It took Kurt walking past the bar four times before he finally found it. The decrepit brick building with thick boards over the windows looked like it had been condemned years ago and no one had ever gotten around to tearing it down, and it wasn't until he saw a middle-aged man duck inside that he even believed a person could go inside. Whether it was safe to do so without the roof caving in remained up in the air - pun not intended, even if it did make him chuckle nervously to himself. He doubled back past number 127, a closed-but-not-shuttered restaurant, looking to see if any other entrances were hidden between that and the pharmacy at 121, and finally saw a tiny, peeling "125 W. 81st" in white above the door. So this was it, he supposed, as he folded the paper Stu had written the address on and tucked it into his pocket. The building looked out-of-place on a relatively-nice street like this, and Kurt couldn't figure out why in the world something with boards over the windows hadn't been torn down already for whatever construction project was just itching to swoop in.

But there it was. The building on which he was pinning all of his hopes and dreams.

Mercedes would say that was overly dramatic. But she also would say that he was foolish for coming here in the first place, so he wasn't about to start believing her enough to change his plans. This needed to work. This needed to be a place he could find someone, because he was running out of both leads and patience. He had sworn that he felt as awful at 16 as it was possible for a person to feel without just curling in on himself, and now things were starting to almost hurt worse because now he knew what he was missing. Before it had just been loneliness without a known cause; now the reasons were known and so was the solution: a boyfriend. A boy who would understand him and love him and be sweet and romantic with him. Unfortunately that was easier said than done.

And, as he was painfully reminded at almost every turn, it hadn't exactly turned out as he had planned the first time.

But if Central Park had seemed gloomy under the grove of trees that night, this seemed downright depressing. It made the slums of West Side Story look bright by comparison, and he half expected someone to pop out of the building and mug him. Deciding it was now or never, Kurt drew in a deep breath and tugged open the heavy door, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the poor lighting inside. It was darker than the street, dingier, smoke-filled, but as he looked around he began to notice something.

Men. Lots of men. Not a single woman to be found, save one behind the bar who looked bored by the entire affair and whose gender he could discern only from her substantial chest; her hair was buzzed shorter than his (in a cut that was far less-flattering than his own, he noted) and she wore a tie with her work shirt and trousers. Her watch had a thick leather strap like a men's watch, the face and buckle flicking light as her hands flew to churn out drinks quickly. But everywhere else Kurt looked, he saw men - in suits and in jeans, a couple dressed like Marlon Brando in The Wild One. Men leaning against the walls and sitting at tables that lined the walls and standing around the bar. One man was practically leaned back over the jukebox while another crowded him, both smiling slyly like each of them had the power.

It wasn't at all appealing. It was intimidating as hell and just as raw and sexual as the park even though - thankfully - everyone was still fully-clothed...but it looked like people were going to change that as soon as possible. There was nothing that held his interest beyond the upbeat music playing from under the flirtatious man and the potential a place like this might hold.

It couldn't be just this, could it? This couldn't possibly be all that was out here for him. There had to be something more to homosexuals than a desire to copulate in public - otherwise...

...Otherwise what did he have to look forward to?

He couldn't start thinking that way. He needed to get out there and find something, because he refused to believe that Man #16 had given up that way. It was a crutch he relied on every so often, when things felt hopeless - it was silly, and he knew that, like opening his mother's old dresser and pretending he could see feel her by scent alone, which he had done right up until the day he left home. It was childish and pathetic, and he tried not to fall back on it too often, but at a time like this when he had to force himself to have a reason to trust in the unknown despite everything that had gone wrong...

Man #16 had found his 'homosexual husband.' Kurt couldn't guarantee that was what he would have called it, but he had settled on the term if only because he couldn't imagine himself - and therefore also not the illustrative case study patient - with a homosexual wife. Man #16 had found professional contentment and a homosexual husband, and he had started somewhere. Maybe in a place like this.

Kurt doubted it. He felt like Man #16 deserved more romance than this, for one thing, and that someone who prided himself on aesthetics probably wouldn't settle for picking up some man draping himself over a jukebox playing a mediocre hit from three years ago. But maybe. Maybe this place wasn't as it seemed.

Drawing in a deep breath and steeling himself with his best 'don't touch me and definitely don't touch my hair' look, he strode to the bar and slipped up onto a stool. "Whatcha want, kid?" the woman asked, and Kurt swore her voice was lower than his.

He'd never had a drink before, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to start now. He'd certainly imagined drinking in New York, but that was mostly elegant parties with well-dressed, well-coiffed, fascinating people. Then he and Rachel had gone to see Breakfast at Tiffany's and been at once disturbed and fascinated by the eccentric partiers...they had vowed not to ever get that sloppy. He didn't want to be the woman in the mirror having a complete meltdown. For that matter, he didn't want to be the woman draped over the guitar across the lap of four men, either. In the most sophisticated voice he could manage, summoning all the elegance he had been cultivating in his twenty years, he replied, "Shirley Temple."

Her brow lowered, then quirked skeptically as she looked him up and down. "You think I keep grenadine around here?"

Kurt could feel the blush burning high on his cheeks. "You should," he replied haughtily, well aware of the fact that if she really wanted to, she could snap him like a twig - or throw him to the wolves in the rest of the bar, he was sure they would have no objection to pawing off his clothes and letting their hands roam all over him like the man in the park. When she looked unamused but like he couldn't matter less to her, he requested, "A martini then." They seemed like a sophisticated drink, a festive drink, something enjoyed by elegant people. He'd seen them in movies, women in gorgeous gowns clutching the stem delicately between their manicured fingers while they swooned over men who looked like Clark Gable and thought it was as good a drink as any to start with. The glass felt cool beneath his clammy fingers as he drew in a deep breath and raised it to lips, coughing and sputtering with the first sip.

"Too much too fast?"

Kurt looked up quickly to find a boy leaning casually against the bar beside him. "Boy" might not have been accurate, he looked older - but not by much. Unlike the majority of bargoers who seemed to have at least a decade or two (closer to two) on Kurt, this gentleman looked only a few years older than he was. He had an easy smile, sparkling blue eyes, and dirty blond hair with just a hint of a wave to it that could have been natural or could have been from being combed into one style for too long. "A little," he replied slowly, trying to size up the stranger.

"I can't do anything with vodka. It's like swallowing lighter fluid." He had dimples, which Kurt had never found particularly cute or interesting, but they made the boy's smile even more obvious and interesting. The music changed, a familiar vamp swelling, and the boy pushed himself off the bar. "Wanna dance, cutie?"

Kurt blinked, not sure which word perplexed him most in that sentence, but the one he managed to choke out was "Dance?"

"Yeah." The boy held out his hand to Kurt, smile gleaming pearly white in the dim light of the dingy bar. "I love this song. Do you know it?"

Where the boys are
Someone waits for me

Of course Kurt knew it - it was Connie Francis. That was like asking if he knew a Judy Garland song, the answer was so obvious it barely required a response. But this boy didn't know him, didn't know anything about him. He didn't even know Kurt's name, let alone his taste of music, and yet he wanted to dance with him. And he thought he was cute, which Kurt couldn't even wrap his mind around. More importantly, this boy was a complete stranger and wanted a piece of him he'd never given anyone.

...Not for lack of trying. He had wanted so badly to dance with Blaine in public and settled for a private moment swaying to a record in the tiny dorm room, which he later found out had been a lie anyway. Just like the promise of one day being able to dance with another boy in public. Just like all the other promises.

He glanced away, not sure what to say to this strange - and intriguingly attractive - boy, and his breath caught at what he saw: couples dancing. The men who earlier had been scattered at tables and against the walls now swayed in the center of the tiny space, arms close around one another. Some looked awkward, both men trying to lead; others moved fluidly as though they had done this before. One man in a leather jacket had his cheek resting against another man's shoulder, his eyes shining in contrast to two shades of black leather, as they rocked slowly back and forth together, lost in their own little world.

Men were dancing together, and no one could tell them not to.

"Yes," he whispered so softly he wasn't sure he could even be heard over the music. "I want to dance."

Smiling face, a warm embrace
Two arms to hold me tenderly

The boy led him out to join the group, his arm wrapping around Kurt's waist in a well-practiced motion. He reached to take Kurt's right hand, flashing a smile as he tugged Kurt gently closer, and suddenly it all felt so enormous - the act of dancing. It was something simple, something Kurt had been doing and practicing and pretending with his eyes closed in his bedroom and his mother's high heels for as long as he could remember. But pressed so near to another person as bodies of other men swayed around them, it suddenly seemed magical. Wildly improbable. A dream come true.

He had known this day would come. Deep down, somewhere, he had known this had to be out here, it was just a matter of finding it.

And it had been exactly where he thought it would be. ...Sort of. He wouldn't have picked a gritty bar on West 81st Street, maybe, but he knew there had to be a place out there where people like him could have what everyone else had, and he had known it would be in New York.

Take that, Blaine Anderson.

Where the boys are
My true love will be
He's walking down some street in town
And I know he's looking there for me

He hoped Blaine was proud of himself. He hoped Blaine was happy with his decision to run away and not trust what Kurt had known to a near-scientific certainty three years ago. He had told Blaine things would be different here, that they could be themselves here - and sing together, and dance. Blaine could have been here right now, swaying with him, leading him across the floor; instead, he was dancing with a blond boy with dimples who was also easily five or six inches taller than his exboyfriend.

So there.

...Except that wasn't what he wanted.

In this world of a million people
I'll find my valentine

He didn't want to stick it to Blaine and gloat in his mind about how he was right. He didn't want to hope Blaine was miserable in California with his- his lies and his girlfriends. Kurt shuddered to think about that. He didn't want him to be miserable; he didn't want to be bitter and angry.

He just wished Blaine were there with him.

He wished those were Blaine's arms looped around his waist and cradling his hand. He wished he were looking down just slightly into those beautiful amber eyes that could express love so deeply, so completely, that Kurt had never felt more precious than when the boy looked at him. He wished they were living together in his bedroom, with Rachel pestering them constantly and impromptu three-part harmony over dinner. He wished they were skipping through the city together like he'd dreamed of, and meeting other boys like them, and that he could just sit on the couch and watch Blaine do his homework all evening while records played quietly in the background.

He wished that he could have what he'd envisioned. He had proof now that it would have been possible, and he couldn't help but feel cheated by it all.

He wished Blaine were dancing with him in this disgusting, unpolished, miraculous dive of a bar. He wished Blaine could have believed him, could have trusted him, enough to follow through on their plan.

He wished Blaine could be happy, wherever he was. That they both could be.

He wished he could stop wishing so much.

And then I'll climb to the highest steeple
And tell the world he's mine

Blaine wasn't coming back. He wasn't going to magically change his mind about everything and believe in the magic and power of New York City. Kurt had believed he might - the entire first year, he expected to get a letter or a phone call or a visit or something from Blaine, saying he had been wrong and wanted to come back and pick up where they left off, saying they should begin their future together in a year like they planned. When he moved to New York, he had wondered if maybe, just maybe, Blaine had somehow ended up in the city anyway and they could find each other in some sort of fairytale way and begin to rebuild what they had lost when Blaine balked and bolted. The entire first year he had wondered what Blaine was up to and, alternately, if there was anything he might be able to do in northern California since clearly things weren't going his way in New York anyway. But facts were facts, and it was time to realize that even if Blaine at some point left the West Coast it was unlikely they would ever find each other here, they were unlikely to ever find each other again. What they had had been beautiful in so many ways, but it...it wasn't going to be recaptured.

It was time to move on.

Wasn't that what his attempts to find a boyfriend were about, anyway? If he didn't want a boy to go with, why had he been searching for one so hard? Unless he thought that somehow Blaine would know through psychic brainwaves that he had found a handsome boy and rush out to New York to tell Kurt not to move on without him...an unlikely scenario though a fantastic movie. Wasn't it time to try to move on?

'Til he holds me
I'll wait impatiently

This boy was sweet. He was attractive, and he looked at Kurt like he thought he was worth getting to know - not the raw, naked lust he had seen from the other men. He looked at Kurt like he was intriguing in a good way, not an overdressed or eccentric freak, and like he was cute of all things. He seemed sweet...and he was a talented enough dancer. He had impeccable rhythm, and Kurt found himself wondering if it might relate to musical talent.

Kurt liked the way he felt in his arms. He liked the way he felt under the gaze, seeing that smile. He even liked the fact that he was a few inches shorter than this boy - it made him feel safe, protected.

But mostly he liked the way the boy had come right up to him. He was confident. He wasn't aggressive, he wasn't too dominant and forward like the jerk at the Ramble who had pawed over him after looking him up and down like slim pickings. He didn't hesitate and run away six times before Kurt finally dragged him haltingly into a dance. He didn't balk when Kurt shifted his arm up onto his shoulder and moved just a bit closer; he smiled, like he was glad they were on the same page. He seemed comfortable with himself, in his own skin, in his identity, in his sexuality. He wasn't trying to pretend Kurt was a girl or shove him away or hide him behind anyone or anything.

He wouldn't run away at the first sign of someone knowing.

Kurt's heart leapt at the thought, suddenly feeling full of possibility.

Where the boys are

The problem with Blaine hadn't appeared out of nowhere, it had been evident from a thousand miles away - from the moment Kurt's attempt at a relationship had begun. From day one...hell, from day negative-six, Blaine had bolted as soon as Kurt made a move, then slowly - oh so agonizingly slowly - inched his way back to where they had started. It had been painful from the start, gathering the courage to take a leap only to be abandoned because Blaine was too far in his own head to be able to understand that he wasn't the only one in the relationship. And while yes, he had slowly gotten more comfortable, and true, he had reasons to be skittish, that wasn't enough to keep a relationship. And surely enough, he had run away at full speed as soon as things got too serious, too forever.

But this boy wouldn't.

Where the boys are

This boy wasn't afraid of who he was. He wasn't afraid of who Kurt was, of who they would be together. This boy didn't hesitate before asking him to dance - in public, no less - and while maybe it was an anomaly, a sense of security created by the isolated and homogeneous atmosphere, he had an easy confidence and charm about him. Blaine's confidence was like a painting by Seurrat: mind-blowing, full, and realistic from far away, but made up of tiny, isolated specks from close up with a lot of holes in between. This boy was like a photograph: whole and real.

Where the boys are
Someone waits for me

He didn't even know where to begin. He wanted things with this boy, but he'd only just met him and didn't even know his name, let alone how to become his boyfriend. Kurt wanted to; he knew that much for certain. He wanted this boy to look at him like that all the time, to stare at him adoringly and hold him and dance with him and hopefully sing with him. But he didn't know how to go from a romantic gesture to an actual romance. He had never really done this, not like this; he had been best friends with Blaine first, and confidantes, then fallen slowly into a relationship after months of push-and-pull. This had been mere moments.

Was he supposed to ask the boy to be his boyfriend? To go on a date? Was this a date - he didn't think so? Was the boy supposed to ask him? Was he supposed to indicate he was available should the boy want to ask him?

He had no idea. There weren't any reference points for something like this. But he was fairly certain he should know the boy's name first instead of just calling him "the boy."

He leaned in close so he could be heard over the music. The smell of aftershave was nearly overpowering at this distance and it made him dizzy in a way he had missed - the sort of dizzy and breathless he had gotten when Blaine said certain things or looked at him and flashed a grin when he sang or when they laid tucked against each other on Blaine's narrow bed. "I don't even know your name," he said, his voice high with nervousness, tight as he tried to keep it from shaking. For all he knew, the question was too personal for a place like this - it had been the other times he had tried, he knew that.

The boy smiled; Kurt could see his dimple crinkling slightly out of the corner of his eye. "I'm Ken," he replied almost directly in Kurt's ear, and Kurt felt like he might swoon at the sudden intense feel of everything, the sensation of warm breath over his neck and ear. "And you're...beautiful." He pulled back a few inches, blue eyes smoldering with intensity, and Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he saw Ken move forward again slowly, his arm drawing him in closer. His eyes fluttered closed as if in slow motion as the music crescendoed and modulated into the climax, stomach jittery as he realized he was about to be kissed for the first time in years, the first time by anyone other than Blaine, and it was the first time in a long time he had wanted to be kissed. He wanted-

The lights flicked on suddenly and chaos erupted as loud, low-pitched shouts echoed through the tiny space.

'Til he holds me
I'll wait impatiently

Ken jumped back as all the couples pulled apart, scurrying and screaming in a rush of noise and movement. It took Kurt a moment to figure out what was happening, too caught up in the feeling of hands touching his and the spicy scent of aftershave and the pitifully-desperate desire to be kissed. It wasn't until he saw the first police officer in full riot gear bursting in the front door that adrenaline kicked in. He tried to figure out where to go, but there were three doors he could see from here and people seemed to be rushing toward all of them, toward the back of the bar, toward whatever lay there - he didn't know. He didn't know which door led toward an exit or which would leave him cornered somewhere, and why-

Where the boys are

A hand closed around his wrist and he tried to yank free before bright blue eyes came into view and Ken tugged him quickly toward the door where the majority of the patrons were pushing and shoving, all trying to fit as quickly as possible through one narrow exit. Past the threshold Kurt could see a bathroom, then a tiny dark corridor illuminated by a single lightbulb. The grasp on his wrist was tight, unyielding, as Ken tried to fight their way through away from the police toward safety.

Where the boys are

A door at the end of the hall swung open, the blackness of the door replaced almost immediately by the darkness of dark uniforms and guns. A desperate cry went up from the escaping patrons, half shrieking and half warning to the people who hadn't yet gotten buttonholed into the hall and could still find another way out. Kurt tried to force their way back out how they came, back toward the main room where at least he could try one of the other doors, but the crush of people toward the back was impenetrable. As people pushed in from both sides, Kurt popped up onto his toes long enough to see officers pushing as many homosexuals as they could toward the back, only to be trapped in the corner by the bathroom door as a second group of officers came through the back entrance. There was no way in or out.

Where the boys are
Someone waits for me

* * * * *

Cal's apartment was smaller than Rachel was expecting. She would have thought that a director who knew everyone in town would have a much nicer place than his tiny one-bedroom in Hell's Kitchen. Normally it wasn't a neighbourhood she would want to be anywhere near, but it was conveniently located between Broadway and the more innovative theatres in the Village which, she supposed, made it convenient for him regardless of where he was working.

Normally she would never go to a boy's apartment on the first date...though she supposed she didn't really have enough experience to make that a rule. After all, she had never dated someone who had his own apartment before - only boys back in Lima who were still in high school. Things were different in the big city, living a fast-paced world with people who had important jobs and their own lives instead of being children who worried about their parents' rules and homework. The idea of going out to dinner with- not a boy, but a man - who had an apartment he could bring her to when she said she was getting cold in the November evening, was novel.

She felt sophisticated and mature as she sat delicately on his couch, legs crossed delicately at the ankle, as he offered her a drink and returned a few minutes later with a glass of wine. "If I'd known you would end up here at the end of the night, I would have had champagne chilling," Cal offered as he sat down on the other end of the small couch, his own wine glass in his hand. She took a long sip, hoping her lipstick wouldn't come off on the rim, and found it much sweeter than the wine at dinner. Dessert wine - it reminded her of Temple.

"Next time I should give you notice," she joked in reply, wondering if there was anything more lovely than a date that ended with champagne toasts at the man's apartment. She would have to test that theory next time; in the meanwhile, she sipped the wine slowly. She was a little worried because it was her third glass, but she had eaten dinner and wasn't nearly the teetotaler people teased her for being - she had four glasses every year at Passover, she could handle wine.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I worked with Richard Rogers?"

An hour later, Rachel felt like she could barely believe the type of theatre royalty she was in the presence of. Over the course of a glass of wine for each of them and a scotch for him - which Rachel had curiously taken one sip of and spent the next ten minutes terrified her voice would never return while he laughed at her indulgently and rubbed her back soothingly - he had told her about the notes that The Richard Rogers had given him to improve his musical; about Yul Brenner and his scandalously-flimsy wardrobe in early rehearsals of The King and I; about songs that had been cut during previews in a handful of shows, some of which he still halfway remembered or swore he could find her a copy of; about actresses he'd seen come and go; about the moment the lights went out on Broadway in commemoration of the death of Oscar Hammerstein. She had observed the passing with Kurt in her bedroom, lighting candles and singing Kaddish to a variety of classic melodies the legend had written original lyrics for, all the while trying to explain the significance of Kaddish to her non-Jewish non-boyfriend, and yet now here she was in the apartment of someone who had witnessed the actual tribute.

She said something about that, she wasn't sure precisely what - she was getting a little tired and casual with her speech - and Cal patted her leg gently, grinning. "Stick with me, and you'll be going places," he half-joked, but to her it wasn't funny; it was true. This man had the power to give her everything. He could make her a star, he could take her places, he could get her noticed by everyone in town. He could introduce her to all sorts of fascinating people, and he could write stars for her to show in (or was that shows for her to star in?), and he would do all of those things because he liked her.

He really liked her. Why else would he be staring at her all night?

She giggled at his statement, blushing and ducking her head at the thought, and he reached out to place a couple fingers under her chin, guiding her face up until her eyes met his. He had been staring all night, but now he was staring, eyes dark and practically boring through her like she was irresistible. She wasn't used to feeling like he made her feel, like he wanted her, and then his lips were on hers. He kissed the way he spoke: quickly, full of passion, like he couldn't stop or he would miss some opportunity, and in a way that left her completely enraptured. He tasted sweet like the wine and smokey like the scotch, and when he pulled back for a moment to catch his breath all she could manage was a soft "Oh." He leaned in to kiss her again, his hand sliding slowly up her thigh to rest just below her hip, and she felt like her head was spinning. His tongue pressed against her lips and she let them fall open for him, let his tongue rub sloppily against hers. She would have thought that a man who had champagne but just needed to chill it, who had all sorts of wine in his very own apartment, would kiss more refined than that, but she didn't mind too much.

She lost track of how long they kissed, her lips puffy and sort of buzzing every time their lips parted, and she wasn't sure how his hand had ended up cupping her butt like that. She must have been distracted by the way his lips felt under her mouth and trying very hard not to bite him; he had agreed to keep kissing her after she did it the first time, but she really didn't want to chance ruining this by repeating the mistake. His hand trailed slowly up her back to where her skin appeared over the top of her dress, and the way his fingers stroked over the skin there was so gentle, like he really loved her. His other hand shifted up to-

Oh.

The hand on her breast felt strange, heavy, and like things were going a little too far. She hadn't let anyone do that before, except for Jesse, and they had been dating for months before she even considered it. She didn't want to be easy, after all, and she had been lucky to find a boy who respected her enough to not press the issue.

But she had also been 15 then. More than 4 years had passed since that. She was an adult now. Just because no one else had been allowed to do that before didn't mean she wasn't allowed to let him now if she really wanted. Who was going to find out, anyway?

She gasped as his mouth left hers to trail hot kisses down along her jaw and across her neck, pausing to suck just below her ear as she felt his thumb brushing over the front of her breast as though trying to tease out the sensitive nipple, and that-...that felt really good. She was surprised by how nice it felt. He really did know how to make her enjoy this - clearly he was better than those boys in high school who just wanted to touch girls enough to get their own pleasure. Cal was far more mature than that.

His hand slipped down from her back and she felt a sudden chill sweep over her. Why-...Oh, her zipper. Her eyes widened and she pulled back as she realized what that meant. "What are you doing?"

"What's wrong, baby?" His voice was soft, concerned, maybe just a tiny bit patronizing, and she wasn't sure how to express how she felt. How this was further than she had ever gone before and she wasn't sure this was a good idea. How she had never been naked in front of anyone before, and while she worked hard to look her best because she never knew what she might need to wear onstage and because taking care of one's self was a marker of high self-esteem and a strong self-worth, it made her nervous to think about Cal's eyes roving over her. He was experienced, she assumed, he had done this before and she didn't want to be inadequate but at the same time she was so worried about what he might think...

"I..." She didn't want to tell him to stop, exactly. Or, she did, but a part of her didn't. A part of her kept pointing out something fundamental to the issue: This wasn't Lima. This wasn't somewhere people got married at 18 and had babies and never did anything with their lives. This was New York City, where everything was very different. People moved faster and they lived with fake boyfriends instead of finding a husband, and they dated people well into their twenties, and maybe this was just how things were here. Maybe her hesitance was only because she was still a small-town girl at heart, which was the last thing she wanted to be. Maybe it was because she still felt like a teenager even though she wasn't - well, technically for a few more months, but really she was an adult.

Adults were different. This city was different. Everything moved faster here, from the people to restaurants. He wasn't going to think she was easy if she let him keep going, not like a boy back home would. Cal understood, and he loved her and appreciated her. He valued her.

That made all the difference, didn't it?

"Kiss me," she whispered, and he obliged eagerly, his kisses getting rougher as the passion ratcheted up slowly while her zipper slipped down at an even pace.

Her dress came off in stages, really: first opening in the back to expose her brastrap, which Cal took full advantage of as he unfastened it and reached awkwardly around to the front to touch her; then off her shoulders so the top fell awkwardly around her waist, bunching up near her stomach; then hitching up the skirt as his hand wandered up her pantyhose before finally she realized that the dress wasn't doing any good or covering anything anymore anyway. She pulled away from his mouth, from his embrace, and stood to slip out of the nearly-useless garment, but he stood and grabbed her by the wrist. When she started to protest, he grinned and led her from the couch into his bedroom. The shades were drawn, leaving it dark save the remnants of light peeking in from the streetlamps, and by the time he shut the door it was so dark she could barely find him. That would make it hard to kiss him, wouldn't it?

She did want to keep kissing him, didn't she?

Her stomach was full of nervous energy despite the slight fuzziness the wine put on all the edges of things, and if ever there was a time to tell him to stop it was now. But she didn't know that she wanted him to. She didn't want him to think she was a child, or that she was too small-town, and he was so mature and strong and powerful and handsome. He was a man when she was used to boys, and she definitely did not want to give him any reason to think of her as a little girl. She-...she knew Kurt made fun of the way she dressed sometimes, with the plaid skirts and the cardigan sets and the fact that sometimes she really liked saddle shoes even though they were a little outdated now, but Cal didn't seem to see her like that.

He really liked her. She wanted to keep it that way.

* * * * *

Kurt wasn't sure whether jail was worse when he knew what was coming or not.

He contemplated it as he slunk home at around 7. It had taken longer to get a hearing this morning than last time, he would barely have time to take a shower and get dressed before going off to work, and he was absolutely exhausted. It made for a much more existential reflection now that he was drained instead of terrified. For example, was it better to go into the process blind and not know what lay ahead, or was it preferable to know what was going to happen so as to be as prepared as possible? Was it worse to start counting your male articles of clothing in advance and know that the police would taunt and tease you as you removed everything on your body, bit by bit, piece by piece, until you were nearly naked in front of them in a cold cement room? Was it worse to know just how long the night was? To know it was going to feel like forever, especially when there wasn't a single friendly face this time?

There was no Ethel this time. He had no idea what had happened to Ken, but they hadn't ended up in the same cell. He had seen Ricky briefly in passing, just for a moment - the Puerto Rican boy being shoved forward by three cops in handcuffs as the police used insults Kurt couldn't understand. The boy looked harder now, had more of a sharp edge to him than he had that night in the cell when they had been able to share the fact that both of them were terrified. He had called out to Ricky, whose head jerked up and over toward him for a split second. Their eyes didn't meet, but he knew the boy had seen him from the way a falsely-self-assured smirk worked its way onto his face and his chin shifted a little higher even as the police officer spat on him.

Kurt had almost gagged, watching that, his hand clapped over his mouth in horror. What they did to him was degrading enough, but that was worse.

But the look on Ricky's face was one of defiance, one that said 'call me all the names you want - you still won't be as good as me.' If only it had been real instead of something so forced. ...If only Kurt hadn't been able to tell the difference from personal experience. He was a master of the "Huh. As if I care" face.

The first slivers of light were just starting to peek through the bottom of their window as Kurt turned the key heavily in the lock and entered. He half expected Rachel to be attempting to make breakfast with a worried expression, or to just be sitting at the table with a clock and a lecture he didn't have the energy to handle right now, but instead he found her sitting on the couch, an afghan pulled around her shoulders, feet tucked under her. Her hair was wet, freshly-combed, and she stared into space with a worried, haunted look. When she didn't say anything, he announced his presence quietly. "Sorry. It's a long story."

She would ask, he knew she would. Rachel Berry never accepted that sort of answer without suggesting he tell her alllllll about his troubles because, as his best friend and girlfriend-who-secretly-wasn't-his-girlfriend (always accompanied by an eager smile an exaggerated wink), it was her duty to listen to his problems when he had an especially bad day. And Rachel definitely didn't accept brushoffs when she had been personally inconvenienced, like by staying up all night to wait for him like it looked like she had been.

Maybe he should tell her. She was going to find out sometime; if the photographers and news video cameras he had seen as the police had hauled him out of the bar last night were any indication, his misadventure was about to become famous which meant there was a chance they would have relocate to somewhere no one would ever find him and he probably couldn't get away with not telling her why. But he didn't know if he could form the words - not yet. Not while he still could practically feel the chunky, unmoisturized hands on his skin, could smell the cigar the captain kept chomping away on as he "oversaw the search", could feel their eyes boring into him with such disgust it made him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe sometime he could tell her about his night, but not now.

She looked over at him, her face conflicted, her eyes raw, for a split second before she tried to offer up a smile. It was weak, lopsided, and obviously fake considering her acting abilities; even if she wasn't quite as incredible as she thought she was sometimes, she was much better than that. "It's okay. I didn't get home until a little while ago anyway."

There was a story there, too, and usually she would dive right into it, talk all about her date and the crazy adventures they had, but he was too exhausted to stick around long enough to risk hearing about it. He could worry about her once he'd had sleep. With barely enough energy to keep his head up, he padded slowly to the bathroom and turned the water to hot as he stripped out of his clothes. The world's longest shower sounded really nice about now.