Blaine called him the day after, saying that he, Quinn, and Sebastian would be in front of Goldie Oldies at three this Monday afternoon. “You're free to show up or not,” Blaine said, voice tinny over phone. “I don't want to pressure you into meeting them. And they're not exactly the easiest people to get along with.”

“I'll be there,” Kurt assured him, sounding more confident than he felt.

He walked instead of taking the bus or a cab, thinking that the physical exertion would steady his anxiety. He was somewhat apprehensive about seeing Quinn again, of seeing someone who had known him from before. Then there was the fact that he wasn't just meeting some of Blaine's friends. He was gradually immersing himself in the world of street art, testing out the waters. It was all or nothing because he refused to go out with Blaine and ignore the other half of his life; both he and Blaine deserved more than that.

His heart in his throat, Kurt slowed his pace as he saw three visible figures loitering outside of Goldie Oldies, two men and one woman. Blaine was obviously searching the crowd for him and his face lit up at the sight of Kurt.

“You made it!” he exclaimed, and he bounded up to Kurt, brimming over with infectious energy.

“I'm a man of my word,” Kurt said, beaming despite himself.

“Are you going to introduce us or keep that twink all to yourself, short stack?” came the snide disturbance. It came from the other man who was tall and lean, with artfully disheveled hair and a sneer curling the edge of his lip.

“That would be Sebastian,” Blaine muttered under his breath, but there was a fond note to his smooth voice.

While Kurt was still bristling from the twink comment (he'd heard it before, but it was still uncalled for no matter if this were the first or one hundredth time), Quinn Fabray came forth, striding out with her head held high like a queen in spite of her small stature. She had the appearance of Quinn Fabray circa senior year at McKinley High School. Her blonde hair was short and messy with hot pink highlights, but she was as stunning as ever in a short sundress and knee-high boots. She still had the haughty expression that Kurt associated her with, but he wasn't the cringing wallflower he once was anymore. He matched her expression with one of his own, tilting his head up.

Instead of increasing the frostiness in her gaze, she looked satisfied, even impressed.

“So you actually ended up somewhere better,” she said, her accentuation husky.

“In contrast to where you ended up?” Kurt shot back without missing a beat.

If anything, she seemed even more pleased by his answer. “Almost anywhere is better than Ohio,” she replied, to which Sebastian retorted with a, “Don't even get me started, I've been out of there longer than any of you degenerates.”

“Who are you calling a degenerate, degenerate?”

“It takes one to know one, Lady.”

“Sorry about that,” Blaine said apologetically as Quinn and Sebastian ran their mouths off at each other, Sebastian with his condescending words and Quinn with her calm but forceful pronunciation. “Once they get started on each other, it's hard to stop them.”

“Better Quinn than Santana.”

“Who?”

“That's another story.”

“You're such a bitch,” Sebastian was snarling, deaf and blind to Kurt and Blaine's side conversation. “I can see how Ohio spawned a bitch like you.”

“Oh yeah? Ohio spawned a douchebag like you.”

“I was born in France, Lady.”

“Nurture over nature, Meerkat.”

“Meerkat?” Kurt twitched; it was a familiar nickname.

“Oh, there's a story behind that,” Blaine said brightly. “Obviously Quinn is the Pink Lady because of her hair and she only uses pink paint. Sebastian's Meerkat because he told us about how he overheard a couple of guys saying that he had a smirky meerkat face and Quinn wouldn't stop mocking him for that. He hasn't come up with a better name, so he's Meerkat for now.”

“Pfft,” Kurt coughed.

“Kurt?”

“No, I just remembered—I was one of the guys who said he had a smirky meerkat face.”

It was during the summer before he was going to college, just a week or two after graduation. He'd agreed to a date with Chandler Kiehl, a guy from North Lima High he met while browsing sheet music at Between-The-Sheets. They were at The Lima Bean, pitting RENT the musical against RENT the movie, when one of the employees called out, “Skinny caramel macchiato for Smith!”

A young man around their age wearing a ghastly green and blue polo shirt came over, a frown on his face as Kurt overheard him saying, “It's not Smith, you incompetent minimum-wage wretch, it's—”

“Someone has a bad attitude,” Chandler stage-whispered.

“And a bad wardrobe.”

Chandler snickered before pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think he's on Team Gay.”

“Him?” Kurt swiveled his head to gape at “Smith” who had flounced back to his seat, drink in hand and frown temporarily subsided. His hair was reasonably tamed with product and his jeans were tight enough, but Kurt couldn't get over the shirt. “He gives the gay community a bad name,” he concluded derisively. “I mean, look at him. He could be Steve from 'Blues Clues,' it's that bad.”

“Trust me, my gaydar is impeccable,” Chandler said reliably. “Besides, I saw him chatting up Daniel from my school the other day at Between-The-Sheets.”

“One of the predatory gays, huh?”

“He's pretty hot once you get over the asshole personality. But you should see him smirking like—he's doing it right now!”

Synchronized, they turned to eyeball “Smith” once more, and this time Kurt could see a half-smile playing his mouth. Without a doubt, it was a smirk, and one of the most untrustworthy smirks Kurt had ever seen. And he went to McKinley for the love of Gaga.

“He looks like a meerkat,” Kurt observed obstinately. “Look at that face, long like a horse.”

Chandler giggled. “He's cute like a meerkat for sure.”

“No, really,” Kurt insisted, “he's got a smirky little meerkat face. Tell me that we're looking at the same person.”

At this point, “Smith” glared at them as if he'd heard every word. Then he rose up, coffee cup still at hand, and stalked out of The Lima Bean without looking back. Chandler and Kurt admired his back as he left—“It's not cheating if we're both looking, right? And we're not official yet, right?”—because they both liked romance but that didn't mean they were blind or dead.

When he finished the anecdote, Blaine stared at him with softly glowing eyes. “Strange,” he said in hushed tones.

Everything about it was strange. Kurt didn't believe that his life would intersect with anyone else's from the miserable years he'd spent in Ohio; he didn't believe that lives fully intersected at all. The world was a constant crossroad and coincidences occurred every day. There was nothing remarkable about that. The little details from esoteric memories—the navy blue of Sebastian's shirt, the squeak of sneakers on hallway floors, the sound of his father's cheers or curses directed at the television set—were superfluous travelers who stayed with him, their usefulness still unseen.

He didn't even know how much of this day he would remember ten years from now. Perhaps all of it or perhaps none of it. So much uncertainty.

No one was exactly sure what happened to Quinn the summer before her senior year. Whatever it was, it caused her to show up on the first day of school, rocking out with shortened, pink-streaked hair. She had a nose piercing and a tattoo to top it all off, and her new friends were all Skanks who spent most of their free time smoking under the bleachers or taking lunch money from the freshmen girls in the bathrooms. She'd been kicked out of the Cheerios several times the past few years and it didn't seem as though she was going to try again. Nor did she rejoin the New Directions despite all of the support the members had shown her throughout her sophomore year pregnancy scandal.

So much happened. Her father had turned her out of the house, but then her mother got a divorce and brought Quinn back. She spent junior year wavering between Cheerios and glee club, her loyalties often divided. She was alone more often than not because she didn't have a best friend and not even close friends—her partners in crime, Santana and Brittany, quickly became more embroiled in each other's lives.

She graduated with her hair still short and pink, and no one knew her plans for the future.

And Kurt put her out of his mind until now.

Now:

“The difference between a throw-up,” she said sternly, hands on her hips and feet planted evenly apart, “and a piece.”

Kurt had done his research at home not because he had the suspicion that he would be tested, but because he was genuinely interested in learning more. Because of Blaine, really. Poised and relaxed, he answered, “A throw-up is basically tagging on a level up.” He hesitated before adding, “They mostly look like bubble letters to me.”

“And a piece?”

“More complicated than that. It has more detailed art and colors and lines.”

“Someone did their homework,” she quipped dryly.

They were in the basement of a friend of a friend of a friend. Kurt had his camera out and set up on a tripod, filming the four of them. Quinn dragged Kurt over to let him see the various spray paint cans and buckets she had; the only color she had was pink in varying shades and tints. Sebastian was cutting out life-size stencils with poster boards and a X-Acto knife, with Blaine looking over his shoulder and offering suggestions. A boombox in the corner of the basement was playing music by The Killers.

You sit there in your heartache

Waiting on some beautiful boy to

To save you from your old ways

You play forgiveness

Watch him now, here he come

The boombox was Sebastian's.

Though Quinn warmed to Kurt relatively quickly (an ironic situation to consider since he'd either loathed or disregarded her during their years at McKinley, and she no doubt felt the same), it wasn't a matter of warm or cold with Sebastian. He made it quite clear that he didn't trust or even like Kurt, occasionally slipping in cutting remarks that had Kurt snapping back, Quinn laughing her head off, and Blaine trying to placate everyone involved. He kept his back to the camera at all times and purposely flirted with a seemingly oblivious Blaine, mentioning that “such a hot ass was going to waste on a pale-faced virgin.”

“Not a virgin, thank you very much,” Kurt barked angrily. He would have added, “So can it, Casanova, because some of us can keep our libidos under control,” but he didn't want to further upset Blaine. He was aware that a relationship with Blaine might not work out, yet he wanted it to work so badly that he was willing to put up with scourge like Sebastian.

Quinn noticed the tension as Sebastian kept touching Blaine lightly on the arm, shoulder, neck, you name it, and Kurt seethed quietly.

“It must bother you a lot,” she said.

“What must bother me a lot?”

“The fact that Sebastian and Blaine had a thing back in the day.”

Every last hint of relaxation and contentedness drained from Kurt's face and Quinn recognized her mistake too late.

“It wasn't a big deal,” she tried. “Sebastian doesn't really do commitment and Blaine got his head out of the sand because he needed something more than what Sebastian had to offer. It was really short, only a month really, and you can't call it a relationship.”

“It's still more than what Blaine has with me,” Kurt said simply, his eyes icy-blue.

Kurt Hummel was the one and only, the sad little queer in a sea of prejudiced heterosexuals.

Until he wasn't.

Many events occurred during senior year. Finn and Rachel's on-and-off relationship was officially on again, and this time for good—according to Rachel anyway. Quinn became a Skank and smoked a pack of cigarettes once a week. The New Directions gradually expanded so that they weren't scrambling for at least twelve members at the beginning of the year.

And Santana and Brittany came out as a couple.

It was one of the worst-kept secrets at McKinley and the only reason why no one said anything about it sooner was because they were too influential as Cheerios under Sue Sylvester's protection, and Santana chewed out anyone who dared to look at them the wrong way. But they were living in a fantasy world if they believed their popularity could keep the wolves at bay. That Kurt knew better than anyone.

A small, petty, and very human part of him wished that they would suffer a bit. Some name-calling, pushing, being the subject of the scornful looks that often scalded Kurt. Santana used to call him a lot of names, most of them relating to his effeminate looks and nature, and even a few jabs at his sexuality. He forgave her a long time ago, but he wondered whether or not she would have treated him more warmly if she had any idea of how much anguish he was forced to suffer. Because she had Brittany by her side and there was an anguish in that too (Kurt knew perfectly well the number of people who'd had sex with Brittany), yet he was alone in a world of boys who would like nothing more than to crush him like an ant.

He didn't share his darker thoughts with his father, but he did tell Burt about Santana and Brittany.

“Sounds like a good thing,” Burt commented over their dinner of lasagna, corn on the cob, and potato salad. “If there's more of you, the others hafta get used to it.”

Kurt shook his head. “It's different with lesbians.”

Burt eyed him, a forkful of salad midway to his mouth. “And why's that?”

“It's still easier for the rest of the student body to overlook their relationship. Girls are naturally more clingy so the line between friendship and romance is blurred.”

“Are you saying that they don't really care for each other?”

“What I am saying is that Santana and Brittany have been involved for who knows how long, and many of us have known for just as long. The only thing that's changed is that they kiss now and then, and according to Mercedes, they sing romantic songs to each other twice as often. I swear, Finn and Rachel are rubbing off on everyone else in glee club.

“And for some reason, it's more scandalous for me to touch another boy. I can't even fist-bump Artie without one of those Neanderthals hooting for everyone to back away or else they'll catch the gay! They treat me like I have some disease and they treat Santana and Brittany like they're just a couple of very touchy friends. And you'd think that now Santana's officially a lesbian, she would give me a break, but no, she still makes fun of my bow ties or kilts, and she said that if I had longer hair, she might even want to make out with me.”

“Hey, stop that.”

Kurt stopped fiddling with his cutlery, his heaping plate still untouched, and met his father's gaze.

“Look, I still don't get a lot of LGBT issues,” Burt said pointedly, “but I'm not stupid and I know that you haven't had the easiest time at school. That's no reason to be all bitter about these girls finally being honest to themselves and to the rest of the world, even if they haven't been the nicest people to you or anyone else before.”

The teenager remained silent. Burt heaved a sigh.

“I could talk to the principal about this,” he suggested to his sullen-faced son. “We could talk to that Santana girl if she really makes you uncomfortable. I know it's hard to be happy in a place that won't accept you, but I want you to at least be safe.”

“Thank you, but I'd rather not.”

“All right then. But promise you'll tell me if something serious happens.”

“Okay, fine, I promise. Now finish your salad.”

“Who's the parent here?”

“Dad.”

They finished dinner on a lighter note, though Kurt felt his heart weigh him down as he went into his room and shut himself in there. He spent the rest of the night finishing his physics homework and listening to Adele covers, the angrier ones like “Rolling in the Deep” and “Rumor Has It.”

The next day, Mercedes told him, “Santana was crying in the girls' bathroom, the one across from the library.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Her grandmother won't speak to her anymore.”

Kurt felt a sympathetic pang somewhere in his chest and promptly brushed it off as he said, “Well, none of my relatives speak to me anymore after I came out in style. Except for my dad's sister and I think she might be lesbian because—”

Mercedes leveled a steady look at him. “It's not the same. They were really close.”

Sufficiently chastened, Kurt dared to ask, “How bad is it?”

“The jocks are mostly leaving her alone because of Sue, but you should have seen how this guy was picking on her. Tried to convince her that she needed a real man or something like that.”

“I hope she didn't go all Lima Heights Adjacent on him.”

“Nah, the girls all stepped in and then brought her to the choir room. We performed 'I Kissed a Girl' to help her feel better, you know. She's not getting too much harassment, but it's grating on her. She's not used to it.”

Kurt wrinkled his nose, momentarily confused. “Mercedes, 'I Kissed a Girl' is about a girl who kisses another girl 'just to try it.' How does that help?”

“What other songs do you know that have girl on girl action?” she demanded in return.

Eventually, even Principal Figgins saw that Santana and Brittany's relationship was there to stay at McKinley. It was but a ripple in the daily drama that transpired at the school and few people disrupted the two girls who would occasionally hold hands instead of linking pinkies as they always did. Anyway, no one had the gall to cross Brittany, the senior class president, and to Kurt's disbelief, she was nominated for Prom King. Unsurprisingly, Santana was nominated for Prom Queen.

Yet Kurt went to his senior prom with Mercedes as his date and smiled vacantly as Finn and Rachel showed up late to prom, whispering nonsense to each other and grinning like lovesick fools. He observed Mercedes excusing herself to dance with a football player, Shane, who took her hand so sweetly. (“It's too late for something to happen,” Mercedes quickly said to him before she went off, “I mean, we're seniors already.”) He viewed, with only a hint of jealousy, Santana and Brittany dancing cheek to cheek, Brittany turning her head to speak into Santana's ear. He beheld the bizarre twist of Finn and Rachel being crowned Prom Royalty (he suspected that Santana and Quinn had something to do with it as they were both nominees who were in charge of counting the votes).

He sat alone as his peers danced the night away and waited for time to wind to a close.

“Someday I'm going to New York,” he said to nobody above the din, “and nothing's going to stop me once I'm there.”

Kurt Hummel had enough of settling. From now on, he was going to look out for himself, and he vowed to never let anyone or anyplace bring him down.

I deserve more than that.

Kurt avoided Blaine for a week. He kept himself busy scouring for more items to add to Timeless and hid in the back room whenever he was confined to his store. Naturally Sugar and even Lauren hinted at his unusual behavior, but when he refused to give up any information, they left him alone. He had no reason to go to PetPals now that Marigold had enough food and clumping litter for her litter box. There were quite a few missed calls and text messages from Blaine, most of them to do with “How about we meet up again?” or “How are you?” or “Haven't seen you in a while, you okay?”

It was such a silly thing because Blaine was free to have whatever kind of history he wanted with anyone. But it was painful when you took into consideration that Blaine and Sebastian shared a kind of life that Kurt could never hope to have. Sebastian was at a place where he could in all likelihood offer more in a relationship as a fellow street artist.

So what if Sebastian couldn't do commitment? So what if they must have ended their whatever-it-was for important reasons?

So what?

Kurt once dated a Creative Writing major, Kevin, who had complete heterochromia and was particularly proud of how his one blue eye and one brown eye both fascinated and frightened people. He spent countless days pouring over books as if the dusty tomes held the secrets to the universe, and he was so easily exasperated when Kurt failed to recognize the brilliance of Charles Dickens or Vladimir Nabokov. Hours disappeared on his laptop, he frantically typing out stories that were never published, and Kurt feeling disconnect so keenly (like a wound too painful to ignore, but too small to call to attention) that he ended the relationship and cut off all ties with Kevin.

Already he could feel the vast emptiness inside of him as he passed by the Wall, an expanse of color and hidden meanings that he could never hope to decipher. He understood how a hobby, even a career, could become a person's livelihood, and he sensed that this—graffiti, art, the thrill—was Blaine's.

His life was so separate from that.

Kurt didn't want to spend half of his time with Blaine following him around like a cat chained on a leash. He didn't want to film his boyfriend and let a piece of equipment put distance between the two of them. He didn't want to watch as Blaine covered the walls of the world with scribbles that were his only way of self-expression.

He didn't want that life. He wanted—he wanted normality, or as close to it as he could get. He didn't want someone with a passion he could never comprehend.

Because passion could be dangerous. It could lead to ruin. What it meant to Kurt was unhappiness and unfulfilled desires.

Years earlier, Kurt fancied that he knew what his life would be like.

And then it all came crashing down on him.