Probably to anywhere that wasn’t Kurt’s apartment.

How had he ruined this so badly? He’d been trying to help. He’d been trying to offer Ricky somewhere he could be safe and innocent and romantic and open in the way that Kurt knew was rare for them both. He’d been trying to protect him against further arrest – let alone the indignity of having to-

But to no avail. Now his friend was winding his way through a part of the city Kurt knew he could never keep up in, almost certainly never to call again.

* * * * *

When the phone rang at 3:30 in the afternoon, Mercedes was draped across the living room rug on her stomach, the latest issue of Billboard open in front of her. With a roll of her eyes, she climbed to her feet and padded over to the phone. She’d learned the hard way during her first week in the apartment that Rachel got really paranoid about missing calls – she could understand that more now, she guessed. If she missed a call from someone wanting her to do another set, then it went to someone else, and if she missed a call from a booking agent who had seen her perform and wanted her for another gig, then she had missed her only chance. It was the same for Rachel with calls from her agent. And ever since Kurt started hanging around with that boy, he was more paranoid than usual about it. Practically the first thing he asked when he got home was whether anyone had called…and facing the wrath of either of them didn’t sound like a good way to spend her evening (or the following morning). She snagged a pad from the table on her way, ready to take a message, then plucked the receiver from its cradle on the fourth ring with a quick, “Hello?”

“Hey, munchkin!” Her brother’s bass-baritone voice let her know who was calling even before the nickname, which she detested.

“What have I told you about calling me that?”

“To do it as often as possible, right?” he teased, and she rolled her eyes a little. “How’ve you been?”

Mercedes set the pad down, picking up the phone and carrying it partway across the room so she could at least sit down while she talked. It had been awhile, and catching up could take some time that she didn’t want to spend standing around the kitchen. The one real advantage to Manhattan’s tiny apartments was that the phone could reach most of the way across it, unlike back home where if she was lucky she could move one room away – nowhere near up to her bedroom. “Good. How’s school?”

“Just finished finals so I’m done for a few months and can focus all my efforts on the march. You’re coming, right?”

“Why?”

“Oh, c’mon, Mercedes,” he groaned. “You’d like it. It’s not like school was, I promise.”

“How would you know?” she pointed out. “You like school.” It wasn’t just school her brother liked; he liked being surrounded by people like himself, by people like them. He liked talking about what it meant to be brought up in a world that looked at them a certain way, about how they could change things…and she didn’t. She understood it better now than she had at Spellman, she could acknowledge that much. She understood how good it felt to look out into a room and not feel like she had to make herself be something other than what she was. She loved the look of recognition in guys’ faces as they heard her start a song they knew and loved already – they all knew Ella and Billie and Dinah almost as well as she did. But she still wasn’t sure she would ever be as interested in politics of it as he was. Even in Lima, she had never felt like it was her job to change things the way her brother had – he’d been out there protesting their separate school from the time he was probably about 14; he had even wrangled Kurt into it a few times. He had always planned on being the one to make the world better, and she…well, she just wanted a place she didn’t have to worry about it so much. And for now, at least, she’d found that.

People didn’t bother her so much around New York. Certainly not the way they had in Lima, but then again most of the country north of the Mason-Dixon Line wasn’t as bad as Lima had been. But back there, it had been something people clung to, something that certain old men and women held onto under the banner of the phrase “the good old days.” Back in the good old days, they didn’t have to worry about things because there weren’t negroes around, and the negroes knew their place, and those colored kids didn’t try to go to school with their white kids. The way things had always been was something comfortable, something familiar that should be returned-to…unlike here. Here, in New York, even before she had found Harlem, it was the kind of place where anything the South did was seen as inherently backwards and ignorant. Of course it was wrong to keep black kids from going to school with their white classmates – only bigots did that.

Things weren’t perfect. She was well aware of it even without listening to people talking up at the club. But for what she wanted, for the things she needed in order to live happily, they weren’t so bad. She didn’t have to work as a maid, and black men were doctors and dentists and, if their offices were in the right part of town, white patients would even go see them without a second thought. That was all the further she’d dreamed when it came to equality of the races, and she was more than happy. She had a lot she still wanted professionally, of course, but that was different.

It just wasn’t different to her brother. He saw it all tied together and wouldn’t stop until everything was completely equal. He wanted it all to be fair. It was admirable, she guessed, even if it didn’t seem like something that would ever happen. Or maybe she just didn’t think much needed to change for her life to be fair now. Either way, spending her days talking about what it meant to be a proud black person wasn’t her idea of a good time.

“It’ll be great, Mercy, you’ve gotta come,” he urged. “From the way everyone’s talking, it’s gonna be huge – the biggest march yet. You can stay with me, so it won’t cost you anything but a bus ticket, and believe me, it’ll be worth it. You don’t know what strength feels like until you stand in a park full of people just like you and raise your voices to demand a place to call your own.”

“I have a place like that already,” she pointed out. “You should come up here and visit me instead, you’d love the club – it’s all the music you introduced me to. A couple guys in the band lived here during the Renaissance back in the 20s.”

“No one tries anything funny with you, do they?” he asked, and Mercedes rolled her eyes at how quickly he could go from a young man trying to change the world to a protective big brother who wanted to be able to report back to their parents that no strange men were trying to harass his sister in the big city.

“It’s not like that. Most of them are Dad’s age – or older. They look out for me.”

“Oh, he’ll love to hear that,” he chuckled.

Mercedes paused a minute before venturing, “How are they? I know they weren’t happy I missed Christmas. We had a gig, and it was a big deal, and-“

“Mom may have spent half the day grousing about how you could have been singing at our church instead,” he admitted, and Mercedes fought a sigh. She knew it was a big deal to miss Christmas at home, and she knew that coming on the heels of their disappointment in her for not finishing school it couldn’t have been easy. But what choice had she had? “And you know Dad doesn’t like that you’re there. But mostly they just worry about you – all alone in the most dangerous city in America and all.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know. That’s what I tell them when they ask if I’ve checked up on you lately,” he joked. “Besides, you’ve got people there. How are those crazy roommates of yours, anyway?”

“Rachel’s Rachel.” There wasn’t really any other way to describe her, and he laughed in understanding.

“And our little white brother?” he prompted teasingly.

Kurt was still a sore spot for her, and the way her brother mentioned him as though he was part of the family – and he was, she guessed, but she didn’t exactly want to be reminded of it when she didn’t know what in the world to say to him or how to talk to him. They were polite enough to each other, if cold…but it probably helped that in the week since their fight, Kurt had spent almost every night out searching for that boy. “He’s okay.”

“Okay? What’s going on with you two?”

“What do you mean?’

“I mean, since you two were eight years old, a question about Kurt would get a paragraph-long answer about what you’d done and who you’d pretended to be and where you’d looked at what clothes at the mall,” he laughed. “Two words, one of them ‘okay’? Something’s going on. You two have a fight or something?”

“Something like that,” she admitted. “He’s…I don’t know. He’s changed since we came here. I don’t really know how to talk to him anymore.”

“What do you mean, changed?”

“He’s just…really into…boys.” She was awaiting an uncomfortable silence, or maybe just a hum of understanding, but the response she received was puzzling.

“How is that a change?”

She blinked, eyes narrowing, as she tried to figure out how to respond to that. “Because it’s different, and he’s…obsessed or something.”

“Why? Because you’re not trying to see anyone, so he’s cramping your two’s style?”

“What? No! We’re not like that.”

“Then why?”

“Because it’s…wrong.” She wasn’t expecting the silence that followed, and when her brother didn’t respond to her statement she felt as though she needed to justify it. “It is – it says in the Bible that’s not okay, and I love him – I really do. He’s practically family. But that doesn’t mean…I have any idea what to say to him anymore. It feels like he’s just a completely different person.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kurt’s been queer as a three dollar bill since he was seven – and probably before that,” he laughed. “You can’t act surprised by it now. I knew and I was only nine.”

“How did you-“

“Most kids his age would be following me around the way my friend’s little brothers did. He spent all his time talking about clothes and musicals with you. That’s part of why you two got along so well when you hated all the boys you went to school with.”

In a way, she guessed maybe he was right. Kurt was always different, that was part of what she liked about him. What did she care about football and cars when boys in town would talk about them? But Kurt didn’t have any interest in them, either, and they could talk about singers instead. That was probably why he had been her first – and thus far only – crush. But that didn’t solve the real problem.

“But aren’t we supposed to help people we know are sinning so they won’t anymore?”

“We all sin, munchkin,” he pointed out.

“Sure, but that’s a bigger one than not always loving my neighbor.”

“In the case of that last roommate of yours, I don’t blame you,” he teased, and she grinned. “But…I don’t know. I guess I figure that loving my neighbor means taking him where he is, even if he sins roughly more or less than I do since God forgives all of it anyway. And besides – if Dr. King sees Brother Bayard fit to organize the entire march, and he’s a queer and a communist? What place is it of mine to judge?”

* * * * *

The third night of searching took Kurt back to Columbus Circle. He had no idea what he was expecting to find there but he was starting to worry that Ricky might be a lost cause.

He could understand why the boy was angry – or at least, why he was embarrassed which he was covering with anger. He could appreciate why Ricky might not be quite so eager to come back if he felt as though he were being judged, even though he wasn’t. And he wasn’t surprised that Ricky felt self-conscious about the job he’d been forced into, even though Kurt didn’t think less of him as a person or a friend. It wasn’t Ricky’s fault he had to do those things. He didn’t know what had happened or what twist in life had taken the two of them in different directions, rendering him gainfully employed in a job that – while imperfect – did allow him to keep a roof over his head without resorting to lewd activity for money…but forced Ricky into that type of horrible, day-to-day existence. But he wanted to try to help anyway.

He needed to.

He understood what it meant to be proud, too proud to ask for help, and he knew that even if he were in a situation like that he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone how awful things were. Hell, he couldn’t even tell Rachel how much of a disappointment this city was for him and that should have been a lot easier to admit than engaging in- in those activities. He knew how hard it could be to ask for help…but if someone would have known and offered, at the very least he could have-

Well, like Don and John. He couldn’t accept their offer right away, but at least he knew where to go when he was ready to try again. At least he knew who he could safely go to, who he could ask to take him somewhere he could find boys like him, a place he could be happy. At least he knew what his options were.

And now Ricky…

…well, Ricky did know, Kurt tried to comfort himself. Ricky knew he knew, and he knew that if he needed anything Kurt’s door was always open and his kitchen was always stocked. He knew that his call would always answered – Rachel was under strict instructions to stay home and listen for the phone all evening, just in case he called, just in case he needed somewhere – she was to invite him up, send him to Kurt’s room, heat up the soup in the fridge… Ricky knew that it was a safe place he could stay if he needed it – why else had he kept coming back? Why else had he shown up every few days, usually looking hungry and disheveled, if not because he knew Kurt would help take care of him?

He liked to think it was because of their friendship, but as he sat in the warm spring night, watching men dart into the Park every so often, he wasn’t so sure.

* * * * *

By the time Rachel stepped into the room for the audition, it was obvious exactly who the part was going to. It wasn’t hard to tell, really – the girls who looked like the next Julie Andrews exited the room with smiles on their faces while everyone else just looked tired. Nevertheless, she pasted on her brightest grin and opened her mouth to introduce herself and her selection.

“No. Thank you. Send in the next girl.”

She blinked, mouth falling open. Just because she knew who was faring best in the auditions didn’t mean she’d expected it to end quite this quickly. “But I didn’t even start my song-“

“You’re not what we’re looking for. Sorry. Next!”

“But-“

“Next!” he called again more insistently, his glower practically daring Rachel to try to question him again.

She’d had enough.

Turning on her heel, hair bouncing behind her as she stormed out with a flounce and a flourish, she strode quickly down the hall, down the stairs, and out onto 50th Street. This entire process was ridiculous. It had nothing to do with her talent, with her years of rehearsals and lessons and leads in productions. She had won her first dance competition practically before she could walk, she had played Annie Oakley at 7 and been in South Pacific when she was 10. She had taken piano so she could better appreciate the fundamentals of music, she had started every day with vocal warmup exercises for an hour before school from the time she was 8 until she moved to New York at 18, and that was in addition to being a member and lead vocalist of literally every singing group in Lima that was open to white high school students – and a few that weren’t. And for what? To be told she wasn’t what they wanted before she even opened her mouth so they could hear how good she was?

It was absurd. What was the point of being excellent if they couldn’t get past the way she looked?

…Unless…

She paused outside a storefront window, examining her reflection. Did she look so awful? Maybe not – but maybe so. She didn’t really know anymore. She looked like her mother, only not as tall thanks to her father’s short stature, and in either case…neither parent had ever really fulfilled their show biz dreams despite obviously having talent. She had always chalked it up to her mother being trapped in Lima to care for her husband and obviously-talented little girl, but maybe…

…Maybe even if she’d never come along, her mom wouldn’t have made it because of the way she looked. Dark hair, severe cheekbones, and a nose that – while not as obviously Jewish as many Rachel saw around the city – limited her prospects to visibly Jewish characters.

She couldn’t do anything about that, Rachel concluded as she gazed forlornly at the young potential star staring back at her. She couldn’t do anything about her nose or the shape of her chin or her height. But she could do something to alter her appearance.

On one hand, it felt strange – like selling out who she was to cash in on something better, shoving away her roots to make room for a new life. Mercedes had certainly said no to all of that when she was asked to make changes to herself…but then, Mercedes wasn’t a star, and Rachel planned to be. She could never be content with singing in clubs after hours; she wanted the entire world to know her name, and she was more than talented enough to make that happen. So the real question was, did she truly have the dedication and the will to do anything necessary to make her dreams come true?

With a determined nod of her chin and a fierce gleam in her eye, Rachel turned and strode down the block in search of a hairdresser that might be able to see her without an appointment. If it was Mary Martin they wanted, it was Mary Martin they would get.

* * * * *

Kurt wasn’t sure why every night seemed to bring him back down to the Village, but it did. Maybe it was just the area he knew best by now – a terrifying thought given its nonsensical street numbers and even more difficult to understand building numbering system. Maybe it just seemed like the place he was most likely to run into Ricky, seeing as how that was where he’d seen the boy the most.

Maybe he just didn’t know where to wander anymore.

He’d tried everywhere he could think of over the past five days – the Park, the Howard Johnson’s even though Ricky had said that ‘they’ got thrown out of there by management all the time, he checked Mama’s practically every hour on the hour because someone somewhere was bound to have seen him if John was right that everyone really did know the boy. He’d been uptown, downtown, even through Times Square which was apparently much creepier at night than he’d realized; somewhere in the sea of tourists and lonely businessmen, he could hear boys who sounded like Ricky, who might sound like him if their high voices weren’t so put-on, calling out like beacons to anyone who might want to help them buy dinner or find somewhere to spend the night-

It was so hard to still love this city sometimes. So hard to see the magic in a place that held so much more than just the theatres he’d dreamt of since he was six – also boys who had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but to call out dirt cheap prices for their bodies and practically wait for a cop to scoop them up before a so-called customer could. The disappointments for himself had been more than enough reason to doubt that this was the city of dreams he’d once envisioned; watching boys younger than him bargain for sex the way men back home would shop around for the best deal on a television set was downright horrifying.

He didn’t know why he’d never seen it before. He’d been through Times Square at night before – not often, but several times which should have been more than often enough. He remembered being fascinated by the shimmer of the iron and steel and chrome above the harsh glare of neon lights; he didn’t remember anything about boys his age being bought and sold for services like a mop. He would have remembered that, surely, he would have noticed.

Unless, as he suspected, he just didn’t want to notice. The same way that, in retrospect, he should have known what Ricky did to get by but had never put together until John forced him to.

In truth, he’d expected the call to come the way it always had. He expected that his friend – his best friend, the only boy he trusted with his secrets – would have come knocking on his door after a few days, when he got too hungry and tired and weary to spend another night on a park bench alone somewhere. But the call never came, leaving Kurt to circle the seediest spots he knew of in Manhattan and pray the police wouldn’t find his mere presence there as sufficient evidence to arrest him for planning to engage in homosexual activity of some kind or another.

From the things he’d seen in the past week, the last thing Kurt ever wanted to think about again was the idea of having sex with a man. It had been a ghost of a desire at the back of his mind before, something far down on the list of what he wanted from a boyfriend; now he found it hard to believe that any man who could do that with someone like Ricky, someone so desperate and defenseless, would ever value him in the way he deserved.

Rounding the corner toward the park near where streets crossed themselves, Kurt froze as he saw what certainly seemed like a familiar head of tiny curls atop a too-slim body. He paused, tilting his head a little to get a better look. The boy was dressed oddly, as though trying to pull something together with a very limited closet and fabric selection – a pink scarf around his forehead to push his hair up and back from his face, which sported too much makeup: heavy eyeliner, too much blush, and red lipstick that had smeared more than the wearer would have been happy with had he known. The dress – if Kurt could really call it that, which would have been charitable – looked like an old curtain and not a very good curtain at that. From the dingy brownish sections at the bottom to the putrid olive green damask, it was obviously an inexpensive fabric choice and not a person’s first selection. Around his waist was a rope, wound around at least four or five times to help give the illusion of an hourglass figure, although the silhouette lacked any real bust line or hips to help fill it out so it just succeeded in making the boy look emaciated. But something about the way he moved was still familiar, and before Kurt could stop himself he called out, “Ricky!”

The boy looked up, then froze as he saw Kurt, his gaze closing off into a hardened glare. He spun on his toe, which would have appeared more dramatic had the curtain been a fabric that took movement well; instead, it shifted stiffly around his legs before settling back into place. Ricky hurried further into the park, and Kurt very narrowly avoided being hit by oncoming traffic on Eighth Avenue to try to make it to the tree-lined path before losing sight of his friend. Even now, Ricky pranced more than he ran, and as they moved further from the entrance even the prance turned into an angry stride, hips jutting angrily from one side to the other as he moved. “Get lost,” he spat over his shoulder. “No one wants to be reminded it’s a boy they’re fucking, and you just blew my cover.”

The phrase was absurd on its own, outside of a spy movie, let alone the idea that Ricky was believable enough as-…well, as anything other than a young boy in a ridiculous costume and maquillage. “Then why do it?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious even when he didn’t want to think about it so much.

Ricky sighed deeply and turned to face him. In the harsh glow of the streetlights, his eyes looked sunken beneath the heavy black mascara he wore, his cheeks jutting out of his face highlighted by the petal pink blush. “You already think you know, so just take that answer and go away,” he replied…but instead of rolling his eyes and turning to leave again, he simply waited with a bored expression, as though he were a parent explaining something painfully simple to a toddler. It was patronizing as hell, as Kurt had no use for it.

“You need help,” he stated. “You need money. I don’t know what must have happened to make things this way – you’re smart, that much is obvious, and you do have fashion sense although this current ensemble is making me rethink that-“ He hoped the joke would remind Ricky of the things they had in common, the things they could talk about. It had been a way to coax the boy back to his apartment at least once before that he could remember, but it wasn’t effective now. His grin faded and he tried to look like he hadn’t just attempted such a pathetic attempt at pseudo-humour. “I don’t know why this is what you think you have to do, but I can help.”

“You can’t,” Ricky replied sharply.

“I can get you-“

“No,” he stated firmly. “You don’t get it. I like it here. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing. I am doing exactly what I would be doing anyway if I were just a fag like everyone else in this city, only I get something out of it. I’m doing what you’d do if you weren’t so scared of the police, but it buys me dinner instead of just making me feel cute. And I am – you should see the way the boys come for me,” he added. The exaggerated tone was back, which was never a good sign, but he looked dead serious. “You want to try to save me. I don’t need saving and I don’t want to be part of your little dream world. Go find some other boy to rescue.”

“It’s not-“

“I have plenty of mon-“ He lowered his voice to a whisper, eyes darting nervously around as he informed Kurt, “I have plenty of money. It’s warm out, and I like the freedom. And I like men liking me. So whatever that makes me, that’s fine with me.” His head bobbed as he said the last part, voice getting louder and more accented, more sibilant. “Now get lost. I don’t need you.”

As the boy turned to walk away, the words tumbled out of Kurt before he could stop them. “I need you.” The puzzled look on Ricky’s face bought him a few seconds to compose himself, to try to walk himself back from the embarrassing admission he’d made and the even more mortifying way in which he’d made it. “I need you around,” he stated in a more together voice, sounding far less desperate than he had, but Ricky still laughed – laughed!

“Oh Vonny – god, baby, you’re sweet, but you’re so-…no. You’re too much like me. You’d never be my type. There are boys for you out here somewhere, just look for ones who don’t do scare drag and-“

"No! Oh, no. No. Definitely not,” Kurt stated firmly, eyes wide in near-horror at the idea of ever trying to have sex with Ricky even for emotional connection rather than something more clinical or – worse yet – mercenary. “I didn’t mean-…I don’t think of you that way, either. I could never…”

“Good.”

“I meant…” He tried to find a good way of explaining what it was he did mean. It wasn’t something that came readily for him, talking about how much people meant to him, and it was even more difficult with Ricky who rejected so much sentimentality as cheesy even though he did love romantic books and Disney movies and- “You’re the only person I don’t keep secrets from. You’re the one I tell them to. And you make me laugh even when things hurt so badly – that’s not easy, you know. Talk to people who know me and they’ll tell you-“

“I know,” Ricky confirmed.

“My dad spent most of junior high school trying to get me to even crack a smile, but around you…” He flashed a faint one for Ricky’s benefit, hoping it would help to convey what he meant. The boy was so hard to read when he wanted to be, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted just so, mouth tight, eyes narrow but not glowering. “If this were anyone else, I would be bothered by it – those boys in Times Square were so heartbreaking, but you…I couldn’t stand anything happening to you. And not just because you’re the only person I don’t have to tell about what it’s like to be thrown in jail, but that’s part of it, too.”

“You only know one other person who’s been tossed in for a night?”

Kurt nodded. “When I was arrested – the first time, when Ethel-“ Ricky nodded and gave him a quick ‘get on with it’ hand gesture. “I was at the park because I was trying to find other men like us. I wanted a boyfriend so badly, I was so…lonely.” It hurt even saying the word, the ache flooding back to him so suddenly it felt like his chest might squeeze and contract until it killed him. “That isn’t the case anymore.”

Ricky nodded slowly, just a tiny bit, still held so tightly that Kurt had no possible way of gauging what the boy might be thinking. “I…like spending time with you,” he admitted haltingly, as though it pained him to do so for reasons Kurt couldn’t begin to fathom. “And not just because your tv is big and you’re a great cook. And the musicals you want me to like…aren’t awful.” The last part was an understatement, and Kurt knew it. He glared playfully at Ricky, who rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms, throwing up his hands as he admitted, “Ok, ok, no need to get like that – I like them. Well, most of them – that Oklahoma one…” He shook his head, rolling his eyes again. “But I named you after one, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Kurt acknowledged with a soft smile.

“So there ya go.” Ricky turned to leave, less angrily this time but still not what Kurt wanted.

“Wait.” Ricky paused but didn’t turn back, simply looking over his shoulder with a ‘what now?’ expression. “Stay with me?”

Ricky sighed. “I’ve gotta work, Vonny. You understand, don’t you baby?”

“Please.”

There was a long pause, then Ricky turned slowly and there was another long pause, before finally he spoke. When he did, his tone was one of certainty that left no room for argument or negotiation, no room to wiggle around what he decreed would happen. “I’m not stopping what I do,” he stated first and foremost, and when Kurt opened his mouth to protest, Ricky held up his hand. “I’m not some damaged little coloured boy you can save. I’m not a project – I know what I’m doing, and I like it. And if that’s not something you can learn to be at peace with, then I can’t know you anymore.”

It was so awful, thinking of Ricky doing those things – the way he had all week. And the idea that his friend could think something so awful was so- so normal and fun and worth doing even under these conditions-…but then, Mercedes thought he was crazy and sinful for being who he was and wanting the kinds of relationships he wanted. Maybe he needed to show the boy a little more of what he wished she would show to him. He quirked an eyebrow to indicate he was ready to at least proceed to the next condition.

“Good choice, Vonny,” Ricky praised with a faint smirk before stating, “I pay some of the groceries – I don’t look like it, but you know I eat.”

“Oh, I do,” Kurt agreed. The boy ate more than he did more often than not, and even if Kurt assumed most of that had to do with being starving so much of the time, he supposed that groceries were a small price to pay.

“And rent.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

"No," Kurt insisted more forcefully, horrified by what extra work Ricky would have to do to make that kind of sacrifice.

Ricky nodded, then looked like he was ready to leave. “Then we’re done.”

“This can’t possibly make enough-“

“You’d be surprised. I’m very good.” The proud smirk turned Kurt’s stomach, but he swallowed hard and nodded. “Your roommates are gonna love this. One can’t stand me and one loves the idea of us being in love.”

“I’ll worry about them,” Kurt assured him. They stood awkwardly for a moment before Kurt ventured, “Do I need to let you go…work now, or-“

Ricky paused a moment, biting his lip, then replied, “You had more musicals to play for me, didn’t you?”

“There are always more musicals. You haven’t even seen Rachel’s collection. It’s bigger than mine.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“That’s Rachel,” Kurt replied.

They paused in silence again before Ricky offered, “Then we better get going, if we want to get through more than one a night. But I’m buying dinner. Do you like Chinese? There’s a place I love only a few blocks from here, up on 22nd, and it’s open late.”

His tone left no room for argument. Kurt supposed that, for now, he would have to learn to oblige.