Kurt was midway through cutting a sundress out of ugly floral pique - which, a note on the fabric indicated, was to be adorned with crystals after the shell was sewn, because what the fabric really needed was to be more busy - when a thud shook his table. His head jerked up in surprise, and he instinctively glanced down for a second to be sure he hadn't torn the fabric; no, of course not, the thick cotton would not die. He looked up again quickly and saw his boss standing across the table from him with a scowl. Stu had never smiled in Kurt's presence - not unless he was gossiping with other second-rung-up people about the stupidity and incompetence of lowest-rung people like Kurt, which he made sure to do every so often just near enough for it to be clear what he was saying without his actual words being overheard - but now he looked downright furious. His arms crossed over his chest, he glanced from the box that sat between them on the table up to Kurt and back again, as if to ask 'aren't you going to look inside?' Kurt craned his neck to peer in and saw large quantities of tulle jammed into the carton. He had no doubt that if he were to try to lift it out, it would explode like a pop-out snake toy into a stiff, wrinkled, difficult-to-work-with mess that would take over his workroom.

"Since you seem unable to do even the most basic parts of your job," Stu said with a sneer, and Kurt felt his stomach sink. This was about the collar. He'd thought he was okay because it had been a few days and no one had said anything; he had assumed that someone in the sewing room had just cut a new collar - the right one - and been too preoccupied with their work to decide to ruin the life of the boy who worked in the basement. "I thought I'd give you something simpler."

It was a lie, and a blatant one. While the person making petticoats was generally seen as less prestigious (and therefore less talented) than the person who got to cut the pieces of the actual garments, tulle was more difficult to work with than most people realized. There was a reason the man whose job it was to sew petticoats and crinolines and underskirts all day had a complex that was widely joked about. Silk may have required a gentler hand, but tulles and nettings were more wiley, less likely to lay flat, harder to pin without puckering or sliding, and almost impossible to refinish cleanly if cut wrong. The machines practically spat out netting in disgust, the thread breaking every few inches because even a skilled dressmaker had a hard time getting a constant tension on so-called fabric that was more hole than fabric, and because it just kept wrinkling and trying to fly away, Kurt could only imagine how long it would take him to complete whatever this new assignment was.

But he supposed he deserved it, right? Even though he'd only cut it wrong because the design was horrible in the first place, and even though he had had every intention of fixing it but it had been taken away before he'd had the chance...He had screwed up.

If he were still in Lima, he would have fought Stu about it, Kurt knew. If he were still living back there, if he were still the person he was when he lived there...the person who believed he was better than everyone around him and had a list a foot long that detailed the reasons why, the person who knew he was too good for the pathetic cowtown and its backwards yokels, the person who knew that New York held great things for him...

But that person had long since been crushed, beaten down under the weight of a cold city and smashed under the heel of an industry that was nothing like Kurt had envisioned, left to slink along the remnants of his discarded dream that seemed more remote, more unlikely, practically by the minute.

The new Kurt, the one who was stuck on the lowest rungs of the least-innovative company, unlike the positions the old Kurt envisioned himself taking, simply nodded and offered a tight, "Okay. I assume the pattern's in there?"

Stu smirked. "In the bottom of the box," he replied in a fake bright tone. Kurt would have to dig for it, pulling all the fabric out first before he could figure out what he was even meant to cut or make. Brilliant.

"You'll have it before I leave tonight," Kurt replied, pasting on an equally fake smile.

"Good. And if you don't fuck this one up, I might only make you cut tulle for a couple weeks instead of the rest of your life," Stu turned to leave, mumbling about how the little priss-ass had embarrassed him, then hesitated in the doorway for a moment. He turned back and, with a surprisingly curious expression, asked, "You have friends around here, right?"

Kurt's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the question. The answer wasn't important - that he had a few but nowhere near as many as he thought he would have. Besides, Rachel and Mercedes were more than adequate, and he wouldn't have lasted as long as he had were they not here. But that didn't matter; what mattered was why Stu had asked. "Why?" he asked slowly.

"Well, I just thought...you seem quiet down here, lonely, and if you're busy being lost in your own head it's going to make you screw up more." Kurt had a hard time refuting that one, but still wondered why precisely his boss - who had alternately hated him and delighted in humiliating him from day one - was taking such a sudden interest in his personal life. "Look, I get it: You want to be higher in the process, you want to design. No one wants to be stuck down here in the cutting room forever. But you've gotta pay your dues first - we all do. And believe me, when I was down here all day, the only way I kept from going crazy was to go out after work sometimes." There was something suspicious underneath the sudden burst of compassion, but Kurt couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he was just paranoid after all this time. Maybe the city had done that to him.

Maybe Stu was just a jerk because he was territorial. Kurt had long suspected the hierarchy was what really made people bitter around here, the way echelons were so strictly-defined and rungs on the ladder were equivalent to power no matter what a person actually did. Maybe Stu just kept himself distant from everyone, especially his subordinates, to make him better able to climb to the top. Kurt could understand that; he had spent enough time in his life keeping everyone at arm's length because it made it easier not to feel things.

He did it now, he realized slowly. He did it with Rachel - not telling her how much everything hurt sometimes, not telling her how many times a month he dreamed of going back to Ohio and reveling in simplicity and being the biggest freak the town had ever seen because at least then people would notice him, would know he existed, unlike here where a million people could pass him every day and yet if he were dying on the sidewalk no one would even stop except to kick him into the gutter to get him out of their way. He didn't tell her because he had to stay strong and uncaring and because saying it would make it all too real, too painful, and the next thing he knew he would be packing his bags to return to a place he remembered hating but couldn't remember why.

Maybe Stu was just as lonely as he was.

"There's a bar some of us go to sometimes - after work. Up on 81st. I think you'd like it." He scrawled an address and a name on the pad of paper on the corner of the desk, then turned to leave again before he added, "There are a lot of cute boys there who might be interested. Give you someone to release all that tension."

Kurt's eyes widened as he realized what Stu seemed to be saying. A bar with boys who were like him, who liked boys? A place to potentially find a boyfriend? But after last time- "What kind of a place is this?" he asked slowly, his face as skeptical as he could make it when the possibility of finding what he had been searching for was practically right under his nose.

"Bar, all guys, pretty mixed crowd."

"But not like the place in the park, where it's just a bunch of men clawing at each other?" he asked. He had no desire to ever see that again, let alone to take part in it or seek it out. It was the last thing he wanted. "Because that's not what I'm looking for."

Stu looked away for a moment, allowing Kurt to miss his smirk, then his cat-with-the-canary grin, and by the time he looked back at the wide-eyed young man his smile was more conventional. "You want a boyfriend." It was as much a statement as a question, and Kurt nodded, glad Stu understood what exactly he was seeking. "Don't worry, this isn't like the Ramble," he said with a half-laugh and a grin Kurt couldn't quite read. "You should check it out." His grin softened to an awkward smile as he added, "After you finish your work. Right this time?"

"Yes," Kurt replied, beaming at the prospect of having a lead on somewhere to find what he was so desperately seeking. The tulle punishment almost seemed worth it for that kind of information. "Absolutely."

* * * * *

"Hang on," Mercedes said, staring up at him from where she sat at the table. "Your jerk of a boss who has tortured you since you got the job, who came in to punish you for cutting something wrong-"

"Not wrong. Just not what the pattern called for," Kurt corrected, unable to stop smiling as he worked his way across the tiny kitchen to prepare dinner.

"He came in to yell at you and make you do gruntwork for the next month because you cut the collar that way. Then he just gave you an address to the place you've been wanting to go?"

"Well he didn't know that when he came in," Kurt pointed out as he carefully placed the marinated chicken breast into the pan. "He came in to yell at me, but then he realized why I did it."

"So he gave you directions to a homosexual bar because your designs are better than his?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, not sure what about this was so hard for Mercedes to understand without him spelling out the entire thing for her. "No, he gave me directions to a place with other homosexuals because he understands I'm lonely."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he thinks it will improve my work. He said it was because I was daydreaming, and it's true - I was. I was thinking about anything except what I was supposed to be doing."

"You were daydreaming because your job is boring," Mercedes corrected. "And if your work gets better, doesn't that threaten him? The way you talk about circles and ladders at that place, if you do well it means he's gonna be down a rung doesn't it?"

Kurt hesitated. That part was true, a little bit. Power around there was zero-sum, which was why the politics were so cut-throat. For every person who rose, another fell; for everyone who succeeded, another failed. "Well...sort of," he replied, busying himself with checking the vegetables in the steamer tray above the pot of boiling water.

"So why would he help you if it's gonna hurt him?"

"Because it might not," Kurt defended. "He's my boss, if I make him look bad it doesn't help him. So if I do well, that does help him because he can show he has leadership and supervisory potential." It was clear from the look on Mercedes' face that she didn't believe him. "I think it's bigger than that. I think he's a homosexual too."

Mercedes rolled her eyes, settling back in her chair. "And why do you think that?" That was harder to put his finger on than Kurt had realized until Mercedes wanted him to put it into words. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. He didn't know why it had felt so blindingly obvious except that it had. "Did he tell you?"

"Well, no-"

"Did he flirt with you?"

"Ew, Mercedes, no."

"So how do you know?"

"Because," Kurt said, trying to figure out a good way of describing the feeling. "It's just something you can tell sometimes. The way I felt kinship with Hiram and Leroy, the way I knew about Blaine, the way I felt like I understood Ricky within five seconds."

"Baby, you know I love you, right?"

Kurt turned quickly to look at her at the nonsequitor. "Of course."

"Because I do. And I want you to be happy even if I don't understand...all this. Right?"

If someone had told him when he was fifteen that there would be something that left Mercedes less comfortable around him than Rachel, he would have sworn the person was crazy. But Mercedes, for all he knew she loved him and wanted him to succeed, still wasn't completely comfortable with some of the more explicit conversations about him dating a boy. Not the way Rachel was, where she wanted them to go guy-watching together and embraced his untapped-sexuality almost as much as her own. But he knew Mercedes tried, so he simply replied, "What are you trying to say?"

"You really think there's a homosexual feeling? Something that makes you instantly understand all other guys who like guys just because of that?"

It wasn't something he could explain readily, nor was it something he had enough experience with to say for sure. But he thought there might be - there had been so far. He had felt like he understood Leroy so well just from going to dinner once, because his own experiences were similar and they had so many intangible things in common. He had felt an almost instant kinship with Ricky when they had nothing at all in common except their circumstances at that particular moment - he knew nothing else about the boy but felt like they were connected.

He had certainly felt it with Blaine, from the first time their eyes met - from the moment Blaine took his hand there was something there...

He had felt it for a moment with Stu this morning, too, a sort of kinship. Like he understood. Like he could feel Kurt's loneliness and had maybe even felt it himself. And he said "us" and "we" about the bar, too, which just underscored the point that they were in this together.

"Yes," he replied simply. There was a connection, there was something bigger there, even if he couldn't put it into words when Mercedes would inevitably ask him to explain it.

There had to be something bigger there. Otherwise he was just as alone as he felt, and that was too depressing to contemplate.

"I think you're crazy," she stated, and Kurt shot her a dirty look as he carried their plates to the table. "What is this?"

"Chicken breast and rice in a light mushroom sauce with broccoli."

"Why?"

"Because it's good," he replied, because what other answer was there?

"I went to school with all black people for a year, and I didn't feel connected to anything. It's not about finding people you share one trait with. I had as much in common with the girls at those school than I do with the girls in the group - which is nothing. If I had to eat one more meal with them, I would shove a hair dryer down Eva's throat."

"That's just because she's Eva. I would have cut off her hair in her sleep a long time ago," Kurt replied dryly.

"And that was before last week." Mercedes poked at the broccoli distastefully but dug into the rice hungrily. "She tried to go get Rocko to give her my solo by putting on her shortest dress and unbuttoning the top as far down as she could. My damn solo." She shoveled more rice into her mouth and shook her head, barely swallowing before she added, "I would've pulled her hair out by the roots if it weren't all a wig."

Kurt gave a withering smile, watching her fork scoop up more quickly. "Did he go for it?"

"No. He barely likes her more than we do. Don't get me wrong, he's a jerk, but he's not gonna be with her unless he can tape her mouth shut."

Kurt nodded, then asked, "So then why are you eating like there's an egg timer on your rice and whatever you don't eat in three minutes will disappear?"

She rolled her eyes. "Photo shoot next week." When Kurt looked confused, she added, "He wants me to lose fifteen pounds. Fifteen. Pounds. And they keep watching everything I eat and- Hey!" she exclaimed as Kurt whisked her plate off the table, carrying it swiftly toward the kitchen.

"Mercedes. You need to lose fifteen pounds in a week and you're shoveling rice into your mouth?" He shook his head as he set her plate on the counter.

"Can I at least have the chicken back?"

"I should make you some chicken broth - I hear it works wonders for Judy Garland," Kurt mused. "That's what she ate for years, and look at her. She looks fantastic."

"I barely got anything."

Kurt sighed and turned to look at her. "Mercedes. Do you want this?"

"Didn't you hear me say-"

"No. Not the chicken." He sighed again, not sure why she could never quite grasp that she was closer to living her dream than any of the rest of them. He knew things weren't perfect for her, but they were closer than they were for him or for Rachel, and at times he almost-...he didn't resent her, he was glad she was finding success. He was sorry she was stuck with her obnoxious groupmates and roommates and she fully understood that she wanted - and deserved - time away from them. He could sympathize with her having a smarmy, untrustworthy manager because his own boss had, until today at least, been similar.

But there were times he honestly wondered if she even cared about what it was she was trying to go after, or if she was just doing it because she would rather not go back to school and was too proud to go back to Ohio.

"Mercedes, you have an honest-to-god shot to live your dream. You're this close to getting a record contract, to getting to hear your own voice on the radio. Isn't that more important than a few days' worth of food?"

"You think I have to be thin to sing? Have you heard me?"

"I don't think you have to be thin to sing, but I think you have to be thin to get signed. Or to be an actress. Or to model on a runway. Just because no one back home is a couture 12 doesn't mean that's not what the stars are. It's not fair, but it's the way things are. And if not eating for a week could get me a promotion, would put my sketches in front of the right people? I would do it in a heartbeat." He shrugged and leaned back against the counter.

He wished it was that simple. He wished he could trade something relatively small to get what he had thought he would have by now. Hell, he wished there was something big he could trade because right now he would do it. But he didn't even have the option of that kind of currency. "Look at me - I spent all day cutting tulle. Tulle. To become underskirts for the ugliest dress I've ever seen because my boss got mad at me for having a design idea. He might be willing to help me personally, but he's not giving me any professional breaks. And right now Rachel's out with a director that I think is probably up to no good, but she won't hear it because she's so desperate to believe she's going to be a star that she has to cling to the first person in power to show her any attention or give her any praise. Nothing is turning out the way any of us planned, but at least you have a a chance to make it. If you throw it away over some chicken, that's just foolish. Fifteen pounds is huge, but not as huge as your talent."

She sighed, arms crossed over her chest. "So you think I should cave? Just do it?"

"I think I'm starting tomorrow on a gorgeous dress for your first meeting with the label," Kurt replied. "But it'll be a size smaller than usual."

Mercedes glared at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and replied, "Fine. But make me look great."

"It will," Kurt assured her with a smile, which she returned. "Let's go - I'll walk you to the subway. It's on the way up to this bar." Mercedes stood, casting a forlorn look at the trash as Kurt scraped the leftovers he wouldn't be able to salvage.

It wasn't until they were almost to the station that she finally asked what Kurt had been trying to avoid putting words to all day:

"If you think Rachel's director is up to no good, and we know Rocko's a snake...why are you so sure your guy's got your best interest at heart? I know you think he's lonely and stuff, but...what happens if you're wrong?"

Kurt wanted to tell himself it didn't matter - that even if Stu wasn't trying to help him, if worst came to worst he would still have a lead on a place to meet a boy. And that it really didn't matter because he really did believe Stu understood and wasn't a manipulative monster. He genuinely believed that Stu wanted to help him out the same way that Ethel did, that those who were different and living secretively needed to protect one another.

But Mercedes' question did give him pause, mostly because he didn't know that he had an answer.

* * * * *

Dinner was lovely.

Rachel had dreamed big as a child, even comparatively speaking - she had envisioned dinners in little black dresses with all sorts of famous producers and actors and bigwigs, talking about new projects and juicy gossip about her fellow actors. She imagined lounging on a chaise in a smoke-filled back room drinking champagne and listening to the Broadway power-brokers wheel and deal and create.

And here she was. She was sitting at a table in Sardi's, with a director who was going to make her his muse, eating a salad nicoise and drinking wine and feeling like she was in the middle of the best dream she'd ever had.

No fewer than three actors she recognized had come up to their table already. Cal knew them - he brushed it off, saying he had roomed with two of them when they all moved to New York a decade ago and that the third he had directed in a tiny summer stock production, he was so modest like that, but the fact was that he knew them. He knew all these famous people and could work the room with them, move among them with grace and poise Rachel could only feign...for now. She was destined for this, she knew; given a few more dates and a little more training under Kurt's watchful eye - he knew more about proper dinner etiquette than she could ever hope to on her own, and he had reluctantly educated her in the bare essentials before Cal's car came to pick her up.

...He had sent a car to pick her up. She could hardly believe it when the elegant black towncar had arrived in front of their building. Given their neighborhood she was almost surprised no one had vandalized it.

But with a little more training and a few more dates, she could move as gracefully through these circles as Cal did. She was looking forward to it.

She smoothed the front of her dress as Cal talked about his production last summer. Cal had complimented her on it as soon as she got out of the car and onto his waiting arm in front of the restaurant. She did like the beading, even if she couldn't quite get used to the way he stared at the embellishments around her neckline so frequently. He had auditioned Grace Kelly once, before she became a princess, and he said Rachel looked more beautiful tonight than she had.

She had barely known what to say to that. She had been called a lot of things in her life, had dabbled in flirtation with Finn and dated Jesse for a few months, but no one had ever called her beautiful before. Then he had told her that she could inspire a hundred musicals and she had been floating ever since.

He was so charming, so charismatic, and she could see their entire future together. He wrote in addition to directing - he told her about it offhand, like he didn't think she was paying attention, but she was - and she could imagine the fantastic art they could create together. He would write roles that would showcase her, would win her accolades and Tony awards, and they would be the new unstoppable power couple. They would host soirees with other musical theatre veterans and up-and-coming stars, and one of them or maybe Kurt would play the piano for everyone to sing all night. He would design her gowns for all the galas, too, so she could make him famous too. It would work to help make them all famous. All their dreams would come true because of this man who thought she was incredible.

She might be in love with him already. With that smile, with the way he looked at her as though he was subconsciously measuring her for elaborate costumes or planning how to best light her to capture her beauty onstage in a threatre that would seat thousands of people...all while talking about his adventures in the world of the Broadway production...she never wanted the evening to end.

He put the dinner on his tab - she'd never known anyone with a tab at a real restaurant before, nothing nicer than Breadstix - and pulled out her chair, then held out his hand for her to take as she stood. He looked her up and down again with a sweet grin before he suggested, "Let's take a walk."

With the stories he told and the way he engaged her as he spun tale after tale, she couldn't imagine much she would like more. Slipping her arm into his, she followed him out into the brisk November night, her mind reeling with the combination of the lights, the sounds of the city, her visions of the future, and the intoxicating smell of Cal's cologne.