Except when he thought about it too hard.

Still, he felt sufficiently rested to get up early and make breakfast. Usually he and Rachel split the household duties, and he had always enjoyed cooking to relax. The first summer in the apartment, he had found himself making more meals than they could possibly eat and using up most of their budget on food because the simple act of whisking egg whites helped to ground him. If he could focus on something other than life's disappointments, he could slip past the bitterness and frustration a little more easily than if he was left to dwell and stew in the living room or tried to sing out his devastation at the top of his lungs.

Their neighbours weren't too fond of that coping mechanism, either. Some days he didn't care, but other days the last thing he wanted to deal with were irate people showing up at their door. It really put a damper on his plan to try to stay positive about the city and his prospects and his chances of staying lonely forever.

With his morning face routine complete and Rachel still in bed, he set to making waffles. He wondered if Carole had ever managed to get the egg whites all fluffy like his father preferred - he'd had plenty of practice, but she was still so new at all of the homemaker duties that sometimes he wondered if his father was even surviving with him gone. He knew that was silly, that his father had eaten just fine the year he was at Dalton, but there were times he wondered. Of course, neither his father nor Finn were nearly as particular about food - or anything really - as he was, so he supposed it was probably a case of 'good enough for me' and they left it at that.

He wasn't sure whether that thought was liberating or completely depressing - not being needed in Ohio like that. Three years ago it would have been his salvation; he had worried for awhile whether his father would be able to manage without him if he moved so far away, if his familial obligations and need to run a tire shop would keep him in that cow town forever - that horrible, backwards place that somehow looked better to him every day he wasn't there. Now it felt...well, it felt like New York: like he was disposable, completely interchangeable with any other boy in that house. Like his father and Carole and Finn were living as a perfect little family and he was the one who was so different that even New York couldn't handle him.

That was ridiculous, he told himself as he whipped the batter harder. Especially now that Finn had gone and joined the Navy, so it was just his dad and Carole in that big house they had moved into after the wedding. He was sure they were probably enjoying the opportunity to be newlyweds, even at their ages, and he was glad his father was happy. He really was.

He just wanted a little happiness for himself, too. That was all.

"Good morning," he said brightly as Rachel padded out from her bedroom, hair in low pigtail braids, her nightgown displaying a disturbing quantity of lacy ruffles. "Breakfast should be ready in a minute."

"Someone's cheerful this morning," she pointed out. Even a year later, the fact that Rachel took a few minutes to wake up properly and stop seeming so bleary-eyed and grumbly was a novelty he felt like he should be able to exploit somehow. She maintained that five minutes to wake up was hardly out of line; he was fond of pointing out that it was closer to fifteen or, on occasion, twenty. In either case, he supposed it wasn't too big a price to pay for her company. They really did get along surprisingly well as roommates - both fastidious about their space, understanding of one another's ambition...it really was a perfect match. Were they compatible in other ways, Kurt wouldn't have objected to actually dating her...but then, his safety was part of what she found so intriguing, he was pretty sure. She did have a tendency to pine after boys she could never have.

He wondered if that was why she never brought boys around. His reason was obvious; hers, less so. He supposed she was probably telling herself she was focusing on career, but he wasn't sure he understood that logic. If he could find a boy to love him, it wouldn't take away all of his complaints about his career progress or lack thereof, but it would certainly improve his spirits about the whole thing.

"Just well-rested," he replied simply as he placed a bowl of mixed berries on the table and checked the waffle iron.

"You did go to bed pretty early last night," she observed. "Still resting from the night before?" The pointed look was a sign of her really waking up, and Kurt just hoped she wasn't quite alert enough yet to notice the stiffening of his back or the way his fingertips gripped the formica countertop.

He couldn't answer questions about it - not now, not ever. He didn't know how to even start to tell her about what had happened, about the hedonistic playground of the park and how achingly close he felt to being able to find what he was looking for, only to have some guy grab him and then a police officer arrest him for doing nothing but being who he was in the company of others who were like he was. He couldn't begin to describe the looks on their faces or how utterly humiliated and- and violated he had felt by it all, how the other men in the cell had looked at him, or the complete confusion and relief of meeting Ethel, or the boy he couldn't quite get out of his mind.

He wondered if Ricky had gotten home safely. If he had gotten arrested again in the meantime.

If he knew where to find other boys. If he had a boyfriend, someone he could explain everything to who would understand what it was about those names that were making Kurt's eyes well up to even think about, even though he knew it was stupid because it wasn't as though he hadn't heard every one of those words before - directed at him, even.

And besides, even if he could talk about it with Rachel, even if he had the words to explain any of it, he still couldn't. They didn't utter anything that sounded like "We should pack up and go home." After the first few months, they had made an unspoken rule against that kind of self-pity and desperation. He couldn't tell her about the city's most wrenching disappointment to date because he knew the next words out of his mouth would be that it was no better than Ohio here. In some ways worse because at least in Ohio he could go largely unnoticed; he doubted the police had suddenly sprung upon the park without knowing that was a place where homosexuals gathered - even Officer Krupke wouldn't just happen upon such a gathering without knowing what he was looking for. It was just like the raid of the drive-in back home. And if he had escaped for a reason and that reason didn't exist, then...

...then Blaine was right.

Which was why he couldn't say anything to Rachel about it. He couldn't utter those words out loud without wanting to curl up in his bed and disappear. Not after telling himself for two years that he was the victor.

"I was working late," he explained, his voice tight and distant, and he took a moment to make sure he was fully collected before he glanced over his shoulder at Rachel to see whether she bought it.

"Usually you call," she pointed out, which was true - if he was going to be later than usual, or if he hadn't told her that he planned on meeting Mercedes at Columbus Circle after work, he generally called so she didn't wait to eat until he arrived.

"I didn't realize how late it was," he offered, knowing it was a horrible excuse, and she looked skeptical for just a moment before lighting up.

"And then you tried to call but it was already after midnight," she concluded. "I tried to get to the phone in time, but it had stopped ringing by the time I found my robe." He didn't know why she thought she needed her robe to answer the phone when she was the only one in the apartment, but he didn't bother to ask. "Well. I'm just glad it wasn't anything serious. Are you working late tonight, too?"

He gave a quick shake of his head. "Not that I know of." He placed a plate of waffles in front of her and turned to get his own.

"If you are, call me," she requested as she delicately spooned berries onto her breakfast. "I want to try a casserole recipe I saw."

"I will," he replied as he sat across their tiny table from her.

She began to cut her waffles, then cocked her head slightly to the side and smiled broadly to herself. Glancing up, she stated, "This feels so domestic." He wasn't sure why that occurred to her after more than a year of doing this, but he had learned not to ask those questions of Rachel. "You make an excellent homosexual boyfriend."

There were so many things he could say to that, but all he could manage was a tight, wavery smile as he began to eat his breakfast. He only wished someone else would think so.

* * * * *

By the time he arrived at work, Kurt had managed to resuscitate his mood to the point where he wasn't spending every second wondering if everything he had done in the previous three years had been one giant mistake. It was a feeling that came and went, and it had for the previous three years, but at least for the moment he had consoled himself with the knowledge that, were he still in Ohio, he would be spending this time changing tires wearing a jumpsuit while Finn ate all the donuts (except not, and that was even stranger to think about) and customers shot confused looks his way while his father had to quietly defend him. And he would have to be actually dating Rachel instead of just pretending to - and even at that, they barely pretended anymore anyway. There was no need when they didn't run in circles with the same ten people and family members weren't constantly prying to see what they were up to and whether they were contemplating marriage yet. They didn't need to make a production of their "relationship," even if their landlord did find them incredibly strange for wanting a two-bedroom apartment together rather than two studios in the same building. At least here there was still hope of each of them finding someone who could understand them.

And the clothing options, while limited-by-choice for everyone else, were still much preferable to Ohio where he had exactly one mail-order catalog for all his coats. That had just been unacceptable. At least here, there were thousands of stores he could choose from (when he had the money) and the possibility of career advancement. Maybe not as quickly as he had hoped, but it was still better than nothing. While Givenchy and Yves Saint Laurent had found huge success very early on, that wasn't typical and he knew that, so all hope was not lost. Patience wasn't his strong suit, but waiting was far superior to floating with no possibilities on the horizon and not even the potential for things to improve. Things could all be a lot worse.

His smile was only a little forced as he greeted the girls in the front office, both of whom complimented his blazer with wide red, black, and grey stripes and his black tie woven with metallic Metlon threads. Though men with more manual-intensive jobs, even in the couture and runway departments, were permitted to dress a little more casually, but Kurt refused. Being blue-collar had never influenced his fashion choices in Ohio and it certainly wasn't about to when
he worked in fashion. There was always the chance that he would be selected for additional assignments based on his clear sense of personal style - though that possibility seemed remote with every passing day.

He descended the stairs to his workroom and hung his overcoat by the door. On the edge of his work table was a stack of fabrics and muslins with a note detailing precisely what needed to be made. An ugly beige-gold floral brocade with a matronly empire-waisted dress - just what the world needed, another one of those. A hideous floral print sundress with a note that rhinestones would be added to the flowers later.

Maybe he should send his portfolio to Givenchy again. Or he could try Balmain's ready-to-wear division, because if this was what passed for couture he supposed there really was no such true thing anymore.

But that would be tonight. First he had to recut the collar from the night before. He turned to the table by the door to grab the grey silk-

It was gone. The table was empty.

No. That didn't make sense, why would there be nothing on there when he wasn't done yet with- Unless someone had come by already to pick it up, but it wasn't done yet. It still needed the collar cut because he had done it wrong and there was no way that his luck could be so bad that the one time - the one time - he cut something wrong, they would come get it early before he could correct it. Even he couldn't have that bad of a break that on the day after he spent the night in jail for doing nothing at all, he made a single, solitary mistake at work that was now going to be seen by everyone higher than him including the boss who already hated him for no good reason. There was just no way-

He began to look through the workroom quickly, looking under tables, searching under benches and in boxes and places that there was no way the fabric would have ended up unless someone was actively trying to mess with him, but to no avail. The fabric had already been taken upstairs to be sewn.

At this rate, he would end up back in Ohio whether he wanted to or not because he couldn't very well afford rent when he lost his job. A hundred people wanted this thankless job, and while Kurt doubted any of them had his eye for style or would know why the collar was horrible in the first place, they would at least be able to cut it correctly which was, at present, his one and only responsibility.

He was definitely getting fired.

* * * * *

Rachel had a really good feeling about this audition. She couldn't figure out why, but it didn't matter. She knew it was going to go her way. And because she was a little bit psychic and therefore could trust her instincts on things like this, she was absolutely getting this part.

The theatre was tiny, not even 200 seats, and to be honest she wasn't entirely sure why she had even bothered coming on the audition because such a small venue was unlikely to ever result in her getting a starring role on Broadway, but at this point she was getting desperate. A lot of famous plays had gotten their starts here at the Cherry Lane Theatre (which was on Commerce Street, nowhere near any streets named for fruits of any kind), and maybe, if she was cast in a production off-Broadway, she could make the transition to the Great White Way with the show. Besides, Tonys were given for only two categories of people: those who revived a classic role, and those who originated a role. No one won a Tony for being the third person to play Maria, they won for being the first. And how better to show her creative and interpretive skills than to create a role out of nothing without any previous portrayals to base the character on?

There were far fewer actresses waiting in the pre-audition room here than on prior auditions, which was cause for both optimism and skepticism. If no one else wanted this role, was it really worth considering? While an established actress could survive being associated with a flop, a new actress couldn't.

But who was she kidding? She needed this part, she needed to be on stage again, to hear the cheer of the crowd - however small - and to feel them feeling her emotions, to sing at the top of her lungs and not worry about their neighbours banging on the walls or ceiling to tell her to stop. She missed that so much she craved it and dreamed about it and was close to starting to sing on a streetcorner just because she desperately needed to hear people applauding for her. Of course, she knew she was more talented than some busker - no half-drunk man with a guitar could hold a candle to her passion, years of training, or skill - but as a last resort it might have to do.

Assuming she didn't get this.

She found herself halfway looking for Bobby as she walked through the narrow halls under the theatre, from the girls' holding room toward the stage. She did tend to see a lot of the same people at audition after audition - the girl who had gone two before her was also at the audition for "Nowhere to Go but Up", and at least three of the other girls had been at the auditions for that "Stop the World' one, and two of the girls with short hair had auditioned with Rachel to play little boys in Oliver!, but apparently with no luck for any of them. She wasn't sure where they were holding the boys or if they were even also auditioning today, but maybe this would be a chance for both of them. Bobby was definitely talented, and he was charismatic and oozed leading-man potential with that smile, and while she was a very talented actress it would make playing a romance easier if she had chemistry with the gentleman picked to play opposite her.

The stage lights were cheap, outdated, and as she stepped out onto stage she found herself unable to see out to the audience even a little; usually with a little squinting, once her eyes adjusted for a minute, she could see the director and better read him, but not in the harsh glare of these lights.

"Who are you?" came a disembodied voice from somewhere in the house.

"Rachel Berry," she stated, noting with approval the excellent acoustics.

"What are you singing?"

"So in Love, from Kiss Me Kate." She had heard other actresses give the name of their song like a question, as though they were unsure, and while she had spent a considerable amount of time selecting just the right number, she was sure of both its name and the fact that it was perfect. The character she was auditioning for was sultry but vulnerable all at the same time, which made this a great number to showcase her ability to play both sides, and it was an excellent choice to demonstrate her vocal range in addition to the emotional range.

"Ah." The voice - or at least the person whose voice it was - sounded rather unenthusiastic, as though he had heard it too many times already to be interested, but Rachel was undeterred. Just because there were other girls who sang the song she had selected didn't mean that she wouldn't have the edge over them all. "Well, whenever you're ready."

She drew in a deep breath, then nodded to the accompanist who squinted at her music for a moment before he began to play.

Strange, dear, but true, dear,
When I'm close to you, dear,
The stars fill the sky,
So in love with you am I.

It had been a long time since she had felt so comfortable on-stage, so unrushed. Usually there was practically an assembly line of auditions - sing a few bars, get an "Okay, thank you," and leave to go wait by the phone obsessively for days or weeks before concluding there was no callback. At times it could all feel so rote, but there were moments where Rachel felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be: on a stage, in a theatre, with just her voice and the darkness beyond the stage lights.

Even without you
My arms fold about you.
You know, darling why,
So in love with you am I.

There were times she thought about going home. Times she wondered if this had been foolish - coming all this way and leaving everything behind only to fall flat on her face. Some of the girls she heard audition were really good; she was talented, and she knew that, but some of them were even beyond her abilities. And then she would see them again at auditions a few weeks later, which meant even they hadn't been good enough to get the part they were both going out for. And if they weren't good enough, where in the world did that leave her except in a tiny apartment with Kurt.

He was the reason she didn't say anything. She didn't want him to think that he needed to pack up his life and leave, too, because she knew that he probably couldn't stay - at least not in their apartment - by himself out here. And New York was his dream, too, she couldn't just change her mind or move back to Ohio to perform in Cleveland where they were closing all the theatres in Playhouse Square. And he was such a good friend that he wouldn't want to keep her in New York if he knew she was unhappy, so she couldn't tell him how horrible things were sometimes. She couldn't tell him how humiliating it was to go to these auditions and feel like a backwoods yokel who could barely sing a note compared to some of these girls who had been training professionally, who had Broadway credits to their name - or at least off-Broadway credits like this one.

But when she got up onstage, when it was just her and the darkness and her voice, she still felt unstoppable. Just for a moment. Just as long as she could lose herself in the melody and the bigger-than-life emotions. She would always be in love with the theatre.

In love with the night mysterious
The night when you first were there.
In love with my joy delirious
When I knew that you might care.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was surprised when the director or other creative team didn't cut her off as she moved into the bridge. Usually they kept songs pretty short, feeling they needed to hear only a few bars - or sometimes only a few notes - before curtly cutting her off. She wasn't entirely sure if that meant the director had left the room to go get a cup of coffee and forgotten about her or if, as she more strongly suspected, they were so enjoying her performance that they didn't want to stop her. Unable to stop a smile from crossing her face despite the highly emotionally-charged nature of the song and its lyrics of unparalleled, unwavering devotion, she charged on with more power and confidence.

So taunt me and hurt me,
Deceive me, desert me,
I'm yours 'til I die,
So in love,
So in love,
So in love with you, my love, am I.

Her eyes began to adjust to the lighting and she looked out beyond the edge of the stage to try to see the director. A man in his mid-to-late 30s, he was resting his chin in his hand as he looked absently toward the stage, a dreamy expression on his face as though he were under the spell of her voice, and she felt almost giddy at the thought. He understood. He could see the beauty of her talent and could appreciate her abilities. He was impressed by her - or maybe by her potential. Maybe that was what the dreamy look was for, he was imagining all the roles he could cast her in.

She could be his muse.

Yes! That was perfect. Every great artist needed a muse, and while this show wouldn't make her a star - yet - the right actress could make a part her own and make herself a star, and with the right person writing and directing her, with someone who was inspired by her...they could be an unstoppable team.

In love with the night mysterious
The night when you first were there.
In love with my joy delirious
When I knew that you could care.
So taunt me and hurt me,
Deceive me, desert me,
I'm yours 'til I die,
So in love,
So in love,
So in love with you, my love, am I.

As the last note resonated through the tiny auditorium, she heard the voice from before call out, "Lights please, Mac?" and the floodlights dimmed. She saw the director approaching the stage with a smile that was part thoughtful and part adoring. "That was incredible."

It had been so long since someone - well, someone other than Kurt - had complimented her that it felt overwhelming to hear even such simple words of praise. Like the time Kurt had reluctantly hugged her after she'd had a particularly bad day and the simple affectionate act had seemed like it might break a dam inside of her after being untouched for so long. Back in Ohio, she'd gotten used to things, to being told she was incredible, to being hugged and touched, to being the star. Now, starved for all of it, even the slightest glimmer of that which she needed was almost too fantastic to believe.

"Thank you," she replied, a beaming grin crossing her face.

It had been too long since someone recognized her talent. But she wasn't about to say that out loud. People apparently found that intimidating or grating, or so her mom claimed.

"I've seen a dozen girls do that song in the past couple weeks as we've been casting, and that was by far the best. Better than Patricia Morison, even," he stated, and Rachel's grin stretched even further. He thought she was better than the original. That was the highest praise a director could give in a land where the original cast was golden, as far as she was concerned.

Even if she did prefer other renditions for their tonal quality or emotional depth.

"I think I prefer Shirley Bassey's version," she admitted. Kurt had played it over and over for a few weeks at one point before Mercedes demanded he return her album.

He looked surprised for a moment before leaning against the stage casually and asking, "Have you heard her do 'Climb Every Mountain'? I don't like the scoops at the beginning-"

"But the emotion as she goes into the repeat is beautiful."

"Stunning," he agreed with a smile, then extended a hand up to her. "I'm Cal."

With him on the floor and her on stage, she had to kneel down in order to reach his outstretched hand. He kissed the back of hers, and she blushed because she'd never had a man do that to her before. "I'm R-"

"Rachel Berry. See? I remember?" There was something entrancing about his smile, something that wanted to draw her in immediately even had he not been complimenting her. "We still have some auditions to get through, and of course we have to confer about callbacks, but you really were fantastic. And it's obvious you love music - it's rare to find a beautiful girl who lives and breathes it as much as I do." He flashed a grin and added, "May I take you to dinner to continue the conversation?"

She didn't even know what to say. A director - of a tiny show, sure, but a director nonetheless - thought she seemed like a lively conversationalist in addition to being incredibly talented and a probable callback? She had to be dreaming. This was too amazing for words.

It had been a slow start, but things were finally going to change now. The movies were right, it really did only take one person seeing you and recognizing your talent, and your entire career could just start. She was on her way now. She was a sure thing.

Okay, maybe he wasn't quite saying that, not in as many words, but from the way he was smiling at her it was obvious. She had the role sewn up. There was no way he was going to select anyone else after the way he was smiling at her and complimenting her. She had seen how directors treated everyone else, and then there was this. This was how a star was treated - or, in her case, a future star.

This would be an entire chapter of her memoirs. She had started writing them when she was 10 and was now on chapter 15. Chapter 15 would be the place where everything changed, where her entire life as the public knew it began. She would be able to write about how she had sung about being so in love with the stage that the director couldn't help but find her entrancing and needed to cast her in his small-yet-exceptional production. Then they could talk about music for hours at a time and she could inspire his next project, where naturally she would be a fit for the lead (having essentially created the role for herself and in precisely her range to maximize belting). Tony awards would follow immediately thereafter.

This was amazing.

Cal turned to return to his seat, pausing a moment to toss a smile over his shoulder at her, and Rachel stood slowly. Her head was spinning as she smoothed her skirt and walked offstage, the theatre echoing with the sound of her character shoes on the stage. There was a pause, then an "Okay, next!", and she could hear the smile in his voice. A girl who had already racked up several ensemble credits, stepped out onto the stage and launched into "Wonderful Guy" from South Pacific. She made it barely four lines before Cal cut her off with a "Thank you very much!"

...She really had been special. He didn't let just anyone finish, and he didn't compliment everyone.

She was on her way.

Fighting the urge to squeal in delight, she clapped her hands together and rushed out of the theatre, ready to tell everyone in the West Village that she was, at long last, about to become a star.