizational expert. I suppose I could lend my skills for an afternoon.”

So Kurt came over early on Saturday, the first time he’d stepped foot in the apartment. When Blaine undid the bolt, opened the door, and saw Kurt standing there with a grin, his stomach did a happy kind of somersault. Kurt stepped forward to hug him; it was only a tiny bit awkward.

“Thanks for coming,” Blaine said as they pulled apart.

His hands were still resting over Kurt’s ribcage, and he found he was in no hurry to remove them. Kurt’s physical presence was solid, reassuring. Already he was breathing a little easier.

“Are you kidding?” Kurt said. “I’ve been dying to see where Santana Lopez lives. I’m only sorry it took me this long.” He lifted the strap of his messenger bag over his head and set it down on the floor. “All right, now let’s take a look at this bedroom of yours.”

In another time, that would’ve meant something else—and the implication seemed to dawn on Kurt at the same moment it did Blaine, because his face went pink and eyes a little wide.

“So we can get you unpacked, I mean,” he added hastily. Just in case Blaine might have gotten a different impression.

“Of course,” Blaine said, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling, and led Kurt to the bedroom.

There were cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, only a few torn open for essentials. Piled garbage bags full of clothes blocked the window to the fire escape. Blaine hadn’t figured out what to do about a bed frame yet, so there was just a mattress on the floor with his comforter spread out over it. It was a mess.

Kurt surveyed the damage with an assessing look in his eye, stretched his arms in front of himself with fingers interlaced and rolled his shoulders, like he was warming up. “All right, I can work with this.”

And he did—they both did—for the next three hours, sorting through every box, separating clothes and shoes into piles, filling up the tiny closet (and since Kurt was a master at maximizing space, it fit a lot more of Blaine’s wardrobe than he thought it would), arranging everything in order. At the end of it, the room looked ten times better, even if they were both ten times more worn out for it.

“You’re still going to need a dresser,” Kurt told him, “and maybe a trunk or something. But at least it doesn’t look like the aftermath of a tornado anymore.”

They were sitting on stools at the kitchen island drinking ice water. Kurt had already expressed his jealousy over the fact that there was an actual kitchen in this apartment—apparently his and Rachel’s left no room for his regular culinary experiments, and it was one of the few things he missed about Lima.

“It looks fantastic,” Blaine said. “Thanks to you. You are a lifesaver.”

Kurt scoffed in that way he did where he was trying to come across as self-deprecating but was secretly far too pleased with himself.

“I do what I can,” he said airily.

Blaine hopped off the stool and walked around to the refrigerator. “Do you want something to eat?” he said, opening the freezer and peering inside. “I don’t have much—mostly just a lot of those frozen meal things. There’s a fettucini alfredo one leftover if you’d like. I’d offer to buy you lunch, but I don’t really know what’s good around here yet.”

“Okay, that is just shameful,” Kurt said. “I think it’s time you’ve been given the Kurt Hummel tour.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. You already helped me with my room, I’m sure you have better things to do—”

“Please, Blaine. What could possibly be better than an opportunity to flaunt my New Yorker expertise and harangue you with all of my superior opinions on the local establishments? And you can buy me lunch, too.”

Well. When put that way, it did sound like something Kurt would find enjoyable.

Kurt walked like a New Yorker: surefooted and with purpose, pointing out landmarks while keeping up his brisk pace. He had a favorite coffee shop and a favorite bagel stand and a favorite book store and a favorite everything. This neighborhood was his, and Blaine marveled a little at how well he knew his way around.

They stopped for falafels at a tiny place on St. Mark’s near the corner of 2nd Avenue—Blaine’s treat—and squeezed into a table near the door. Kurt talked about his internship, which mostly entailed being the gopher for a local theater company, making script copies and going on coffee runs and assisting with the summer productions, but he also got to sit in on development meetings for the fall lineup, and he said it was teaching him a lot about what it’d be like to pitch one of his own works someday.

“Like Pip Pip Hooray?” Blaine said, and grinned at the memory of a summer that felt like so long ago now, a lifetime, really, when Kurt had obsessively tracked celebrity blogs and purchased a ridiculous amount of those glossy tabloids at grocery checkouts just to keep his ever-evolving script up-to-date.

Kurt covered his laugh with a napkin. “Oh god, don’t remind me. I was so completely convinced that was going to be a timeless, generation-defining masterpiece for the ages.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty inspired. I still remember all the lyrics to Pippa’s Got A Gun.”

Blaine started to softly sing the opening verses until Kurt squeaked in horror and threw a plastic spoon at him. It bounced off his chest, and Blaine’s singing dissolved into helpless giggles. That set Kurt off, and in another minute they both had their heads bent down on the tabletop, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

It struck Blaine then, looking across the table at Kurt— who had his face scrunched up as he fought to keep his laughter at bay— how so much had changed and yet some things hadn’t at all. How even here, hundreds of miles away from Lima, years from the boys they’d been when they first met on that Dalton staircase, they were still the same, together. They were still them.

If time and distance and growth and everything that had happened couldn’t change that, nothing could.

Since Kurt couldn’t be his personal tour guide all the time due to his own schedule and because Blaine’s classes wouldn’t start up for a few weeks, he decided to be braver about venturing out on his own. He made a list of all the places in New York he’d always wanted to go and went.

He learned why Kurt had told him to avoid Times Square—he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it was overcrowded and overrun with tourists and street vendors, and there wasn’t really anything to see there except a lot (a lot) of people and billboards and the same chain restaurants you could find in the Midwest. Walking down Broadway, though, past the theaters and marquees was a bit of a thrill. The first time crossing the Brooklyn Bridge by foot was another—gazing out at the skyline, he had that thought of I-can’t-believe-I’m-seeing-this followed immediately by I-can’t-believe-I-*live*-here, and he snapped a few pictures, glad he was alone so no one could rib him about looking like such a tourist.

In two days he managed to hit up the Empire State Building (well, from the street view; he didn’t really want to shell out the money to go to the top), Rockefeller Center (he had this elaborate fantasy about bumping into Tina Fey there and the two of them immediately bonding and grabbing hot dogs together, but it didn’t happen), The Strand (eighteen miles worth of books, and he couldn’t resist picking up a few even though he had no space for them in the apartment), cut through Central Park (pretty and green) on his way to the Met (he only made it through two floors and made a mental note to revisit later), and finished it off with the Statue of Liberty (via the Staten Island Ferry).

It was pretty much a tourist’s wet dream, but he figured at least now he could say he’d done it all, and it was more or less out of his system.

Blaine wasn’t freaked out about getting lost on the subway anymore (though he’d quickly learned that eye contact was best avoided, since his fellow passengers took it more as a sign of hostility than a friendly overture), but he took to walking whenever he could. It was a better way to make little discoveries in the neighborhood, like the cemetery tucked behind wrought-iron gates on 2nd Avenue and the street murals near Tompkins Square Park.

That was how he stumbled upon the farmers market on Avenue C; he bought a bag of peaches, ate three of them on the walk home, and when he got to the apartment Santana was lying on the couch in jersey shorts and a tank top, watching an old Top Model marathon.

“Ooh, is this season one?” he said, peeking at the television.

Santana didn’t divert her gaze from the screen. “Don’t just stand there, Frodo. If you want to watch, sit down and shut up.”

An invitation to stay? Well, that was new.

He perched at the end of the couch where her legs had left about two feet of space and settled back to watch. As soon as he did, Santana reached over and snatched a peach from his bag, bit into it. Oh. So that was why she hadn’t tried to banish him to his room at first sight.

“You’re home early,” he remarked.

“Yeah, my last client canceled,” she said, and he cut his eyes over at her.

“Client?” So was that where she went during the day? Some kind of second job?

She looked at him and then immediately away, and if Blaine didn’t know any better, he’d swear she was blushing.

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped.

He didn’t pry further, instead turned his attention to the tv.

“I always thought Elyse was robbed,” he said, hoping that maybe by changing the subject she wouldn’t still look like she wanted to rip his face off.

“Elyse? No way. That girl couldn’t smize to save her life. It so should’ve been Shannon,” Santana said.

Blaine looked at the girl on the screen—tall, leggy, blond—and thought Santana must have a type.

At least they both agreed Robin had stuck around way too long and that Adrianne shouldn’t have won. It was the most amicable conversation they’d ever held. Maybe because when Santana was directing all her ire at Tyra Banks, there was none left over to direct at him.

A few hours later the marathon ended, and Blaine went to take a shower, and by the time he came back out Santana was gone—probably off to Jupiter. He didn’t see her again until the next day, dressed in denim cutoffs with her hair scraped back in a ponytail, carrying her purse and a small brown paper bag before shooting out the door to do… whatever it was she did during the early afternoon.

And seriously, what was that about?

“I don’t how how to say this, but I think Santana might be a drug dealer.”

Okay, so maybe Blaine did know how to say it.

Kurt didn’t even look up from digging around his tofu scramble. “Uh huh.”

They were at Birdie’s having breakfast with Rachel, since her shift didn’t start for another half hour.

Rachel, at least, took this with less skepticism. “What makes you think that?”

“She has a job during the day. Something with ‘clients.’ But she won’t tell me what it is,” he explained.

“And so your mind immediately jumped to ‘drug dealer’?” Kurt said.

“Well it’s weird, isn’t it? Why else would she be so cagey about it?”

“Because she’s Santana?”

“Maybe she’s a hooker,” Rachel offered.

Kurt shot her a look. “Rachel.”

“Oh, sorry. ‘Female escort.’” Rachel accompanied the words with finger quotes. “Is that the politically correct term?”

“That’s not what I was Rachel-ing you about,” Kurt said.

“Look, I’m not judging, I’m only saying— Santana is a very sexually liberated individual, and as someone with one semester of Intro to Women’s Studies under her belt I realize some prominent feminist voices even view sex work as a positive, empowering—”

Kurt rolled his eyes to the ceiling and held up his fork, looking for all in the world like he was barely refraining from stabbing Rachel with it. “Please stop talking.”

“I don’t think she’s doing that,” Blaine said. “It’s just… something fishy is going on. Yesterday she left with a paper bag. So I think… maybe… it might be drugs.”

Kurt set down his fork, took a breath as if striving for patience, and looked Blaine straight on.

“Blaine,” he said, “do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Mostly?” All right, his theory did sound a little… flimsy spoken out loud.

“This is Santana we’re talking about,” Kurt reminded him. “She bit your head off when you asked because that is what she does. She just doesn’t like sharing, for whatever reason. We didn’t even know she was living in the city at all for months. Don’t worry about it; it’s probably nothing.”

Kurt was probably right, and it wasn’t like Blaine didn’t know how to mind his own business, so he put it out of his head. But that night he was in the middle of a phone call with Tina when another call beeped in; he pulled the cell back far enough to see it was Rachel.

“Go ahead and take it,” Tina said. “I’m supposed to be on my way to Sugar’s for a girls night anyway. We’ll talk later.”

So he said goodbye and switched over to Rachel. “Hello?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, about Santana running a drug trade,” she said without preamble.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Rachel, we shouldn’t be talking about this—”

“Oh! Right, of course. The government could be tapping in on this call and put us on some No Fly list. In that case, we’ll talk in code,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Santana… running a flower delivery service. You know, you really need to get to the bottom of this, Blaine. This could have serious consequences for you if she’s selling illegal… peonies. I could help you out if you like.”

“Help me out?” he said warily.

And that was how Rachel talked him into spying with her on Santana to see where she went every day.

The next morning he woke up and tried to act natural—poured himself some cereal, plunked down on one of the stools, and as usual Santana came out of her room and went straight to the refrigerator.

She took out the almost empty orange juice carton and shook it. “Your turn to buy,” she said over her shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, then looked down into his bowl, trying for casual. “You going out?”

Santana shot him a sharp, calculating look, like maybe she’d detected something in his tone, before shutting the refrigerator. “Whatever. I wanted a bagel anyway.”

She swept out the door, closing it hard enough to rattle, and he listened to the sound of her footsteps thudding down the stairs.

A minute later Blaine’s phone rang.

“The eagle has landed,” Rachel hissed.

“What are you talking about?”

“Santana,” she said, at normal volume now and with an edge of exasperation. “Santana left. If you don’t come right now, we’re going to lose her.”

He shoved on his shoes and hurried down the stairs, looked out from the stoop and saw Rachel half-hidden behind a streetlamp. She had on a beige trench coat, her hair pulled back in a bun, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a pair of binoculars dangling around her neck, and her cell phone in hand.

“Very stealthy,” he commented as he walked up to her. “Not conspicuous at all.”

“Thank you,” she said, either unaware of or choosing to ignore the sarcasm. She grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the sidewalk. “She’s already got a half block lead on us. We have to get a move on.”

They trailed Santana down 7th, watched as she turned on to 1st, walked another half block, and then stopped at a bagel stand.

“Maybe that’s her first customer,” Rachel whispered to him. They were crouched behind a tree, out of the path of sidewalk traffic.

“Maybe she’s just hungry,” Blaine countered as Santana passed over a few bills.

“I can read lips,” Rachel said. She squinted in concentration. “She’s either saying ‘keep the change’ or ‘free the crazies.’ I can’t be certain from this angle.”

“Free the crazies? Why would she be saying that?”

“I don’t know! Why would she be telling him to keep the change? She can’t be affording to throw money everywhere! Unless she’s secretly making big bucks on the side peddling marijuana.”

“This is stupid,” Blaine said. They were hiding out behind a tree and Rachel had her binoculars up to her eyes and this was really, really stupid. “We should just go, it doesn’t matter—”

“Blaine, you can’t back out now! Not when we’re so close! I know you’re dying to know what she’s up to,” she said. “This is important, and—oh, crap, she’s leaving. Let’s go, let’s go—”

Sure enough, Santana was on the move again, and Blaine reluctantly allowed Rachel to pull him behind her, following. It was another block, and then suddenly Santana crossed the street. Rachel started to follow, but Blaine held her back.

“Wait,” he said.

Santana stopped in front of a big brownstone, reached into her purse and withdrew that same small paper brown bag.

“Oh my god,” Rachel said, stunned. “That is definitely marijuana!” She whirled to face Blaine and removed her sunglasses with a dramatic flourish. “We have to confront her—”

“No, not yet,” he said. “Just… hold on. Let’s see what she does first.”

They watched as Santana pushed some intercom button, said a few words, then stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, impatiently waiting. The door buzzed and she disappeared inside.

Minutes passed. In the time it took for her to come back out, Rachel had gone from theorizing on how Santana had fallen into a drug trafficking ring to complaining about one of the cooks at Birdie’s who always showed up stoned to propositioning Blaine about going to see The Book of Mormon next weekend, which—okay, he was actually interested in that, though did she think they could get rush tickets that weren’t all the way back in the rear mezzanine or—

And then the door opened, and out came Santana.

Not alone.

She had two little yappy dogs and a big Labrador on leashes, tangling around her legs as she made her way down the steps to the sidewalk.

Before Blaine could make the decision to approach her or to turn tail, Rachel made it for him, snatching his hand and yanking him with her across the street.

“You’re not a drug dealer!” Rachel exclaimed as she skipped up to Santana, shaking her fists in the air in a celebratory kind of way. “Yay!”

Santana whipped around, tangling herself even more in the leashes, and gave them a what-the-FUCK kind of look. It was followed by, “What the FUCK are you talking about? Did you two follow me here?”

Ah, and so there it was, Santana’s patented killer glare. Blaine had not missed it.

“Oh, see, I can explain,” Rachel said. “We only did it because Blaine was worried when you wouldn’t tell him about your second job, and he thought maybe you were possibly dealing drugs on the side, which in hindsight is pretty ridiculous of a conclusion for him to jump to when it was based on such circumstantial evidence, but it doesn’t matter anyway because you’re not, you’re just… a dog walker? Except… what’s in the bag, then?”

She looked at Santana curiously. Santana looked at them both murderously. Blaine looked down at the sidewalk.

“Yeah, fine, so I walk dogs, okay? Whatever, it’s not a big deal,” Santana said. “And the bag has dog treats in it. Nothing you can get high off of. Jesus.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Rachel said. “It’s a perfectly respectable avenue of employment, and I for one—” Her voice broke off as she caught sight of the little Yorkie jumping at her feet for attention. “Oh my god, you are the cutest! Why, yes you are! C’mere, c’mere!”

She knelt to the sidewalk to scratch the puppy behind its ears, making all kinds of loud cooing noises, and now only Blaine was in the line of Santana’s glare.

“So tell me, is it that Berry’s crazy is contagious, or did the fumes from all that nasty gel finally get to your head and cause some serious brain damage?” she snapped.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was really, really dumb. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “And here I thought I finally had a roommate who wasn’t Looney Toons. Figures.”

“Please don’t kick me out,” he said quickly. Oh crap, he hadn’t even considered she might do that. “I’ll—I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” she said, skeptical but… interested.

He swallowed. “Um… anything you want. Really.”

Her eyebrows went up, and she smirked at him then, which was either a good sign or a bad one, Blaine wasn’t sure which.

Santana’s smirking always made him nervous.

So that was how she roped him into helping with her dog walking business.

With two people it allowed Santana to double her client base, meaning double the cash, which all went into her pocket since she wasn’t paying Blaine. Which was fine, actually, because it wasn’t like he knew anyone else in this city aside from Kurt and Rachel and it gave him something to do, so.

He was doing that thing where he couldn’t stop himself from apologizing. “I’m sorry, it was a terrible assumption to make. I guess people will believe stupid things sometimes.”

“Whatever,” she said, handing over one of the little plastic bags—she’d given him the honor of cleanup duty. “And yeah, you’re right. Like that time junior year when everyone was convinced your boy toy was boning Sam Evans.”

“Yeah, I can see—wait, what?”

Blaine nearly walked into a tree.

Santana just laughed.

Classes would be starting up soon, and Blaine was beginning to feel like there was a rhythm to his life here in New York.

Walking the dogs with Santana. Meeting up every day with Kurt at that coffee place he loved, the one on the corner of 2nd and St. Mark’s halfway between their apartments, after Kurt got out of work. Sunday morning breakfasts at Birdie’s with him and Rachel, which were becoming a weekly thing. Skypeing with Tina at least twice a week and plenty of texts and emails shared in the in-between. Laundry on Tuesday nights, since it was easier to do it in small loads, and watching So You Think You Can Dance at Kurt and Rachel’s on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

Santana said she was looking forward to fall because the return of all those college girls would mean the end of her “dry spell.” Blaine didn’t know what she meant by that until one night he woke up at three in the morning to the sound of loud moans. For a bewildering minute he thought maybe Santana was sick or something, but as he started to sit up in bed, he realized it was two voices, and—oh. She hadn’t been kidding, then, in that first conversation about her and her conquests.

That happened a few times. The girls always left alone, while Santana was still sleeping. Sometimes Blaine made them breakfast before they went. Sometimes they couldn’t get out fast enough.

None of them were blond.

She never invited him to see her sing at Jupiter, but one night he went anyway. He hung in the back with a glass of water, playing with the lime on the rim and trying to blend in. Everyone else was sitting at the bar or at tables, chattering away, or knocking balls around on the pool tables.

The stage upfront was dark except for two spotlights, and all that stood there was a mic stand and a piano. When Santana stepped out—dressed in a slinky red dress, her hair smooth and straight and down to her shoulders—there was a bit of a rumbling amongst the bar-goers, a few catcalls, and she just laughed and blew a little kiss.

“All right, all right,” she said, slipping the mic free from the stand, “my name’s Santana Lopez, and you better damn well remember it because you’ll be hearing it everywhere someday. Don’t walk out in the middle of my set, because that shit’s annoying, and even though it’s dark I can see you, and you best believe I will remember your face, and if I ever see you on the street… it won’t be pretty.”

She threw in a playful wink there, and a few people laughed, though Blaine knew her well enough to know she probably meant every word behind that threat.

“Not that it matters, because you’re all gonna want to stick around once you hear me,” she continued. “Now I think that’s enough of an intro. Let’s get it started.”

With a flick of her hand to the piano player, she started in on an Amy Winehouse classic, and Blaine leaned against the bar counter on one elbow and just watched, appreciating. It was the first time he’d seen live music in a while, especially as a spectator and not a performer, and that warm feeling of watching real talent spread through his chest— admiration and awe and a sort of sense of camaraderie— but at the same time there was an ache, a little tug of something like envy. Because that wasn’t going to be his life anymore. And he was going to miss it. Already did.

“She’s quite the firecracker, huh?” a voice next to him said.

“She really is.” He nodded without taking his eyes off the stage, then finally glanced over—and immediately did a double take. “You’re April Rhodes,” he said, dumbly.

“The one and only,” she said, flashing a bright smile before whistling for the bartender. She waited until there was a whiskey sour in her hands before she looked at him again. “And who might you be, Delicious?”

April was pressed all right up against the counter next to him, her breasts pushed up and together. Blaine averted his eyes and took a long drink of water.

“Blaine Anderson,” he introduced. “I’m actually living with Santana.”

“Oh, yeah! She mentioned you. The one who’s gayer than a Maypole in July.”

He tilted his head to the side, not quite sure how to take that.

“Well, you ever need anything, you just come to Auntie April. You’re one of Will’s kids, I’ll take care of ya,” she said. She downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, sucked a bit on the straw, and gave his arm a squeeze. “You have a good night, sweetie. Don’t do anything I would do!”

She let out a startlingly loud cackle at her own joke, slapped an open palm on the bar top.

“Thanks,” he said, but she was already whisking away.

After Santana’s set—mostly covers, though one or two originals thrown in the mix as well—he went to meet her as she came off the stage. Her face twisted a little when she saw him there, but she couldn’t have been too mad about it because she didn’t, like, tell him to go fuck himself or anything.

“You were fantastic,” he said, and she just rolled her eyes.

“Uh, yeah. I always am.” She did a haughty little shrug that flicked her hair back behind her shoulders, then rubbed the side of her face. “I’m also fucking exhausted. Let’s get out of here.”

The implied “us” in that demand took him by surprise, but he obeyed, following her out the door. They walked back to the apartment in silence, but instead of going straight inside, Santana sank down on the front stoop. Blaine hovered awkwardly for a moment, not sure whether to stay or keep going.

“Stop being such an awkward turtle and sit down already,” she said, extracting a cigarette pack from her purse and shaking one loose. She eyed him warily. “Unless you’re going to give me a lecture on this, Mom.”

He lowered himself onto the step beside her. “No lecture,” he promised.

Blaine really wasn’t in the position to give advice these days. Even if smoking was a gross, potentially dangerous habit, especially for a singer.

For a minute they just sat there, staring out at the street, watching the people and cars pass by.

“You know, tonight, watching you… I was a little jealous,” he admitted. Something sour crept into his throat.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows and said, “Why, because I’m freaking amazing? That’s only natural.”

“Well, partly that,” he said, and smiled at the gloating look her face took on. “But also because… you’re getting to do that, every night. You’ll probably land a record deal within a year, and I’ll be…”

“You’ll be off being College Boy,” she said. “What, is that not good enough anymore?”

“No. I mean—I don’t know. College hasn’t officially started yet, so.” He shrugged. “I think I made the right choice. I hope I did.”

Santana took a long last drag off her cigarette, blew out smoke. “You’d probably feel better if you just got laid,” she said.

He made an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Is that what works for you?”

“Sure does.” She stubbed the last embers on the concrete and flicked the butt away, shuddering a little. “Okay, and now that I have that visual of you in my head, I need to go take, like, ten showers.”

Getting laid was pretty much the last thing on his mind.

Orientation week came, and at the end of it his head felt overstuffed with information. But he was registered for all his classes and had a bag packed full of flyers and information sheets and notes from all the lectures he’d had to endure, so he was prepared. Sort of.

He organized all the papers on the desk in his bedroom—yes, he had a desk now, and a dresser, thanks to Kurt taking him to this secondhand place in Brooklyn, though his mattress still lacked a bedframe—and called Tina.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, swiveling his desk chair slowly from side to side, looking up at the ceiling. His head wasn’t spinning so much, now. “It’s just… a lot. What about you? How are the dorms?”

“Tiny. But my roommate is pretty nice. I think we’ll get along. She’s obsessed with World of Warcraft, so she spends most of her time glued to her computer anyway,” she said. “And the theater department is great. I’ve already met a lot of awesome people.”

“Cross your fingers it’s the same for me and I make some new friends before Kurt and Rachel get sick of me.”

“They wouldn’t get sick of you,” she said, and then paused. “So you’re spending a lot of time with Kurt?”

“When I can. It’ll be harder now that we both have classes.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that hmm mean?”

“Does this mean you and Kurt…?”

She let her silence fill in the rest of that question; he quickly got the hint.

“Come on, Tina, you know better than that,” he said.

Of course they weren’t. They were just friends. For real this time.

“You can’t blame me for asking! You’re single, he’s single, you’re in the same city,” she pointed out. “What exactly is stopping you?”

What was stopping him? Well, maybe Kurt didn’t have a boyfriend anymore, but that didn’t mean he wanted Blaine as one. And he’d meant what he’d told Terrence—he needed some time for himself without a relationship. It was for the best. There was a good balance right now, and he wasn’t about to rock it.

Blaine didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “Santana thinks I need to get laid.”

Tina just scoffed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Even between their class workloads, he and Kurt were able to continue meeting up once a day at that coffee place on St. Mark’s. Sometimes they swapped stories about their day; sometimes they barely spoke at all, instead just sitting in companionable silence and catching up on homework.

It was nice, though, to have that routine to look forward to. Sometimes it was the best part of Blaine’s day.

It didn’t take long into the semester for his social circle to expand, either; there were people in his classes, like the girl named Marnie who he sat next to in intro to sociology, and he even met some through Kurt and Rachel, who between the two of them seemed to know like a million people.

That was why he was surprised when Kurt called to ask if Blaine would help him with an audition. It was for NYADA’s first fall production, a modernized musical reinterpretation of A Midsummer’s Night Dream; he was trying for the Puck role.

“Wouldn’t you rather have one of your NYADA friends help you?” Blaine said. “They’d probably know better what the casting directors are looking for.”

“But I trust you,” Kurt said simply, and how could Blaine say no to that?

Seeing Kurt sing again was… really something.

Blaine couldn’t tell if all those classes with top notch professors had made Kurt even better, or if it’d just been so long he’d forgotten how great he was, but it was the best he could remember Kurt ever sounding.

Even sitting there on Kurt’s bed in his cramped room—the acoustics far from ideal, and no shining spotlight or grand stage— it was something special. Watching the way Kurt got lost inside his own talent, the way his voice rose and rose until it hit that place inside Blaine that made his heart twist with a good kind of hurt. He sat there enraptured, just soaking in the soaring vocals, let it wash over him.

After the last note, Kurt just stood there for a second, catching his breath, and then suddenly there was a dull banging against the wall.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “The neighbors don’t appreciate when Rachel and I rehearse in the apartment.”

“They should. You’re incredible, Kurt,” Blaine said, and he blinked a few times against the unexpected wetness that had sprung to his eyes.

If his voice was rough, Kurt was kind enough not to comment on it. He couldn’t figure out why he was getting so emotional.

“So it was good?” Kurt said, sitting down next to him on the bed so the mattress dipped with his weight, and Blaine didn’t understand—couldn’t he hear himself? How could he not know?

“Better than good,” Blaine said, firmly. “Try out of this world.”

Something in Kurt’s face changed, relaxing, the line of his shoulders softening as the tension was released.

“I just want it to be as good as it can be,” he said. “I spent last year stuck in nothing but the chorus roles. Which isn’t unusual, they never give freshmen the big parts, but if I could get a real part it’d be amazing.”

“Well, if you sing at your audition like you just did for me, you’re going to blow everyone out of the water,” Blaine said.

He was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, the way their knees touched, the near proximity of Kurt’s face to his. This close, he found himself riveted by Kurt’s eyes; they weren’t the most piercing of blues or a magnificent shade of green or anything quite as poetic as that, but there was something about them—something immeasurable.

“You know, I forgot I have this study group thing—it’s at one of the libraries all the way over on campus, so I should get going,” he said, pushing off the bed and hastily snagging his satchel from the floor.

He was breathing a little too fast, his heart beating a little too hard.

“Oh. All right,” Kurt said, slightly confused, and stood. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

Blaine shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Good luck with the audition tomorrow. Call me after, okay?”

Kurt had barely responded with an affirmative before Blaine was letting himself out of the apartment, hurrying down the stairs and out the door.

The study group was a lie, but he couldn’t stay. If he stayed, he might do something stupid like kiss Kurt. Or tell Kurt he wanted to kiss him. Either way, it wouldn’t be good, and he just needed to leave.

He didn’t want to go back to the apartment right away, so he walked around aimlessly for a while, plugged into his iPod, and swung by the Vietnamese place on 6th for some takeout.

Eventually he was tired of the walking and went back to the building. He trudged up the stairs, sat at his desk and checked his email (one from Tina, one from his mom, a few from the anthro mailing list), ate some spring rolls while going over a class reading, and he must’ve nodded off because the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes to the sound of some ear-splitting moans coming from the next room over.

Blaine rubbed his face, closed his laptop and collapsed on his mattress stomach-down, covered the top of his head with a pillow to block out the noise.

At least one of them was lucky in love.

Well, okay. For Santana it wasn’t love; just sex.

Still meant she was one-up on him, though.

Kurt got the role, to Blaine’s complete and utter lack of shock.

“To the next big thing,” Blaine said, raising his coffee cup.

Kurt beamed back at him and lifted his own, clinked them together. It was then that Blaine noticed a phone number scribbled out in black marker.

“What’s that?” he asked, and Kurt’s brow furrowed, not understanding, so he gestured to the cup with one hand.

“Oh,” Kurt said, twisting it around in his palms. A faint smile touched his lips. “The barista did that. I didn’t even notice until I was halfway to the table.”

Blaine glanced over at the counter; the guy behind it was tall, lanky, with an artful trendy haircut.

“Are you going to call him?” he asked.

He took a long sip from his coffee, watching Kurt across the table. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.

Okay, maybe a little.

“Oh, definitely not,” Kurt said, easily enough. “Go out with the guy who makes my coffee? No way. If it didn’t work out, I’d have to find a new coffee place, and I’m kind of attached to this one. Plus I’d lose out on the discounted pastries.” He pushed the plate of lemon poppy seed scones toward Blaine. “Help yourself, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking one off the plate and hoping it didn’t make him too much of a jerk to be a little bit relieved.

One day he was coming out of the subway stop at Astor Place when his phone rang. It was Santana, which was weird, because she pretty much never called him. Ever.

Blaine trotted up the station stairs to the street exit, ear to his phone. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I need a favor,” she said immediately.

Santana Lopez asking for a favor? And not even prefacing it with an insulting nickname? That was even weirder.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

He passed by a street performer jamming away on an acoustic guitar, stopped and backtracked, digging two ones from his wallet and dropping them into the empty guitar case. If Santana were here, she’d tell him to stop being such a pushover. But she wasn’t here. She was supposed to be getting ready for a performance at Jupiter.

“So my guy Reggie got mugged or stabbed or something and is in the hospital,” she said.

“Oh my god,” he said in alarm. He racked his brain for a second for that name—he was pretty sure Reggie was her accompanist. “That’s terrible!”

“I know, I’m totally fucked.”

“I meant for him,” he said, pointedly. “Is he okay?”

“What? Yeah, he’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m the one with the problem. You know how to play piano, right?”

Blaine slowed his pace, causing someone from behind to knock his shoulder hard as they hurried by with a glare. He flashed a belated apologetic look to their quickly receding back, and then said into the phone, “Yes?”

“How quickly do you think you could learn my set?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, Santana—”

“Oh, come off it,” she said. “I know you don’t have plans because you’re a total loser who doesn’t do anything except your homework and watch Logo and moon over Kurt. Don’t tell me you don’t have the time.”

Now that sounded closer to the Santana he knew.

“I do not moon over Kurt,” he said, a little snappishly. “This isn’t really how you court someone to do you a favor, Santana.”

“Look, you’ll get paid,” she replied, exasperated, and for Santana, it pretty much amounted to begging.

It was just too weird. And sort of disturbing.

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Good. And if you show up in a bow tie I’m going to strangle you with it.”

“Fine.”

He showed up early to do a few run-throughs—Santana had dug out some of the sheet music that Reggie never needed to use—and by the time Jupiter opened for the evening crowd, he felt pretty comfortable with the material.

Playing in front of an audience again, even one this small, was… nice. It wasn’t the same since it wasn’t about him at all, all the spotlight was on Santana, and he wasn’t singing, of course. The last time he’d played piano onstage was during the piano recitals he’d had as a kid.

But it was still a stage. It was still performing. He’d forgotten how much he loved it, and it was nice to be reminded.

Afterward, Santana wandered to the bar and came back to him with a drink in hand.

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

“It’s just one. Take it,” she insisted, so he did. “Now come on. I’m going to kick your ass at pool.”

It was the closest to a thank you as Blaine was going to get.

Marnie—the girl from his sociology class—was determined to set him up with one of her friends.

“Seriously, you’ll love him,” she said. “I can totally see the two of you hitting it off.”

Blaine tucked his lecture notes into a folder, stood and shrugged his bag onto his shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said.

He’d never been on a blind date; he wasn’t sure he wanted to start now. And how well could Marnie really know him from just a few weeks of sitting next to him in one class?

But she was adamant. “Just one date,” she told him. “Can I give him your number? Or I can give you his. Please?”

He gave in because—well, it was college. And one date didn’t have to mean a relationship. This was what he was supposed to do. Experiment, date around, meet people. Hey, if nothing else, maybe he’d get a new friend out of the deal.

The guy’s name was Gordon. They texted back and forth a little bit—Gordon was an English major who lived in the dorms, and ironically a tragically terrible speller—before agreeing to meet up at this Mexican place Gordon liked. It was all the way over on the Upper West Side, a neighborhood Blaine wasn’t too familiar with, and he got a little mixed up on the subway on the way over and ended up showing up twenty minutes late, so it didn’t exactly get off to a great start.

Marnie had shown him a picture, so he knew who to look for: the tall skinny kid with long hair wearing slim-cut jeans, an oversized plaid shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. Gordon was standing right outside the door.

“So sorry I’m late,” Blaine said by way of introduction, a little breathless from half-running the last block. “I got a little lost on the way. I don’t really know this neighborhood.”

Instead of reassuring him it was fine or cracking a joke about Blaine’s lack of navigational skills, Gordon just stared at him, his face blank.

“Whatever,” he finally said, turning to the door. “Let’s order.”

They stood in line in awkward silence, and then sat down with their food in awkward silence, and it was all just really awkward. Every time Blaine tried to ask Gordon something about himself—his major, what the dorms were like, how he knew Marnie—he got nothing but monotone, single word answers in response.

“So what do you for fun?” he asked, in a continuing valiant-yet-losing effort to salvage the conversation.

“I’m in a band,” Gordon said as he poked listlessly at his taco salad.

Everything about this guy was listless. How could he possibly be a performer?

Still, it was something. Music. Performing. Blaine could work with that.

“That’s awesome,” he said. “What kind of music do you play?”

“It’s sort of a fusion of post-punk, anti-folk chillwave,” Gordon explained, and it was the longest sentence Blaine had been able to pry out of him yet. “But we don’t really like labels.”

“I used to sing,” Blaine said, hoping this might stir some interest.

It did, momentarily at least, since Gordon actually made eye contact with him and looked marginally less bored. “Yeah?”

“I was in my high school show choir. We won the national championship,” he said. When Gordon’s expression didn’t change, he went on. “I also used to do these little musical shows for Six Flags. Embarrassing, I know, but it was a good experience.”

Gordon just stared at him. He looked less bored, but not in a good way. He looked kind of… appalled or something. At the very least, unimpressed.

Blaine cleared his throat. “So what’s the name of your band?”

Maybe it was better to keep the subject on Gordon instead.

“Welcome To Dead House,” he said.

“Cool,” Blaine said, and then realized something. “Wait, isn’t that the name of a kids’ book?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“No, it definitely is,” he pushed on, because he remembered, now. “It’s from Goosebumps. R.L. Stine. My brother had that book. I read it like ten times when I was seven.”

Now Gordon dropped his fork altogether, and he was kind of glaring.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said, and abruptly got up from the table.

All right, so it wasn’t the best first date ever. But there was still time to turn it around, right?

Fifteen minutes later when Gordon still hadn’t come back, Blaine revised that in his head: no, it wasn’t just not-the-best. It was the worst.

He got up and checked the restroom just in case Gordon was there or had gotten sick or something—for a second he convinced himself that was the case, it would explain the moodiness and disinterest, since hey, Blaine was a pretty good conversationalist and interesting to most people—but there was no sign of him.

He’d definitely been ditched.

When he got back to the table, his phone went off. Rachel.

“This is your fake emergency in-case-of-needed-bailout phone call, as requested,” she said when he answered.

Oh, right. Blaine had almost forgotten he’d asked her to call during the date just in case it went that badly. He hadn’t expected to be the one bailed on first.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Really?” Her voice ticked up with intrigue. “It’s going that well?”

“Not exactly,” he said, a little miserably. “I’ll explain to you later.”

When he got back to the apartment, Santana was sat on the kitchen counter eating out of a pint of ice cream. All she had on was this really long t-shirt, slim like a lazy dress. Her long bare legs swung back and forth, heels banging lightly against the cabinets.

“I thought you had a date,” she said around the spoon in her mouth.

“I did,” he said. “Can I have some of that?”

She rolled her eyes but scooted over to make room, so he took it as a yes. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and hopped up on the counter next to her. They ate in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?” he said.

She scoffed. “Yeah, and then you can braid my hair and paint my nails because we’re totally best girlfriends.”

Blaine dug out a spoonful, a little sullenly; it was mint chocolate chip, his favorite.

“At least one of us had a good night,” he said, shooting her a knowing look.

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Your shirt’s on inside-out.”

“Oh.” She glanced downward, then looked back up with a smirk. “Pro-tip: if you ever get the chance to hook up with a yoga instructor? Take it. You would not believe the things that girl could do with—”

“I don’t need the details,” he said, cutting her off, because he really didn’t need to hear that much about her sex life. It was bad enough having to listen to it through the walls.

Blaine sighed deeply, and Santana rolled her eyes at him again.

“God, just spit it out already.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t, but your pouting is even more obnoxious. So just say whatever it is. I can tell you’re dying to.”

“You’ll probably enjoy this story anyway,” he said, turning a little toward her. “My date pretended he had to use the bathroom and then just left me in the restaurant. Not even a half hour into it.”

Santana burst into laughter. And kept laughing. And didn’t stop.

After a good straight minute of that, Blaine snatched the ice cream from her hands and glared.

“You do realize I’m going to have to mock you about this until you die, right?” she got out between fits of laughter.

“I’m glad you find my pain and humiliation so hilarious,” he said, annoyed, and stuck another spoonful of mint chocolate chip in his mouth.

“Oh, lighten up,” she said. “Everyone has terrible date stories. Except for me. But that’s just the natural consequence of being so hot and irresistible; everybody wants up on this.”

“It was mortifying.” And yes, Santana was right, he was pouting. But seriously. Seriously!

Santana swiped the ice cream back from him. “You’ll get over it,” she said, looking him in the eye, and it almost sounded earnest. As close to earnest as Santana ever got.

The weekend before Kurt and Rachel’s musical debut, they threw a rooftop party. Since Kurt and Rachel’s building didn’t have an accessible rooftop, they held it at Blaine and Santana’s and invited a bunch of people. Even Santana came, only a little begrudgingly, and brought two bottles of wine with her.

“Thank you for hosting, Santana,” Rachel said to her. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Santana eyed her up and down before shrugging and saying, “Whatever, it’s fine. Congrats on the musical thing. And I guess you look pretty nice too. For you.”

The somewhat backhanded compliment rolled right off of Rachel, much to Blaine’s relief. He’d been a little worried about playing mediator between those two.

To his surprise Mike Chang showed up; Blaine hadn’t seen him since Lima. When Mike saw him, his face lit up and he immediately came over for a hug—not one of those bro-ish, safe-distance-quick-back-slap hugs, but a real one, and that was nice.

He had his new girlfriend with him—her name was Alice, and she was tall, model gorgeous, also in the dance program, Mike explained—and Blaine sort of wanted to hate her on principle, except he knew Tina would tell him that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard, and besides that the girl was really nice and sweet.

It was cool to catch up with Mike, even though Blaine couldn’t help but keep an eye on Kurt, who stood on the other side of the roof, surrounded by his NYADA friends.

“—and the sequence with them escaping the exploding ship, that was awesome, right?”

Blaine blinked. “Huh?”

“In the movie,” Mike said, slowly.

Oh, right. They’d been chatting about the latest Tom Hardy, which Blaine definitely knew since his attention had been on this conversation, not on Kurt, who was leaning close to say something into the ear of some guy with purple hair and an eyebrow ring.

Mike smiled at him a little. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Sorry,” Blaine said. “Can we catch up more later? I haven’t gotten a chance to say hi to Kurt yet, and I want to get to him before he’s overrun with his many admirers.”

At Kurt’s name, Mike’s face took on a knowing look. “Of course, man.”

Blaine made his way over to Kurt, hung back a little until there was a break in the conversation and Kurt caught his eye.

“Blaine!” he said, a little loudly, and grabbed him in a hug.

Over Kurt’s shoulder, Blaine watched the trio of his NYADA friends exchange looks before ambling away. He squeezed Kurt back, drew away with a laugh.

“Enjoying your party, Mr. Next Big Thing?” he teased.

“More now that I’m talking to you,” Kurt said. “You’ve inadvertently rescued me from some very pretentious conversation regarding the current state of musical theatre.”

Blaine grinned. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

They stood near the edge of the roof with drinks and talked for a while—Kurt’s rehearsals had been going well, even though he was pretty sure he’d earned the ire of the costume designer for requesting too many adjustments, and his parents were going to be in town opening night, and would Blaine come out to dinner with them?

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said, though the idea of being around the Hudson-Hummels was pretty appealing. He’d missed them, almost as much as he’d missed Kurt all of senior year.

“Please, they would love to see you,” Kurt said. “Carole’s always asking about you.”

“Really? I’m just the old silly high school boyfriend.”

It was a joke, but there was a lump in his throat around the words, and Kurt cut him a sharp sideways look.

“You were never just that,” he said.

His eyes flickered over Blaine’s face, and Blaine caught his breath—there was no getting used to that, to the intensity of Kurt’s eyes, to that look he knew so well—

Somehow they’d inched a little closer.

“Blaine, I…” Kurt started, his voice low, barely above a whisper. It felt like a moment.

Suddenly Rachel bounded up to them, smiling, arms flailing a little. “Blaine! Kurt! Someone brought a microphone!” she exclaimed. “We should sing! What do you say? With Mike and Santana here, it’ll be just like a mini glee club reunion. I’m sure you can talk her into joining us, Blaine.”

“I don’t think anyone can talk Santana into anything,” he remarked.

“Tell her I’ll graciously allow her to trade off verses with me. It’ll sweeten the deal,” Rachel said, and she had them both by the hands, pulling them over away from the roof’s edge.

Blaine looked over at Kurt, who smiled back at him, but it was different now. Like a window had closed.

Whatever moment there’d been, it had passed.

At the end of the night, it was just the four of them sitting at the picnic table, passing around the rapidly diminishing second bottle of wine, not even bothering with glasses.

“Santana, I forgot how exquisite your tone is,” Rachel said around the lip of the bottle. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes shining, and she was definitely a little tipsy. “I really want to see you sing sometime. Can I come see you sing?”

“Sure,” Santana said amicably. Apparently wine mellowed her out. “You know, Berry, you’re all right.”

Kurt grinned over at Blaine, lowered his voice to conspiratorial levels and said, “Flattery is the way to Santana’s heart. Remember that.”

“Duly noted,” Blaine said back, gently reaching over and prying the bottle from Rachel’s hands. She’d thank him in the morning.

“We should do this every year. It should be our thing,” Rachel declared. “Tradition brings people together.”

Santana grabbed the bottle while Blaine was mid-drink—he almost choked when she yanked it away—and tossed back another gulp for herself before setting it down on the tabletop with a thud.

“No, I think that’s just the alcohol,” she said, but there was no venom behind it, and she was smiling, they all were, and it was—

It was really nice.

Blaine thought dinner with Kurt’s parents might be awkward, but it surprisingly wasn’t at all. It was like nothing had changed; he fit right in at this table in some mid-scale sit-down restaurant just the same as he had around their kitchen table during all those Friday nights in high school.

Of course, it helped that Rachel came with them, since if Rachel Berry knew how to do anything it was fill a silence before it had a chance to turn awkward.

Most of the conversation was taken up by Kurt and Rachel talking about the musical—they were both overflowing with that excitable nervous energy Blaine remembered well, the good kind of fluttery nerves that came with any impending performance, and couldn’t stop gushing about every aspect. When they weren’t dominating the discussion, Mr. Hummel and Carole updated them on their lives back in Ohio: how the tire shop was doing, how D.C. was, what they’d heard from Finn about his own life (and Blaine was pretty sure he was the only one who caught the way Rachel almost imperceptibly flinched at every mention of Finn’s name).

When the attention turned to Blaine, he told them about his classes, about the apartment, about occasionally filling in as a pianist at Jupiter for Santana.

They both seemed pleased to see him, but Blaine couldn’t help but notice the way Mr. Hummel kept shooting him these looks all throughout dinner. They weren’t hostile or anything, maybe closer to inquisitive, but it was somewhat unsettling all the same to look up over his plate from time to time to catch Mr. Hummel just staring at him.

At the end of dinner when they got up to leave, Kurt automatically picked Blaine’s coat off the back of his chair and held it out, and Blaine automatically put his arms through it, smiled a thank you, and then turned his head back to see Mr. Hummel giving him that look again.

They went out to the street, and Mr. Hummel put a hand on his arm and said, “Hang on a sec,” in this low voice only Blaine could hear. Blaine swallowed hard and watched as Kurt, Rachel, and Carole began striding down the sidewalk, their arms all linked.

“Now, you gotta excuse me if I’m overstepping here,” Mr. Hummel said, and Blaine bit his lip to keep from smiling at the vague reminder of his own boundary-crossing he’d done as a clueless—well-intentioned and concerned, but nevertheless clueless—teenager. “But I gotta ask. You and Kurt, are you two… you know.”

Blaine knew he shouldn’t be caught off-guard by the question—it came up often enough, it seemed—but he still was. Kurt and Mr. Hummel were close; didn’t he think Kurt would have mentioned that if it were the case?

“We’re not,” he said. “We’re just friends.”

Mr. Hummel didn’t look entirely convinced. “You two don’t look at each other like friends do.”

“Well, that’s all we are. I can promise you that,” he said, and he was fighting a little to keep his patience, because this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Kurt’s father of all people. Something else Mr. Hummel had said suddenly registered. “Wait, Kurt… looks at me?”

He looked ahead at Kurt, who had his head tossed back with laughter, walking down the street the way he always walked—like it was his own personal runway.

When he looked back to Mr. Hummel, Mr. Hummel just kind of smiled at him.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” he said, putting a warm hand on the back of Blaine’s neck. “Let’s catch up before those three take a detour to Fifth Avenue. My wallet’s weeping at the thought.”

The musical was really great, which wasn’t a surprise since it was a production put on by the highest ranked musical arts school in the country. However, in Blaine’s not-so-humble opinion, Kurt was hands-down the show’s best highlight.

Kurt did a stunning job: he was limber and quick-footed in the dance numbers, clever with his line deliveries, and he gave a heartbreaking solo. Blaine held his breath through it all, wondering if everyone else was as amazed as he was—next to him Santana grabbed his arm so hard her nails dug into his skin, so he was pretty sure she felt the same.

The audience seemed to agree, since when curtain call came, Kurt got the first standing ovation. Blaine clapped so hard his hands hurt, watched as Kurt took a long, from-the-waist bow before the crowd, lingering just a little in the spotlight.

Backstage Kurt had more flowers than he could hold—Mr. Hummel and Carole had bought him this huge, ridiculous-sized bunch of roses, and Blaine had gotten him a more modest bouquet. When Blaine handed it over, Kurt was a little teary-eyed, and he crooked an arm around Blaine’s neck and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

Blaine had gotten a bouquet for Rachel, too, and she looked ready to cry when he brandished it for her. No one else had gotten her flowers.

“Thank you,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice, and looked over at Santana. “Both of you. It means a lot that you came.”

“You were wonderful. I’m sorry your dads missed it,” he said as she hugged him tightly.

He knew she had to be feeling a little down about that—especially since Kurt’s parents had been able to make it—and that on top of not getting the big role she’d wanted.

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m sure someone will post this on YouTube within the hour,” she said. “Besides, they promised they’d come to the next one.”

“And it’ll be better because you’ll be the lead then,” he said.

She smiled, brushed some hair out of her face. “Well, of course.”

He bent in close to her and said, “Personally I think you would’ve made a much better Hermia.”

“Seriously,” Santana said. “These people have their heads up their asses if they think that bitch is better than you.”

Rachel put a hand over her heart. “That is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.”

So things were pretty good, all in all.

School was good—way different from high school, but he’d always been good at adapting, and Dalton had prepared him for this, a little. He had his daily coffee non-dates with Kurt, and weekly breakfasts at Birdie’s (Santana had even begun joining them for those, claiming she was only in it for the delicious hash browns), and occasionally playing for Santana at Jupiter. The distance had made his relationship with his parents a little easier since he didn’t have to see or talk to them every day; though there was the fact that even this early into the year, he was sort of already planning to just stay in New York over summer, and he wasn’t sure how they’d take that. But it’d be dealt with later. He missed Tina, but they talked plenty, and one of these days she was going to come out to visit.

The only thing not quite on track was his dating life. Everyone else seemed to have something going on—Santana had her endless string of one night stands; Tina had met some guy—a Women’s Studies major, which was a big turn-on—and it wasn’t serious, but she seemed happy about it; Mike and Alice; Rachel had started namedropping an art major she’d met named Sawyer, though she claimed they were just friends. No one believed her, of course.

As for Kurt—well, Blaine didn’t know. They didn’t really talk about that. But Blaine couldn’t imagine he didn’t date around at least a little. If he wasn’t, it had to be by choice.

One night he was filling in for Reggie, and this guy came up to him afterward at the bar counter. A little older, but not much, early twenties.

“You can really sing,” the guy said.

Blaine turned to look at him. He was cute, and he had a nice smile. Dazzling, even.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling back. Santana had started letting him duet with her to Gnarls Barkley as a set closer; singing for the crowd was way better than just playing the piano.

The guy sat down at the bar next to him and introduced himself—his name was Nick—before offering to buy Blaine a drink.

“Can’t. I’m not legal,” Blaine said, holding up his ice water.

One of Nick’s eyebrows went up. “How not legal?”

“Uh, I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.”

“Okay, good,” Nick said with blatant relief, “I was afraid for a second I was coming on to jailbait.”

Oh, so he was flirting then. Blaine had thought maybe there was a vibe, but he didn’t like assuming.

They sat and talked, Nick knocking back a few drinks while Blaine sipped on his water, and it wasn’t exactly a date, but it was something. And Nick certainly wasn’t Gordon—he knew how to hold a conversation, and he had a wicked sense of humor, and he looked like he actually showered regularly. Blaine didn’t think of himself as someone who had a specific type, but that was definitely a requirement.

After a while Nick glanced at his watch and said, “Ah, shit, I gotta head home.”

Blaine was surprised at how disappointed he felt. “So soon?”

“I’m all the way in Bushwick,” Nick explained. “Hey, you want to share a cab?”

“I usually just walk,” Blaine said. “I’m only a few blocks.”

“Let me take you there. My treat.”

So they left the bar and Nick hailed a cab, and Blaine told the driver his address, and as soon as he sat back in his seat, they pretty much started making out.

Nick’s mouth was warm with vodka, and one of his hands was running up and down the inside of Blaine’s thigh. Blaine’s whole body arched a little on instinct, breath catching, blood thrumming in his ears. It’d been too long since he’d been kissed like this. But it wasn’t the same as Kurt, or even Terrence—there was nothing behind it. Just the physical.

Too soon the cab pulled up next to his building.

“Can I come up?” Nick said against Blaine’s mouth. “Or you can come back to my place. Whatever.”

“I…” All that kissing had made Blaine a little dizzy, and it took him a second to collect his thoughts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he finally said.

Kissing a near stranger was one thing; going to bed with one was something totally different.

Nick didn’t look too happy about that answer, but he didn’t make a fuss about it, either. “See you around, then, I guess.”

Blaine climbed out of the cab, legs a little wobbly, and leaned in enough to say, “Call me sometime if you like.”

“Sure,” Nick said, but he wasn’t looking at Blaine, focused instead on fixing his shirt buttons.

It wasn’t until the cab had pulled away that Blaine realized they hadn’t exchanged numbers.

Upstairs Santana was stretched out on the couch, watching Real Housewives of Atlanta off the DVR. Blaine pushed her legs off to make room and flopped down beside her.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Blaine said. If she didn’t want to have this conversation, she’d have to get up and go to her bedroom or something, because he needed to talk to somebody and she was there. “How do you have sex and be so… detached about it?”

“I dunno,” she said with a shrug, arranging her legs back across his lap, “you just do it.”

Santana seemed to actually be humoring him instead of biting his head off, and he turned to face her.

“I could’ve slept with someone tonight,” he said. “Part of me wanted to. The part that hasn’t had sex since—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Blanderson. Not unless you want to buy me the twenty gallons of Clorox it’ll take to scrub my brain clean.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I just—I know some people can turn off the emotions and just… do it. But I can’t. Not like you can.” He winced a little at the way her eyes narrowed. “No offense.”

She sat up a little straighter, looking at him now.

“Look, it’s not like—I do know what love is, okay?” she said. She sounded a little frustrated—with him or with herself. Maybe both. “And this isn’t forever, it’s just for now. I’m nineteen. I don’t need attachments. I’ll want something more… serious or whatever, eventually, but I’m fine with this for now. I’m having fun.”

“I wasn’t judging you,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I could be like you.”

She smirked. “Everyone wishes they could be like me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, some people are born awesome like me. Some people are born pathetic sappy romantics like you. Live with it.”

“It would just be nice if anyone still believed in romance,” he sighed.

“I don’t even get why you’re bothering dicking around anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It means you should get your head out of your ass already,” she said, and turned the volume up louder. “Now shut up, I want to see this bitchfight.”

There was a flyer on the billboard outside his anthro class for one of the school’s male a capella groups. It caught his eye as he was on his way out of the building, and without thinking he unpinned it from the board and tucked it in his bag.

He knew now that NYADA wouldn’t have been right for him, and he really liked NYU so far, but singing at Jupiter had made him think more and more about performing and what it’d once meant to him—how big a part of his life it had been. He missed it.

Blaine wasn’t sure he wanted to commit to something like this, and maybe it wasn’t the answer… but it was a thought.

Thanksgiving came, and none of them were going home for the holiday, so Kurt suggested—or, well, practically demanded—that he be allowed to cook them all dinner. In Blaine and Santana’s apartment, of course, since there was no room in his and Rachel’s place.

“God, why don’t you just get takeout?” Santana complained when Kurt and Rachel came through the door with their arms full of grocery bags. “Save us all the trouble.”

“Cooking is therapeutic,” Kurt said, handing off one of the bags to Blaine, who set it on the counter. “Don’t worry, Santana, you won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Someone else is going to have to serve the meal,” Rachel said. “I am fine with helping prepare, but I would like someone else to wait on me, since this is a holiday.”

“Fine,” Santana said, “but I demand a real fucking turkey. Not any of this vegan tofu substitute crap. You hear me?”

The next few hours were sort of chaotic, the three of them all working on different dishes while Santana lazed in the living room watching television. Kurt was in charge of the turkey, Blaine took over the sides, and Rachel was in charge of the pies. At the end of it the kitchen was a complete mess, but everything had turned out pretty okay, and Santana even helped them plate it all and carry it to the living room.

“We’re not praying before we eat or whatever, are we?” she said when they’d all sat down.

She and Kurt were on the couch, Blaine and Rachel on the floor. They all looked at each other.

“I’d rather not,” Kurt said.

“Yeah, I don’t think we need to,” Blaine agreed.

“I do think we should all say something we’re thankful for,” Rachel suggested. “Just to keep in spirit with the holiday.”

“The holiday is founded on genocide,” Kurt pointed out.

Rachel swatted his leg. “You know what I mean!”

“Fine,” Kurt said. “I am thankful for Santana having a kitchen that I could actually cook in.”

“I’m thankful for Bravo showing reruns of Tabatha all day,” Santana said. “Whoever is in charge of programming there loves me. Baddest bitch around.”

“Well,” Rachel said, “I am thankful to Santana and Blaine for being gracious hosts, to Kurt for allowing us to benefit from his excellent culinary expertise, and to NYADA for nurturing my talent like a baby bird that was already incredibly gifted from birth but is now preparing to take off and fly out of the nest to new heights.”

“That’s beautiful, Rachel,” Blaine said.

“Ugh, more like nauseating,” Santana grumbled.

Kurt kicked her in the shin. “Be nice,” he chided.

Rachel ignored them both. “What about you, Blaine?”

When he thought about it, there was a lot to be thankful for. And the biggest reasons were right here in this room.

“I’m thankful for New York,” he said after a moment. “And for all of you for being here.”

Everyone went quiet for a minute, looking around at each other, and Santana didn’t even throw out any catty comments, so he figured they probably all felt the same.

Two nights later Blaine was lying in bed, not quite asleep but not fully awake either, when his phone buzzed with a new text message.

He fumbled for it and saw that it was two in the morning, and that the text was from Kurt.

Are you sleeping right now?

He smiled as he typed a reply. no but i should be. and so should you. what’s up?

Inexplicable desire for Fro-Yo. Any chance you’d meet me?

Suddenly Blaine wasn’t tired at all.

there is every chance. give me ten minutes.

They met up outside the coffee place between their apartments, and walked together to the twenty-four hour place that served frozen yogurt.

“Everything okay?” Blaine asked, since it wasn’t exactly a typical excursion.

“Oh, everything’s fine. I just couldn’t sleep. Too much thinking, I guess,” Kurt said.

Blaine could tell there was more to it than that, but he could also tell that Kurt would explain when and if he wanted to.

As they rounded the corner, Kurt looked at him and said, “This is what I love about New York. It’s two in the morning and I have a ravenous craving for Fro-Yo that can be satiated in a matter of minutes. Amazing.”

“You know what I love about New York?”

Sharing it with the person I love, Blaine thought.

Instead he just said, “Everything.”

Kurt looked at him skeptically. “Even the homeless man who hangs around outside Banh mi Zon?”

“You mean Frank? I love that guy!”

“Blaine, he spit on you for giving him a leftover egg roll. You were so freaked out you refused to walk down that side of 6th at all for two weeks.”

“Bygones. We're buddies now. I won him over with my charm... and ten dollars.”

There was a line when they got to Yo-Yo’s—fellow insomniacs or drunk kids acting on impulse cravings, probably—but they managed to grab a table to themselves.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said at Thanksgiving,” Kurt said.

“About how your stuffing was so good it might literally kill me?” he said. “Because I was just abusing the word ‘literally’ with that. I didn’t mean it.”

Kurt looked down into his cup. “Not that. What you said about being thankful for New York. And for us for being here with you,” he said. “I want you to know that I am, too. Thankful.”

There was something a little vulnerable in his expression. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he just closed his mouth instead.

Blaine smiled at him. “For me?”

“For you,” Kurt said, and now he was smiling too.

It was raining when they left—not too hard, but cold, and without thinking Blaine snatched Kurt’s hand, half-running in the direction of Kurt’s apartment. Kurt followed, and they were laughing, and it was two in the morning and they were in New York and it was perfect. Everything felt perfect.

They didn’t stop until they were standing by the stoop of Kurt’s apartment building. The rain was still coming down all around them.

“I guess I should go home,” Blaine said eventually.

Kurt was still holding on to his hand. It was warm; it was the only warmth in all of this cold. “I guess you should,” he said.

He leaned forward and kissed Kurt then, and that was what it felt like—like coming home.

Kurt’s mouth opened under his, yielding, and Blaine slipped an arm around his back, drawing him in closer. When they parted for breath, a half-laugh, half-gasp slid its way out of Blaine's throat.

“I was going to have a speech for this moment,” he said on the tail of a whooshing breath. His whole body was buzzing.

Kurt pushed their foreheads together, opened his eyes. “About what, exactly?”

“You,” he said, “and me.”

“Summarize.”

“I just want to be with you, because everything feels right that way, and because I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life letting you see that.”

The words came out without even having to think about them—they were just there, like. In his heart. Lying in wait.

When he met Kurt’s eyes and saw the way Kurt was looking back at him, like Blaine was the only person in the world who mattered, who even existed, Blaine’s knees almost buckled under the weight of it.

“That’s good,” Kurt said, a little shaky. “Much more eloquent than what I had planned.”

Blaine gripped Kurt’s back tighter. His hair, already mussed from sleep, was unfurling from the rain, and it was trickling under the collar of his coat, down his back, wet and shivery cold. But it didn’t matter. None of it did. Only this.

“You had something planned?” he said, one side of his mouth sliding up in a smile.

“Yes, but then I chickened out. Why else do you think I badgered you out of bed at two in the morning?”

“What was your version, then?”

“Something along the lines of—I’m crazy about you, and I can’t believe how stupid we’ve been about all of this, and can we just stop running in circles already?”

“I like that, too. Much more direct than mine.”

Kurt grabbed the front of his coat then, pulled him closer and sighed against Blaine’s mouth.

“Come inside,” he said.

Blaine pulled back, just a little. “Are you sure?” he said softly. “I want to, I just— I don’t want to scare you away. I can’t screw this up.”

Kurt’s hands moved up to his cheeks, his thumbs stroking the skin there. “This isn't something you can screw up,” he whispered. “I promise.”

They kissed all the way up two flights of stairs, didn’t stop until they were locked in Kurt’s bedroom, and it wasn’t until Blaine was easing off Kurt’s outer layers that he realized he had a scarf wound around his neck. Not just any scarf. The one Blaine had given him before he first left for New York.

“You kept this?” he said, looking down at it.

Kurt gave him a duh look. “You gave it to me,” he said. “Of course I kept it.”

He pulled Blaine down to the bed with him, their legs tangled together, tugging off their clothes in the dark, grabbing desperately at each other. Even after all this time, Blaine’s hands knew what to do—where to touch. How to make Kurt gasp and cry out and his hips buck and his toes curl. All Blaine could hear was Kurt’s labored breathing and the rush of his own blood through his ears.

“If we go any further, your neighbors are going to get a show,” Blaine murmured into his shoulder.

Kurt’s hand came up behind his neck, fingers curling in the soft damp hair there. “Well, we are performers, aren’t we?”

The neighbors got a show.

And an encore. Once more with feeling.

“How did you know you loved me?” Blaine asked.

His voice was low, confessional in the dark. It felt like whatever they said here would be safe, just between the two of them, and they could say anything.

“I used to think it was the first day we met,” Kurt said after a minute. “Love at first sight, that whole cliché. But now… I think it was prom. The first one, when you asked me to dance.”

Blaine nuzzled into Kurt’s neck, closed his eyes. “I was scared out of my mind.”

“I know. I knew it then, too. But you did it anyway, for me. It’s like… like you were the only light in a dark room, and I just knew. It had to be love.”

It was love back then, and it was love now, even stronger than before. Kurt could do anything, and Blaine would love him in spite of it all, and because of it all, and no matter what happened.

In the morning they walked to the diner holding hands. The sun was out, the birds were singing—well, all right, Blaine couldn’t hear any over the traffic, but he knew they were chirping away somewhere, maybe in Tompkins Square Park. It was one of those rare perfect moments in life, where he was exactly where he was meant to be, and exactly with who he was supposed to be with. Everything was just… perfect.

He could tell Kurt was feeling it too. He kept looking over at Blaine in this sweetly shy way that reminded him of how it’d been when they’d first gotten together. When everything was still new and exciting, when every little touch left Blaine a bit breathless, every glimpse loaded with the knowledge that his own happiness was equally shared.

Rachel and Santana were already seated at their regular table when they arrived. As they approached, still hand in hand, Santana hurled a few cat-calls their way while Rachel bounced up and down in her seat. Kurt lifted his chin, shy affection melting away to haughtiness, but clasped Blaine’s hand tighter. Blaine squeezed back.

“About freaking time you two got your shit together,” Santana remarked as they sat.

“Why Santana,” Blaine said, “you almost sound like you’re happy for us.”

She snorted. “Please. I am only happy I don’t have to see you walking around making those kicked puppy eyes twenty-four seven anymore. It’s nauseating. I’ve thrown up more watching you two idiots dance around each other for the past couple of months than I did that time Coach Sylvester put the Cheerios on a regimen of raw eggs, vinegar, and tapeworms.”

Kurt promptly dropped his menu. “Well, there goes my appetite.”

“I just want to say, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve decided that when the time comes I will be honored to give you the honor of having me as your surrogate,” Rachel said. “You’ll have to wait, of course, until I’m finished with my inevitable Tony-award winning starring turn in the revival of Evita, but if after that I don’t have any better offers, my uterus is all yours.”

“Seriously, do you want me to never eat again?” Kurt moaned. “My life is an endless cycle of torment.”

Blaine rubbed his thumb across the back of Kurt’s hand and smiled at Rachel. “That’s very, um, generous of you Rachel, but we’re not thinking quite that far ahead yet.”

Thankfully the waitress came up to the table before Rachel could press the issue any further. Blaine couldn’t decide on one thing, so he ended up asking for the strawberry pancakes, tempeh bacon, two fried eggs and an English muffin with orange juice; everyone stared at him after he’d rattled off his order.

“Even Finn would be impressed by that,” Kurt commented.

“Don’t judge me,” Blaine said. “I could eat a horse right now.”

Santana smirked. “I think you’d have to go to Chinatown for that.”

He had to let go of Kurt’s hand once the food came so he could hold his fork, but they locked ankles under the table instead, feet swinging lightly back and forth. The food was good—the food at Birdie’s was always good, but today especially so. Maybe it was because of the sex, or the way Kurt’s foot rubbed against his calf. Or Blaine’s fantastic mood. Though those were all directly correlated anyway.

Rachel and Kurt babbled about their classes, and Santana recounted her latest one night stand, some tattoo artist from Bushwick with a piercing in a place when revealed left everyone recoiling in horror, especially once Santana extolled in detail on the benefits of having one in such a place for certain activities. Aside from that unwanted anecdote, however, it was a pleasant breakfast. For the most part Blaine was content to sit back, shovel down his food, and quietly observe. These were his friends, and they were happy, and he was happy.

He plucked one of the strawberries off his plate of pancakes and held it up to Kurt, who automatically leaned over and bit into it. They locked eyes, Kurt smiling around the fruit, and Blaine’s stomach did this wonderful fluttery thing.

Yes. Definitely happy.

“Ugh, is this how it’s going to be from now on? That is just disgusting.” Santana looked at them with open disdain as she crumpled up her napkin and threw it on the table. “Okay, I’m out of here. I have to go pick up Mrs. Grayson’s rat-faced mutt. Besides, with the way you two are glowing, if I stick around any longer I’m going to get radioactive poisoning.”

“I have to go too,” Rachel said, licking the last crumbs of her vegan muffin from her fingers. “I’m supposed to meet Sawyer at the MoMA. He asked me to accompany him to this De Kooning retrospective they’re featuring. Apparently his work is exquisite.” Off of Kurt and Blaine’s curious looks, she added quickly, “It’s not a date! It’s just two people… spending a day together. Platonically.”

She looked too flustered to actually believe her own words.

“Mmhm,” Kurt said, eyeing her over his coffee knowingly. “I won’t wait up for you.”

Rachel opened and closed her mouth a few times like a gaping fish, but could come up with no response. She then turned to Santana. “You’re going uptown too, aren’t you? Do you want to walk with me?”

Santana looked caught off-guard, but only for a moment. “Sure, what the hell,” she said with a shrug. “Why not?”

They left together, Kurt and Blaine staring after, equally dumbfounded.

“You know, Santana didn’t insult Rachel once this morning,” Blaine pointed out.

“I noticed,” Kurt said. “And they didn’t throttle each other before we got here.”

“Do you think they’re—”

“Friends?”

They pondered this startling development in mutual silence.

“This must be a sign of the apocalypse,” Kurt finally stated. He peered out the window onto the street. “How is it not raining fire?”

“Let’s not talk about it. I feel like that’ll jinx it,” Blaine said.

“Good thinking.” Kurt nodded and took another small bite of his avocado toast. “Actually, I was going to say, Rachel reminded me—the MoMA brought back the McQueen exhibit. We have to check it out.”

“Could we do it later this week?” Blaine asked. “I thought maybe we could have other plans for today.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Going back to your place and spending the entire day in bed,” he confessed. No point in beating around the bush.

“That,” Kurt said, “is the best idea you have ever had.”

The night before, right before drifting into sleep, the worry had crossed Blaine’s mind that come morning, there’d be regrets. That Kurt would change his mind or write it all off as a mistake. But that hadn’t happened. Every time he looked at Kurt, Blaine only saw his own giddiness reflected back at him like a mirror.

He couldn’t exactly explain it, but he knew, deep down in his bones, that somehow this time it was going to work.

As they walked back to the apartment, he slipped his hand into Kurt’s and started singing a few bars of an old Sting song that’d been stuck in his head, just because he felt like it. No one looked twice at them. Two boys holding hands wasn’t a remarkable sight in this neighborhood. The singing, maybe, a little more unusual, but this was New York—it wasn’t that strange.

He broke off mid-chorus when he realized Kurt was staring at him oddly. “What?” he said, half-laughing.

“I just realized I haven’t heard you sing in a really long time,” Kurt explained. “I missed it.”

“Well, I will give you private serenades any time you want. On the house. I’ll even take requests. Consider it a perk of having me as your boyfriend.”

The word slipped out before he could think about it. They’d barely discussed this, and here he was getting ahead of himself, putting labels on something Kurt might not be ready for—but Kurt only smiled back at him. So maybe that was okay.

“Do you ever miss it?” Kurt asked. “Performing, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “I actually saw this flyer for one of the NYU male a capella groups the other day. They’re holding auditions next week. I was considering trying out.”

“You should!” Kurt said a little too excitedly, his eyes wide. He paused, visibly reigning himself in. “Only if that’s what you want, of course.”

“I think I just might,” he said. He stopped and drew Kurt over to the curb, tugging him in close. “It’s worth a shot. The universe has been very generous to me lately.”

Kurt held up their hands and gazed at where their fingers were entwined. “Tell me about it,” he said with a breathy little laugh. He looked at Blaine now. “I never thought I could have all this. I almost feel like I shouldn’t be allowed. It’s too much.”

“What is?”

“Everything. New York. NYADA. God help me, Rachel Berry. And the obvious.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Not just any boy. You. When I thought about it, it was always you.”

Blaine had to remember to suck in a breath before he could speak again. “I’m glad to hear it, because you’re kind of stuck with me,” he said, voice wavering ever so slightly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Kurt stepped forward so his mouth ghosted right over Blaine’s. “I can live with that,” he said, and then leaned in all the way to kiss him.

Blaine closed his eyes and kissed him back, and right there on the crowded sidewalk, in this new, bustling city so far away from everything he knew, it felt like home.

Notes:

My endless thanks to kaley for helping me every step of the way with this-- it seriously would have languished forever if I didn't have her pushing me along.
There may be some inaccuracies about NYC life/NYU/East Village geography; I tried to be generally true to life and actually look shit up, but I might've gotten some things wrong or just glossed over them for the sake of the story. And sorry that this story is so long and so skimpy on the sex. Smut is just not my forte.

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