Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, and I obviously don't write for Glee. The persons who do write for Glee, however, should be punished for the inconsistency and general awfulness. Yes, I hated the third season but love the characters too much to stop watching.

Like many people who have lived in the real world, the finale made no sense even by Glee standards, and it is safe to say I will not be buying the third season of the Rachel Berry show, nor will I be watching the fourth season. I loved the first two seasons, so I am writing this as a coping method and as closure.

I will not bash any characters (i.e. Rachel, she does that enough on her own.) I will do my best to keep each character within canon. That will give me a lot of lee-way seeing as no one is really focused on except Rachel.

Empire State of Mind

Chapter One: The Lights Will Inspire You

It felt like once again, rejection was staring him in the face and handing Rachel Barbara Berry all his dreams. Yes, Finn had been a misguided crush, and true, she would always win over him in the respect that any sane straight boy would undoubtably choose her to love. Even if she would never truly love them in return. But NYADA! NYADA had been that shining moment, the "you are finally good enough" he had been striving for. He had nailed his audition to the wall and made it his bitch! But of course, fucking Rachel had triumphed undeservedly. Again.

She could kiss his perfect ass.

As Kurt rolled to his side, the clenching in his chest refused to go away. He took a deep breath. Blaine's chest rose and fell rhythmically under his cheek, soft snores purring against the bleak silence of his basement. Kurt smiled. This was one something Kurt knew deep down Rachel would never achieve; the love of another. No, the tiny diva's heart belonged to preforming, while Kurt's was slave to his curly-haired pillow. He glanced from under his lashes. Blaine's lips were slightly parted, tongue poking through at intervals like he is about to say something. For tonight it is enough.

The morning is an entirely different matter. Papers wiz out of his hands, onto carpet and into messy piles on his bed. He wasn't an idiot; there had been several acceptance letters over the months. While he had held out for NYADA, New York was his dream. He's be damned if he let it slip away!

"What about this one?"

Kurt looked over to Blaine, who held an off-white piece of thick paper.

"Dear Mr. Hummel: We are proud to announce you have been accepted to Parsons School of Design! Baby, why didn't you tell me?"

Kurt sent him a quizzical look. "What in the name of Alexander McQueen are you talking about?"

He ran dubious eyes over the page. It seemed legit. From the heavy paper, the Parsons insignia in the left corner. Further inspection went on to say how excited they had been with his portfolio, and eager they were to have him at their school. Another paragraph recommended their summer seminar so he could get a chance to interact with other students before the semester started. It was too good to be true.

"I never applied to Parsons," Kurt confessed. "I only applied to schools with musical theater programs."

"I applied you."

Both boys heads shot up to Burt Hummel in the doorway. He was holding three beers, smiling. "If you can die for your country, you can have a drink. Here boys."

They each sheepishly took a bottle and sat side-by-side on the bed, Blaine's large hand clasping Kurt's against the soft duvet. Burt took the fashionable Dior gray chair adjacent the bed.

"I just really wanted NYADA," kurt sighed.

His father sent him a sad smile. "We don't always get what we want, but it's a start. It's New York, kid. It's not over."

Kurt's chest bloomed and he fell against Blaine, silently seeking his approval. It came with a kiss.

…

The Hudmel family made it a weekend trip. Finn and Blaine did most of the heavy lifting, heaving and hawing Kurt's suitcases in and out of the truck bed. Kurt followed his father with his Navigator, Blaine in the passenger's seat, heart pounding as they crossed the New York State line. Traffic set them back a good two hours before they arrived. The freshman dorms were close enough to walk. Perfect gentleman he is, Blaine confidently took Kurt's hand and held his heaviest suitcase- full of beautiful Kurt Hummel originals and his most prized McQueen pieces- as they found their way. Room 407; fourth floor, right next to the stairwell. Kurt couldn't help lamenting the lack of elevator as Blaine fought with his luggage up the steps. Before he could brace himself, he was face to face with a green door.

While his family waited patiently, Kurt stood stuck. For the first time, he realized that the moment was here. He would be leaving homophobic Lima, awful slushie facials- his family- and entering a year apart from his true love. He took a shuddering breath as Blaine lifted his hand, guided the key inside the lock, and twisted.

The room was larger than Kurt had anticipated, and with wood floors. On either wall was a full sized, sleek white loft bed with ample desk space and storage underneath and flanked by a light wood wardrobe. Three floor length windows separated the two beds, blank space perfect for an entertainment center and sofa. A kitchen unit was directly left of the door, full sized fridge, stove-oven, and a built in microwave. White cabinets with iron fastenings protruded from the backdrop, with plain ceramic counters. Between the kitchen and the far bed (which already had possessions littered about it) was a door, upon inspection by Finn, it turned out to be a bathroom with Jack-and-Jill sinks, a tub-shower combo, and a toilet encased in a white storage unit.

"Want me to stay the first night?" Blaine whispered. Kurt nodded, still awestruck, and went to find his bedding.

They had been unpacking for close to two hours. Kurt made a list of things he would still need; kitchenwares, bathroom essentials, groceries, a desk chair. It seemed like a never ending circle of spent money. He had a bit in his savings, but not enough, and refused to let his dad (or Blaine with his parent's credit card) buy any of it. After breaking down the last box, he exchanged a tearful farewell to his family. Kurt took solace in Blaine's arms as they braced Kurt's Mac up, ordered pizza, and started a movie.

Somewhere after Harry Potter but before the second act of Into the Woods, Kurt had fallen asleep like a human blanket on top of Blaine. His knee was nestled between his shorter boyfriend's thighs; Blaine's shoulder digging painfully into the center of his chest. There was rustling from the other bed, familiar voices shushed in the darkness.

"It'll be alright babe."

"No it won't! It may be New York but it isn't Dalton! What if he's a giant homophobe?"

No freaking way.

He lifted subtly. Two figures could be made out in the moonlight; one had bleach blonde hair, the other dark. From his position, Kurt could spot a small, covered cage.

"Jeff? Nick?"

Their voices stopped. With a click the lights where on and there they were. Warblers reunited.

"Oh my god!"

Kurt didn't have enough time to register a response as Jeff seemed to superhumanly leap up to the mattress and pounce on the sleeping Blaine. Nick laughed at his boyfriend's antics while Blaine grumbled and blinked sleep away. The squeaking mattress bounced with such force that the occupants heads collided with the ceiling. After a mumbled apology from Jeff, the three boys slid off and joined Nick.

"I thought you'd be at Julliard, dancing or something?" Kurt asked.

"Nah," Jeff shrugged. "Don't get me wrong, I love to dance but I really want to explore Architectural Design. Nick's going to be at NYU doing his pre-law," he ended with a proud smile. "What about you? Broadway calling and all?"

As Kurt grimaced, Blaine took his hand, tracing his larger thumb over Kurt's knuckles. "Parsons accepted me, NYADA didn't. Next subject?" he said hopeful.

The former Warblers talked through the night and into midday, when Kurt and Blaine were separated for the first time since Blaine had transferred schools.

…

He supposed at some point he should really call Rachel. After all, they had once made plans to come to New York together to take on the world. It had been a month since his arrival and he had been putting off seeing one Rachel Berry for as long as he could, preferring the company of Jeff, and phone calls to Blaine and his lovely swans still in Lima. Kurt didn't think he could stomach seeing her thrive at NYADA while he worked endlessly at workshops and summer sessions. Taking a deep breath for courage, he pressed the dial key and held his phone to his ear. NYADA wasn't too far from his dorm, he decided. And coffee couldn't hurt.

Unlike a normal person her call-back is her singing Don't Rain on my Parade. When did she have time to change that?

"Hello?"

"Rachel? Hi! It's me, Kurt," he did is best to exude enthusiasm. He nearly lost his phone when a shill cry erupted from the speaker.

"Kurt how are you? Oh, you wouldn't believe New York! It's just as we remember from Junior year! I have a little apartment with some of my other NYADA hopefuls; none of them have quite my talent but they will be amazing chorus members for my first big hit! And-"

"Rachel? RACHEL! Calm down. Look, I'm in New York. I got into Parsons and I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for coffee."

"Yes of course! Will you come get me? I need finish my make-up and I have an audition this that we should be able to go get something nice! There's a small cafe and-"

Kurt drowned out everything but her address. Numbing himself to pain was no new thing. It was now an art form. He kept silent and let her rant as he began the short walk to her apartment. By the time he reached her building she was giving him a long lecture about her hair, and how it's chocolaty color and smoothness were sure to earn her a Tony and he hung up. The building itself was not rundown per say, but it was definitely worn and older. There were cracks in the walls here and there, and more than once he swore he spotted a roach fleeing the light. One door smelled of a particularly pungent marijuana, and he grew dizzy as he walked past before his destination stared him down. Apartment 4c, where Rachel Berry waited inside.

He gave a knock, just three rapid taps. In the corner of his mind he wanted to bolt, tell her later that she hadn't answered after he had knocked. No such luck.

The door opened, but did not reveal Rachel. Instead, a rather well built blonde wearing only lounge pants was leaning against the doorframe with a smile that Sebastian Smythe would be jealous of. Being in a relationship did not make him dead, and Kurt subconsciously let his eyes roam up the stranger's navy clad legs to his broad torso, and landing on his impressively symmetrical face before blushing in horror. The stranger had been doing the same.

"Well now," the man's voice was husky and low. "Who got me an early present?"

"Ah-I- oh um..." Kurt struggled. "Rachel? Does Rachel Berry live here?"

Woah.

His handsome face contorted into a nasty scowl. "Yeah, Queen Sheeba's been hogging the bathroom for almost an hour." He moved aside slightly, only giving Kurt minimal room between the doorway and his body to slip inside. Another man who held a joint to his lips and an amazon like woman were reclining on the tweed sofa inside, their heads turning from their decently sized flatscreen. He had perfectly parted pine shaded hair, and looked to have just come home from work if his Cosco uniform was anything to go by. The woman, however, had a messy bun of ginger hair, offset by blonde highlights and wore an odd sari-like skirt and thin white tank.

"Leave pretty boy alone Chris," the woman drawled in a heavy southern accent. "Those boots could puncture your ball sac and then who would I sing with?" She waited for the other man to wander to another room before addressing Kurt.

"You friends with Donna, Sug?"

"I'm sorry, I'm here for," he contemplated calling her his friend before saying. "Rachel. I'm here for Rachel."

The man on the couch exhaled and passed the southern belle the joint. "Prima-donna, then. Sit down, you'll be here awhile."

Kurt nodded and took an awkward chair near the sofa, out of view of the television. The joint passed leisurely from one to the other before the red-head offered it to Kurt. He politely declined, she shrugged, and not once was a word spoken among the three. The sounds from the television were luring him into a tranquil senselessness. Or, it was the weed. Either way, he was calming from his tension.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Bitch! Get the fuck out! Some of us have to piss!"

Startled, Kurt nearly flipped off his seat. Chris stormed into the small living room, snatched the joint from the red-head, and began to suck with fervor. "May, I don't know how much longer I can take this!" he cried. "I was raised a good boy, but if she hogs the bathroom for two hours again I will knock that shireling off the fucking balcony. And she keeps throwing away the bacon! I need bacon."

May took the rolled ganja and handed it to the smaller boy. "Take this Jus, and calm the fuck down. You aren't sharing a room with it. We'll lay out the boundaries tonight. Deal?"

Chris huffed before leaning down and kissing her cheek. "Fine. But if she tells me about her gay dads and how they turned her into a holier-than-thou wannabe Barbara again I will end her." He turned to Kurt, winked, and headed in the direction of a steam cloud, which revealed Rachel clad in appropriate attire- sans her shirt. And seeing Rachel Berry in her bra was not a sight Kurt had ever desired seeing.

"Oh! You're already here! This is May and Justin! They're my roommates! And that was Chris, he lives here too! And get this, they all go to NYADA!" She giggled. "And pink, or Yellow?" She held two atrocious animal sweaters; a pink with a fuzzy, dancing penguin and a yellow with a queer green hippopotamus holding an umbrella.

Kurt held his hand to his chest to repress bile. "You should burn both. Go get the blouse Mercedes got for you as a graduation gift."

"But you called that shirt an insult to taste!"

"Yes, but it is better than those crimes against humanity now go."

Rachel scowled and slipped the pink sweater over her head defiantly before strutting out the door, a regretful Kurt following ten steps behind.

…

It was an open audition in the conference room of a large corporate office. There were literally hundreds of girls dressed in their sunday best; tall, short, skinny, robust- and all of them could sing. What Kurt found rather amusing after watching the spectacle for nearly thirty minutes, was how many of them sounded remarkably like Rachel. Of course, each girl had their own unique voice, but somehow their tone was all the same. He was growing restless as one girl after the other was called to sing.

"Supporting a friend?"

Kurt turned. Armani was easy to decipher for Kurt, and this man looked like he had been dipped in it. From his sleek gray suit, the plum waistcoat, and brown Italian leather shoes to the 24 karat gold pocket watch and designer sunglasses he sported on top of his cleanly shaved dark head- the man was dressed by the best. He held out a hand. "Branson Kirkland," he smiled. His teeth impossibly white against his deep mocha skin.

"Kurt Hummel," he returned. "And no, well yes. I thought we were going out for coffee."

"Well, if you have a spare moment would you mind following me?"

Kurt's throat constricted. "I have a boyfriend.

Branson laughed. "I'm sure you do. I'm not asking you on a date, Kurt. My office is upstairs and we are a man down. I was looking for help. Scout's honor," he held two fingers up.

"Number 27!"

Kurt winced. Rachel was 116. "Sure."

"Fantastic!"

With renewed vigor Branson took Kurt's smaller hand and led him to the elevator. He keyed in 47 and grinned.

"So, you need help moving boxes or something?" Kurt asked.

Face splitting wider, Branson laughed. "No, forgive me; I should have explained. My client is preparing a new line for summer and our model decided he was going on a binge instead. Little prick chucked all over a one of a kind pair of shoes. Can you believe that?"

Kurt couldn't quite believe his ears. "Model? For who?"

But Branson didn't seem to hear him. The elevator rang and suddenly he was being pushed in the direction of an open door. The room was entirely windows, with small stations set up for hair, make-up, a rack of clothes, three different scenes were set up, and with Branson's cry of "Found someone!" all eyes, and hands, were on him. A man in yellow pants pushed him down on a stool and immediately began to style his hair. A woman covered in tattoos with startling pink hair cleaned his face before sweeping creams and brushes over his skin. He caught a glimpse of Branson pulling pieces from the rack and gasped.

"Are those McQueen?"

Once again, Kurt went unanswered. He was shoved behind a thin screen and stripped before being redressed just as quickly and shoved on a set. There were two blank red walls and a black director's chair. Catching his reflection in a standing mirror nearby, his breath caught. This was real. These people expected him to preform. A tan trench coat covered a hunter green turtleneck and dark boyfriend jeans.

"Sweetheart? I don't have all day," an impatient voice called.

With a deep breath he turned, slouched in the chair, and smiled.

One set had been a plain setup, just a soft brown cover on a scene and the floor. But he was fitted into the most beautiful suit he had ever imagined; beside the one he would wear on his wedding day. He giggled at the Chuck's on his feet, knowing if Blaine ever saw he would be subjected to another Dr. Who marathon- not that he really minded. The last set, however, was his favorite. Kurt was zipped into absurdly tight red skinnies and a simple yet elegant gray shirt. There was an old teal record player on a round rug. Even after the photographer had stopped clicking, Kurt lied, listening to his heartbeat and wondering when he would wake up.

The people were all dispersing as Kurt finally lifted himself up and went to change. Branson was standing but the make-shift vanity once he was done, scribbling on a tiny sheet of paper. Kurt handed the smiling man the clothes, watching in shock as they were hung in a garment bag full of items and handed back to him along with a check and a card with 'Branson Kirkland' in stylish black letters. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Hummel!"

Dumbstruck, Kurt watched everyone leave and nearly fainted at the ten thousand dollar check in his hands. Kurt had not waited for Rachel to finish her audition. Like a zombie, he walked home, set the garment bag in the wardrobe and prepared dinner. It was a one in a million opportunity. Wasn't it?

…

"I'm just saying! If I don't get laid sometime this week I will tie that boy to my fucking bed and ride him until my legs fall off!"

Kurt snorted into his coffee. "Seriously? Two weeks and you are losing your mind? How do you think I feel?" He moaned. "It's been almost three months! And Skype is so not the same!"

The streets of New York were always busy, but something was perfect on Tuesday mornings, and since neither boy had classes until the afternoon, they often spent it against the crowd of sharply dressed three piece suits. However today, something was off. There were whispers, people pointing, and unknown New York numbers blowing up his phone. But not at them; at Kurt. The closer they got to Times Square, the more people stared and whispered.

"What the hell?"

"Oh my god!" Jeff exclaimed. "Kurt, look!"

Jeff pointed to a nearby digital billboard. All the wind knocked from Kurt's lungs. Over 100 feet tall was a three-quarter photo of him. Alexander McQueen was written tastefully at the side, and the image changed to Kurt leaping in the air, rock-star style. The photo shoot from 17 days ago; not that he had been counting. He jumped as his phone rang. This time, without hesitation, he answered.

"Hello?"

"Is this Kurt Hummel? From the McQueen ad?"

Kurt's mouth went dry. "This is he."

"Hello, sir. I'm calling in representation of Ford Modeling Agency. Can you tell me if you have representation?"

"Um, Branson Kirkland? He was the one who got me the McQueen ad."

There was a rapid clacking of keys. "Mr. Kirkland is a scout for our agency. I'd like to set an appointment for you to meet with some of our representatives. Would tomorrow at noon suffice?"

"Repre-YES! Yes, um, tomorrow will be fine."

"Excellent. Our office is located at 111 Fifth Avenue on the ninth floor. Please check in with Nina at the desk."

And she was gone. Kurt lowered his phone with a shaking hand. He looked to Jeff, but didn't know what he was looking for. He just stood, jaw dropped and gob-smacked. "I need to call Blaine."

They ran. Giggling, idiotic, madmen. They sprinted up the stairs and fell like drunks through the door and flopped on Kurt's bed in a rush of giddiness. Once, twice, the third time the phone rang it was picked up.

"Hello?"

Okay, not the voice Kurt wanted to hear. "Sam? Why do you have Blaine's phone?"

"Oh, he's here. He's uh, maybe you should talk to him. Hey, Blaine! It's Kurt!"

There was a loud crash as Kurt switched to speaker.

"Baby?"

'Baby?' Jeff mouthed. Kurt smacked his arm. "Hey! What was that?"

"Nothing!" Blaine cried defensively. "Just tripped. What's up?"

"I just, oh god how do I say it?"

"Kurt's a model!"

"Jeff!"

"What? Did I hear that right?"

Kurt giggled. "Well, not really. I went with Rachel to one of her auditions and some guy asked me to help him. Baby, he was a talent scout! My face is plastered on the side of a skyscraper!"

Blaine replied with a shriek he was sure to deny later. "That's amazing! I'm so happy for you! I knew you'd be incredible, I just knew it. Wow," he gushed.

Kurt felt heat rise to his cheeks. "And what about you, babe? Spending quality time with Finn before he leaves?"

There was a long silence Kurt couldn't determine. "Kinda. Um, I've been sleeping in your old room. I'm volunteering at the Columbus PFLAG center instead of doing the circuit thing."

Blaine's voice was tiny and stretched, the way in got before he was about to cry. A spark of nervous electricity short down his back, making his hair stand on end. "Why do I get the feeling your parents have done something? Baby, what's wrong?"

Kurt heard a deep sigh and braced himself. "They kicked me out, Kurt."

Kurt's fists clenched and Jeff rolled off the bed and out the door, giving them their privacy. "Blaine? Sweetie, what happened? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just," he paused. "I didn't want you to worry, you know? You should be enjoying New York. Not freaking out that my parents are douchebags that wanted me to be a lawyer or something."

"I love you," Kurt said. "So I get to worry about you. And I'll enjoy New York even more when you are here, and we can have a picnic in Central Park and you can feed the squirrels because you know they freak me out."

Blaine chuckled and Kurt felt his smile over the connection. "As long as we can have a dog. A Golden Retriever. And we are naming him Bradshaw."

"Bradshaw?"

A moment later his phone announced a picture message. As he opened it, it was clear someone else had taken the picture, and a large, smiling dog was sitting in Blaine's lap. His tan arms were ruffling the dog's thick fur and he was all dimples and teeth.

"You already got the dog? And my dad let you keep the dog?"

"My neighbor couldn't take care of him anymore, he was old. So I asked to take him...can we keep him baby."

"We can't have a dog on campus"

"Then we'll just have to move off campus."

Kurt knew he wouldn't really say no, but he had to press. "NYADA dorms suck; your roommates wouldn't let you keep a dog. And freshman always have to live the first year on campus."

"Not if that freshman is married."

His heart stopped. "Found a loophole?" he asked breathless.

"More like extra incentive," Blaine whispered. "Besides, I don't think I want to go to NYADA."

That snapped Kurt from his daydream of white suits and yellow roses. He had thought Blaine wanted to go into theater, but decided to breach the subject calmly. "Where do you want to go?"

"Wes, David and I- well- nevermind it's stupid."

"It's your future, babe. It's our future, together. What do you want?"

Blaine sighed. "Well, before you became a Warbler, Wes, David and I had this pipe-dream of owning a record label. Bringing real musicians that can write and sing back into the lime-light."

"Like an Indie label?"

"Sorta. We wanted to change the way radios and people perceived what music could be. Bring back that spirit, you know?"

There was a rush of excitement to Blaine's voice that gave Kurt delightfully wicked chills. It was arousing to hear his boyfriend be so passionate about what he wanted. "Then you should do it. And I will be, I am, so proud of you. I love you, Blaine."

Kurt could practically hear his lover's eyes close and his lips part in a smile. "I love you too, Kurt."

Wow, okay. I feel better. This story will have a total of five chapters and each of them has already been skeletoned, I just need to give them meat and skin :) I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and I look forward to reading your reviews. This piece will be rated T, however there will be mature chapters in the future. The uncensored work will be available for mature audiences at scarvesandcoffee.

Bradshaw belongs to the ever talented heartwolf, author of Little Numbers, which is a Klaine masterpiece. If you have not read this I highly reccommend it!

~Dai