Mercedes had been frustrated plenty of times in her life. Between living in a town where the court had to step in to say she had the right to go to school with her best friend, a dad who thought school should be her only focus, a mom who rode her hard on things because she loved her, a love of her life who was looking for another boy, that obnoxious girl Kurt's brother used to date who made racist comments about every five seconds, and a roommate whose romantic life was really healthy, she had spent more than her share of time being irritated by the people around her. But having to watch while another girl flushed her dreams of stardom down the drain was almost too much to take.

It wasn't that Shirley meant to ruin things; she meant well, that was the problem. She wanted so badly to do this, and she understood how much this was all riding on her now since she was supposed to talk for whatever stupid reason Rocko had, and so she was trying extra hard. Her voice was wispier than usual, higher, and she kept leaning forward while toying awkwardly with her hands and hair. Every so often she would giggle - in the middle of a sentence - in a high, girlish way that made her sound like a dizzy cheerleader.

Shirley wasn't - Mercedes knew that. They all knew that...except the one person in the room who really mattered.

James was a lot younger than Mercedes had been expecting, probably not that much older than they were, babyface all the more obvious against his expensive tailored suit. He toyed with a pen absently as Shirley spoke, and Mercedes wasn't sure if he was just trying to look bored or really didn't care. Shirley just kept trying harder to get his attention, to make him look at her, then glancing over her shoulder at Rocko when he didn't seem interested, like a little kid asking her dad 'What do I say now? Why doesn't he like me?'

Mercedes would've been good at this. She would have made him listen. And she would have done it with an attitude that matched his. No one liked people who begged for approval, who pleaded to be noticed - no one liked Rachel Berry, they just put up with her because they had to. Shirley was even worse; at least Rachel - and Mercedes hated to give her credit for anything, but at least Rachel carried herself with confidence. Shirley looked like there was no reason at all for James to pay attention to them.

She could get not feeling confident all the time. She was really nervous about all this, and she was even more nervous when she thought about how much was riding on this one meeting. This was a chance at a big-time deal, at getting to actually make a record, and there were so many groups that never made it. But now was the time to at least pretend to know how good they were as a group - or how good she was on her own, if it came to that. Shirley didn't know how to even pretend to know what she was doing.

It was painful to watch.

At some point James set down his pen, looking out the window of his office. "Let's hear you," he said, not looking at them. Mercedes didn't know what that meant, and she looked at Regina and Eva - did that mean he didn't even really care if he heard them but had to listen anyway? Or that he wanted to just hear them, like on the radio? Was this good or bad? Or just some guy in a suit who didn't know anything or care but got to decide what happened to them anyway? She glanced reluctantly over at Shirley, who looked downright relieved that her time answering questions was over, and Mercedes looked over her shoulder at Rocko with a sharp glare. This was his fault. What kind of manager was he, anyway, thinking she should be the one to talk? She was too timid to stand up to Regina, let alone Eva, least of all this guy, and who the hell did he think he was to change their order around? But he simply nodded with an encouraging look, as if to say "You heard the man - sing what we rehearsed already!"

Mercedes didn't like the song they had rehearsed, either - it didn't really show what they could do. It was too thin, too meek, too Shirley and not enough the rest of them. Sure, the harmonies were great, and their blend was okay, but it sounded like those other wispy girls on the radio and not like what made them really good. Nevertheless, she stood and walked to the open part of the room, her groupmates gathering around her as they began.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Everywhere you go
Take a look in the five-and-ten,
Glistening once again
With candy canes and silver-

James turned to face them again, holding up his hand. "Okay, girls. Very nice, thank you."

Mercedes felt her blood starting to boil. All that and they weren't getting anything from this. They could have had this, they could have gotten a deal from this if they'd had the right song and let her do all the talking. "You didn't even listen to us," she stated irritatedly.

"Of course I did."

"Yeah - three lines," she shot back.

"Mercedes!" Regina hissed, turning to stare at her with angry wide eyes that said 'shut up before you ruin this!' It was already ruined, the guy hadn't even listened to them; couldn't she see that? She wasn't about to just walk away sweetly when she knew they were better than this - that she was better than this-

"You'll have to excuse Mercedes, she's a little overzealous sometimes," Rocko chuckled heartily, but the look in his eyes said she would pay for this later.

"She's a spitfire - I like that," James replied with a laugh. "I didn't need to hear any more. You girls have anything coming up?"

"They're singing on Christmas Eve, up at AME," Rocko jumped in to supply.

"AME? Not bad," he nodded appreciatively. "Big crowd, especially Christmas. Al Brown still in charge of music up there?"

"Yeah," Rocko nodded. "Choir and soloists."

James smiled. "I went to school with him, he's a good guy. Knows his stuff, too - he has a great ear. I'll bring Clark up then."

The first name Mercedes recognized was enough to pull her back into focus. Clark wasn't a common enough name, outside movie stars and a guy she went to school with until high school and the big shot in charge of the label.

James was bringing the big shot in charge of the label.

She looked over at the other girls, to see if she'd heard that wrong because that didn't make any sense. They were singing at big church on Christmas and that was all it was meant to be - praising and celebrating and singing. Was it really going to be an audition, now, too? Eva was staring with a deadpan expression, and Mercedes could tell the next words out of her mouth would be 'No shit?' if no one stopped her from speaking; Shirley's smile was just as pasted-on, but her eyes were wide with disbelief, but it was Regina who really cemented it: Beaming. Almost giddy. The way Mercedes would feel if it were real.

A sudden terror washed over her. As if one audition weren't enough, they had to try again with someone even more intimidating? They had to do all this again, and she had to watch as Shirley giggled and flailed her way through another interview? They had to-

...No, she concluded slowly, a smile crossing her face as it dawned on her. Not an interview. A singing audition. In their own element - not some stuffy midtown office where girls came to have their hearts broken. At church. At a big church full of people at the biggest celebration of the year. She couldn't remember a year she hadn't sung at church on Christmas - either by herself, or part of the choir, or one time as a solo with those few other girls backing her up. If there was one place in the world she knew exactly what to do and how to sing her best, it was at church.

They had this.

* * * * *
By the time the end of his dad's second day in Manhattan rolled around, Kurt felt as though he had seen every inch of the city he never had a particular desire to see. Standing in Battery Park as the December wind whipped around them, going out to some stadium for one of those sports teams he tried actively to avoid paying attention to (baseball? Did New York have a new team? He had no idea. He only knew that whatever sport was usually played there wasn't in season, for which he was grateful.)

Even wandering through Rockefeller Center to see the 67-foot tree that was dwarfed by the enormous buildings all around it, the city just felt exhausting. Everyone bustled about, and his dad - moving at a midwestern pace - looked around at everything like he didn't understand why it was a big deal but was surprised by the structure of everything at the same time. There was silence every few steps, which made Kurt nervous that his father wasn't enjoying himself, so he turned into the best tourguide ever and began to chatter incessantly about the buildings, their architecture, what they housed, what types of people worked or lived there, what subway lines would take a person there...

He knew logically that he and his father had existed in silence for a decade without any problem. From the time his mother had died, they had been a quiet house, save Mrs. Jones and her firm voice that could be heard from rooms away if she wanted it to. Most nights they ate a nearly-silent dinner and then sat quietly at opposite ends of the house while Kurt taught himself to sew and his dad watched television - which wasn't to say they didn't love each other or didn't get along. Kurt knew his dad loved him, that had never been a question - not even for a second. He had known from the time he could remember that his dad loved him and was proud of him...he just didn't understand him more often than not. The feeling was mutual. And at home, that seemed fine; in Ohio, at least before Carole and Finn had come in and brought sound to the house again, quietly coexisting felt like the natural state of being for two men with absolutely nothing in common. But for some reason, in a new place, that seemed so cold and...distant.

Maybe it was because they talked on the phone once a week, and it seemed like when they were together in person there should be more conversation than that. Maybe it was because he got chatty and awkward when he felt uncomfortable or out of his element, so the need to fill the silence turned obsessive.

By the time they were seated at dinner, Kurt was exhausted. His back was sore from getting stiffer every time he felt awkward, his feet ached from bounding down into the subway and back out no less than eight times because each time he asked his dad what they should see next, they ended up on the opposite side of town, only to come almost all the way back again for the next site because his dad didn't know where anything was. It had taken a bit of coaxing to get his dad to come to dinner where he wanted, too; after lunch at a grimey diner in the heart of Times Square, and lunch at an automat the day before where his father had raved about how good and cheap and convenient the food was while Kurt held his nose and gagged down some kind of unidentifiable soup, Kurt's insistence on a real New York dinner had been met with more derision than interest. They didn't need something fancy, his dad had insisted, but he knew the alternative was a $2 special somewhere, and he wasn't about to waste the only opportunity he had to eat out somewhere he could try to recapture the magic of New York.

His dad looked as out of place in La Fonda del Sol as Kurt should have expected, tugging at the collar of his shirt awkwardly as he studied the trilingual menu. "What's this 'tapas' stuff?"

"Appetizers, Dad. You pick what you want. It's like dim sum."

"What's that?"

Kurt fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew his dad didn't have any way of knowing - there was an Asian restaurant in Lima, but only the Asian people ever went to it, unlike in New York where everyone ate everyone else's food. Back home, everyone stuck with their own cuisine and never tried anything they hadn't eaten at least a dozen times before. It was stifling and constricting and there were reasons he had left, none of which were his father's fault. Just because he and Rachel had gone a few times, if only because the small items made for a less expensive breakfast than anything else except the tiny greasy diner a few blocks uptown from their apartment, didn't mean his dad had any reason to know.

"I think almost everything in the main dish section is made with pork, you should be able to find something there," he offered.

"Anything like a chop?"

He was being selfish, and he knew it. He was selfish for getting frustrated with someone who really did just want to spend the holidays with him. But he wanted everything back the way it was. He wanted his dad back in Ohio where it was easy to talk about things from afar, he wanted his bedroom back because his neck hurt from sleeping on the couch and he was exhausted from having to wait until everyone was asleep to lie down and waking up before anyone else to clean up his makeshift sleeping area. He wanted to be able to go back to his apartment and make something unconventional, intricate, and cheap that would keep him busy all evening and let him wallow in loneliness at the same time.

"So no Rachel tonight?"

Kurt looked up, not expecting the question. "She's working. Meeting with her director." It was partly true, at least; Rachel was spending an hour or two with her costar and then spending the rest of the night with Cal, the same way she had for more than a month.

His dad looked like he wanted to say something, shifting awkwardly in his seat with a grimace, but instead suggested simply, "Guess that means we go home after and watch one of those specials, then. Should be something on, right? With Christmas Eve tomorrow?"

"The set's broken," he replied, glancing back at his menu.

"Really? How long?"

"Before Thanksgiving sometime." He had barely noticed, in truth. For that matter, he didn't think Rachel had particularly minded; until Oscar or Tonys season, he didn't watch very much. If the record player broke, he would be saving up to replace it immediately, because the idea of sitting in the apartment in silence was nearly unbearable. Anything short of that could wait - even his sewing machine, really; who had the energy after spending all day staring at fabric?

"Why's it still sitting there?'

"It's pretty heavy to move myself," Kurt offered.

"We should do it before I leave, then. You kids have got a lot of stairs up to that place - I don't know how you do it."

"You get used to it."

They fell into awkward silence again. Had it always been like this for them? Kurt swore it didn't used to be - he knew they had spent most of his childhood being quiet in the same place, but he didn't remember it ever feeling awkward like this. He remembered sitting across the table from each other with whatever Mrs. Jones had made for them, eating before they went their separate ways for the evening - Kurt to his room, his dad to the living room for whatever was on tv - but had it felt like this? Like there was nothing at all for them to talk about and the dinner would never end? Like it was exhausting to even try to converse? Like it was agonizing to try to relate to another person?

He felt like he should try, at least, like he should attempt to make conversation, so he started with the only thing he could think of. "How's the shop?"

It wasn't the best topic of conversation if only because there wasn't much to say, and they both knew it. The shop was the shop; there were good years and bad years, but that was all the more they could really say about it - even when he still lived there, even when he still worked there, there wasn't more to say than things were fine and they needed to order more of this tire or that one. "Pretty good. Had to bring in some help - with Finn gone and you here and everything. He's a good kid, though, hard worker, can change out spark plugs faster than I can." Kurt felt a pang of guilt at that. Some other boy was working at the family business because neither son was around. Finn had a real reason to be gone; he'd joined up to avoid being drafted, to do something honourable with his life, to follow in his father's footsteps. Kurt could understand that even if he could never in a million years imagine doing it - or imagine Finn excelling at any of it. His awkward, dimwitted stepbrother would be the one to accidentally shoot himself on his way to kill the enemy, he thought mirthlessly. But at least Finn was doing something for the right reasons.

Why was he still here? What was his excuse?

He'd had so many good reasons to come to New York, so many things that seemed noble and important and like they would save his life and his dreams. He'd left Ohio because he felt like he was suffocating and would never be able to live safely there, to be himself there. He'd left because Rachel needed him to. Because he'd thought he could fulfill his dreams in this big, metal-shiny city. Because he had wanted to find more people like himself and he thought- he really thought- that this would be the place to do it. Because he was going to be a world-famous designer and travel the globe bringing his designs to the masses. And all of those were good enough reasons to leave Lima, to hurry away from his family and his obligations, to run from the family business and leave his dad in the lurch. Besides, Finn had been there to be the son his dad always really wanted, right?

But with Finn gone...and him here now...

He nodded shortly in acknowledgment, stiffening further in his chair, fingers fiddling with the edge of the menu. He didn't know what to say - 'That's nice' felt too cold, disinterested, but an apology (however sincere) seemed wrong. After all, hadn't his father encouraged him to do this? To go after his dreams? To find where he belonged? His dad understood why he'd come out here, and any contrition would go over like a lead balloon. Instead he listened to diners around them conversing happily over the speakers playing a jazzy instrumental version of holiday classic.

"So how's the fancy job going?" His dad looked uncomfortable but sounded earnest, like he wasn't sure how to ask but wanted to know. Like he knew he didn't understand what exactly it was Kurt did, but he was so happy for him to be doing it...

It made his heart ache just to hear the question; to try to answer it made him feel sick.

The problem was, he and Rachel had this deal: they didn't talk about the times they hated the city. They didn't talk about how much easier things would be back home. They didn't talk about how horrible people were here or how much everything hurt. He didn't tell her how much he wondered if he'd made the right decision to come out here, if his life wouldn't be better if he'd never left the cesspit of Lima, if maybe he'd made the worst decision of his life to follow his stupid, misguided dreams. He didn't tell her about being arrested, being thrown in a cell and humiliated and stared at like he was the most loathsome creature on Earth. He didn't tell her about stripping down to count his clothes or the way everyone at work laughed at him as they passed. He didn't tell her about how much everything hurt these days, how the thought of getting out of bed some mornings to go spend the day cutting ugly silks and tweeds and rough tulles was almost too much.

Even if he wanted to, even if he could find the words for it and admit it to himself in words instead of merely acknowledging his loneliness in passing recognition...it wasn't as though she were home more than a few minutes at a time. Her career and relationship might have been built on a sham, but at least they were there.

But if he didn't know how to tell Rachel, how in the world was he supposed to tell his dad?

He pasted on a smile. "It's great," he replied.

It shouldn't have been so painful to lie; he'd been doing it his entire life in some form or another. Telling his dad no one was hassling him when they were, saying he was fine when he wasn't, pretending to date a girl he barely liked because the boy he loved was, well, a boy. It should have been second nature by now.

Maybe that was why it hurt so much. He'd convinced himself he wouldn't have to do this anymore, but he did more than ever. He'd genuinely believed he could move to New York and live life the way he felt it, and here he was - surrounded by laughing groups of friends but feeling completely alone, listening to a carol about being home for Christmas but wishing he could stay in his apartment and ignore the whole thing.

His dad smiled - not much, just a little bit, but so sincere it made him feel like he might start crying because if his dad knew...if his father had any idea how big a lie he had told in those two words... "Yeah?"

Kurt swallowed hard, his voice going higher as he replied, "Of course. It's fantastic." His dad looked skeptical for just a moment when he didn't say anything else, so he decided to change tactics. The more he could say about what he did, where he went, what he and Rachel and Mercedes did, the less it would seem like he spent his time in New York just being arrested or sitting in his apartment alone with a stack of Judy Garland albums. He launched into the first story he could think of, about the picnics he and Rachel had in Central Park last summer and the great bakery with its fresh baguettes up on 82nd that made the best sandwiches he'd ever imagined.

He could almost convince himself that things were worth it, when he talked about things like that. If he talked about silly little happy things for a few minutes, he could almost forget how horrible the big things were. It was a tactic he'd used for as long as he could remember, but it felt like it worked less now than it used to. The distraction lasted for less time and wasn't complete; at best, it evened the score a little. Made things feel just a little less desolate and impossible but not good. And even as he talked about the few things he could think of that made him feel amazing in New York - the way Times Square looked at night, the snow falling as he and Rachel got back from shopping last Christmas - he could feel everything else bubbling up in him, ready to pour out.

He couldn't do that. He wasn't about to break down into tears over dinner in the first really nice place he'd been in quite awhile. He had spent a lifetime trying to learn to control his tears, and he was determined that maybe if he tried just a little harder - just a little more, just a little longer - he could keep them at bay.

At least for a little longer.

* * * * *

Rachel wasn't sure there could be a more wonderful feeling than cuddling on the couch with her boyfriend. And not just any cuddling, either; she was dating a director, after all, and he had a very finely-honed sense of how to create a mood. Candles lined the dim room, resting on every available bookcase - fireplaces were so rare in apartments, she'd found, even if they were more romantic, but a few dozen tiny flickering flames were a nice substitute. The Frank Sinatra on the turntable went so well with the darkness and the smoky sweetness of the brandy, and it all just felt so...adult. Like the kind of romantic atmosphere a person might see in movies. Her shoes sat neatly beside the couch, and she was so glad she hadn't fought Kurt on the dress he had picked out for her. She had insisted that anything without sleeves would just be too cold - it was December, after all, and even though she would have a coat for the trip to and from the party, she was concerned about being too cold when they were there and afterward; Cal's apartment had one window that never wanted to shut quite right, so it was really chilly sometimes. But the party had been plenty warm, with all the people in such a small space and the heat blasting to accommodate the women in their dresses, and as soon as they stepped into Cal's he had wrapped his arm around her - to keep her warm, he swore. She could feel the warmth of his arm through his shirt sleeve, could smell the light spice of his aftershave and cologne, and it was all just so...perfect.

She'd never thought much about what a grown-up relationship in a big city would look like. She'd seen a few in movies, but Fred and Holly Golightly were hardly the functional couple she wanted to be like even if Kurt adored them, and as romantic as Tony and Maria were they were younger than she was. She knew what it looked like when two people graduated from high school and got married and found a house in Lima - she'd seen that her entire life. She knew what they would look like as they grew old together, as they had kids and grandkids and jobs...and she knew what she and Kurt looked like, young lovers who weren't but could fool everyone around them. She had imagined a future with a boy but never really seen it with a man...until tonight. When Cal had introduced her to everyone as his "star and muse", she hadn't been able to stop smiling.

She had wanted to be that to someone forever, but now that it was actually here it felt even better than she had expected.

Usually that wasn't true. She had exceptionally high standards, and people failed to meet them. Her mom said she built things up in her head so nothing could ever be as good as she expected, which Rachel thought wasn't true and her mom thought was genetic. But it was rare for something to be even better than she imagined.

This was.

She had never been the girl everyone wanted to be around, that every boy wanted to date. But tonight, at that party, she had walked in with her powerful and artistic boyfriend and everyone had wanted to talk to the two of them. And he had taken her by the arm and led her around, laughing and joking with all the influential industry people he knew, and it had been everything she'd ever dreamed of.

He really was a great boyfriend.

She had been worried at first, with how things started, with how fast everything had moved, but all her fears had been unfounded. So had Kurt's subtle asides about her boyfriend's seriousness and true motives. She knew something was wrong with him, but she didn't know what - and all attempts thus far had been rebuffed. Maybe it was just strange having his dad in town; she knew that as much fun as she and her mom would have in this, the city of both their dreams, it would probably be a little awkward to be achieving everything her mom never had and have to flaunt that in front of her. Kurt's dad had never gone further than Indiana, and he seemed confused by so much of the big city that she was sure it was at least kind of uncomfortable to try to lead him through things that Kurt thought were automatic. And Kurt was out of practice at acting - she'd been pursuing her craft relentlessly for the past two years, but Kurt hadn't acted since high school. It was probably taking him awhile to fully embrace the character while his dad was in town, and it was obvious that he hadn't been crafting backstory of their relationship for weeks the way she had. So she could excuse his jabs - for now. Because he was wrong, but she was a better person than that now.

Cal made her feel like she should be better.

He talked to everyone, even those who were nobodies, even those pitiable girls at the party who wanted roles but lacked her talent and dedication. He could make anyone feel like the most important person in the room.

And how lucky was she that she got him all to herself?

She sighed quietly, deeply contented, and he immediately asked, "Everything okay?"

"Oh - yes. I was just thinking about how perfect all of this is. You know, with the drinks and the music and the lighting - it's obvious you know how to craft a moment and evoke a particular feeling," she offered, a little too shy to be impulsive and say 'I love you' but feeling it more strongly than she had before.

"Hmm," he mused, the smile evident in his voice as he added, "Because I was just thinking about how perfect you are."

Now she knew she was in love.

* * * * *

As they emerged from the Columbus Circle subway station, Kurt wished his jacket were a little warmer. His dad was still confused by the way transfers worked, so he had decided it would be easier to just walk instead of trying to explain why they had to backtrack, but the wind whipping across the open space pierced the wool of his blazer more sharply than he had expected. He stood a little straighter, picking up his pace, and paused when he heard a chuckle from behind him.

"Hey, buddy, you walk too fast - let your old man catch up first."

He glanced back to see his dad trudging along, hands deep in his pockets, and it occurred to him just how out-of-place his dad really did look here. He walked slower than anyone else around him, and his simple, cheap, bulky jacket was unlike the sleeker trenches and expensive overcoats favoured by Manhattan men this time of year. He wasn't used to his father sticking out anywhere; in Lima, his dad was the every-man, the epitome of a local boy all grown up, and Kurt could guarantee that when they walked into a restaurant or the supermarket and every head turned to them, it was because of him. Because he was too different. Because even if he tried to fit in, he didn't. He knew what that felt like; he was used to it. But to see his dad in that role...to know that when the heads around here turned to them, it was impossible to tell which one of them the locals found more eccentric.

But at least his dad had Lima. Where the hell did he have?

He'd thought this would be it. When he had imagined New York as a child, he had thought about coming here and blending seamlessly into an enclave of eccentric people in striking jackets and stylish footwear - the kind of place that he would be at home and his dad would be out of place. An Ozian utopia, a wonderland like Alice's in which nothing was what it was in the rest of the world. But as much as New York was unlike Lima, he still wasn't really anything people could understand. He was still too eccentric for the masses. too fashionable. Too strange.

Too easy a target.

He could feel the familiar burn of eyeballs on him as he walked slowly along Broadway with his dad. For the first time in a long while, it made him feel defeated. He knew it shouldn't, that if he was used to it then it really shouldn't bother him this much, but the conversation over dinner - and really, his father's very presence in town - served as a constant reminder of what he'd thought New York would be when he still lived in Ohio. What he envisioned his future would hold that was nothing at all like the life he was living. It reminded him how he used to talk about New York when it was just a place in his imagination and not an actual city with an address and a tiny apartment and a job he disliked and a boss he hated, before it was a real place with real people who didn't like him any more than the people he'd grown up with.

If it wasn't any better than in Ohio, what was he really doing here anymore?

He held his head a little higher, too proud to let anyone know it bothered him - especially not his dad, who was oblivious to the stares as he lumbered down the dark streets. Eyes scanning automatically for a potential threat, a force of habit he could trace back to his kindergarten days, his gaze stopped on a familiar figure leaning against a streetlamp. In a thin coat that looked too big for him, Ricky looked like he must be freezing; Kurt recognized the stiff posture that practically screamed 'You're not about to let me show you that anything's bothering me' - it reminded him of the way the boy had straightened up and fought back just a little as the cops dragged him down the hall the second time he'd spent the night in jail.

It reminded him of how he felt.

He saw the proud glare in Ricky's eyes drop for a moment, replaced by something more sympathetic and worried, and his hand raised from his hip, thin fingers curling over the outside of his jacket just above where his heart would be - then a jerk of his head toward the midwestern man, as if to say 'well, go on then.' Kurt didn't know what that meant, what the look was for, why Ricky didn't have a better coat - it wasn't as though it was something so stylish that it was the only option, the way his own was, just something simple and unseasonably inadequate. He didn't know why something about the boy was so magnetic, made him want to cross the street and talk to him about anything - anything at all, any topic to just keep the conversation going. It wasn't something he could name, it wasn't love or attraction or any of the things he'd experienced before, it wasn't like the way Blaine drew him in with that smile and those eyes, or the way the boy at the bar had made him want to believe everything he said. It was simpler and deeper at the same time, just an overwhelming need to find some reason to talk to this boy who kept showing up where he was.

Kurt felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped, eyes finally leaving Ricky to look at his dad. When had his dad gotten so short? he wondered suddenly. He remembered being so much smaller than his dad, not looking him in the eye- "C'mon, kid, let's go. It's cold out here."

"Right," Kurt replied. He glanced back across the street, and when his eyes met his counterpart's the softer gaze was gone, replaced by the harder look Kurt had seen at first. Ricky shrugged and tilted his head slightly, everything about him saying 'So go then', and as much as Kurt wanted to make an excuse to stay...he wasn't sure what one might be. He offered a very faint smile in place of a wave and let his dad lead him further down the street toward home.

"I don't know how you do it, walking around like this all the time. And in those weird shoes you wear, too." Kurt glanced over his shoulder as his dad grumbled about the distance, but Ricky was looking elsewhere and the connection was lost. With a quiet sigh, he wrapped his arms around himself to try to draw the jacket in tighter and led the way back to the apartment.