Kurt rolled his eyes as he looked at the inspiration board hanging over his desk. The problem, he concluded for what felt like the thirtieth time that day, was that it wasn't remotely inspiring. He didn't mind orange exactly, and he certainly loved a good plaid, but this…wasn't. And while the idea of bellbottoms had intrigued him back in 1967, now they just felt so pass� and almost uncomfortably wide…and flattering on exactly no one.

And would it kill them to do something before Halston did it instead of three years later?

It was better than last year with its all-denim all-the-time feel – jeans with matching jean shirts and jackets so housewives were wearing entire suits and thinking it was the height of feminist fashion…if there was such a thing. Rachel seemed to think so anyway. He'd even had his own signature contribution: a jumpsuit that looked more at place in his father's tire shop than on a runway in any fashion capital in Europe. Still, he found himself longing for the innovations and sea-changing styles of a decade ago.

Or for a job at Halston, where at least he would be creating trends instead of jumping on the bandwagon a few years late. Of course, considering that was where just about every designer in the city wanted to be, he supposed for now he was stuck in orange plaid hell.

Still, it was a job where he actually designed instead of cutting underskirts all day, so he guessed things could be worse. He reminded himself of the fact as he picked up a large cut rectangle of the nearest fabric and draped it around the dress form's shoulders. Maybe a jacket – he had always admired how many options there were, and something with a bit of structure…

No – there was no saving it. He tossed the burnt orange rayon back onto the pile.

Kurt sighed and returned to his chair. He was blocked, that was all. If he started sketching without the fabric in mind, that might help. It was a trick Don had taught him; if the fabric you have to use has you stuck, draw something you like and see if it can fit. It was the opposite of what designers were meant to do, he had said, but for the designers who didn't have the luxury of complete autonomy it couldn't hurt. He pulled out his sketch pad and let muscle memory create the form, pencil gliding lightly over the paper until he had a croquis to work from. A plaid jacket – he liked those. He owned plenty of them, anyway, and there was always a market for them.

He found himself sketching a gown instead – long, rouched at the hips to give the illusion of fullness where there was none, with a high slit to show off the leg-

He wasn't going to get anywhere on work if he kept designing for his night job.

Kurt tossed the sketch pad back onto his desk and leaned over to flick on the radio. He was disappointed to hear the last chorus of “Lady Marmalade” fading out – nothing could get his creative juices flowing like a rousing song about a hooker. Oh well; they would play it again in an hour, and if he was still stuck he could catch it then. His mild annoyance disappeared as he heard the opening piano chord of the next song, though, replaced by a flutter in his stomach and a giddy grin. He leaned over and turned it up a little just as the beat slipped into the background. He was sure his coworkers were tired of hearing it by now, but he couldn't elp himself.

It wasn't every day a person heard his oldest friend's song on the radio…except for him, it was.

On some level he knew it was a little silly to be so stunned and excited every time heard it. He had seen Rachel on Broadway stages for years and had a box full of Playbills with her name and biography in his closet. He had seen his own designs – or at least bits of them – on runways during Fashion Week. But the radio was huge compared to those things. People all over the city were hearing one of his best friends right now. And she wasn't just a breakout-star and poised to have one of the biggest hits in New York, either. People back in Lima could listen to her.

Besides, Mercedes sounded amazing on the record, which made him even prouder. Some of the disco singers just let the beat carry them, but not her. With the resonance and soul she brought to even an upbeat song about falling for a boy on the dance floor, he had no doubt she would become much more famous than Diana Ross – Supremes or no Supremes.

There were more people who recognize Mercedes' talent now, thank God, but almost none who could match it. Not one girl on that Disco Divas tour she was on could hold a candle to her voice.

He stood and danced his way over to the dress form again, snagging the plaid on the way. He started draping a shoulder, pinning the fabric directly to the stuffed mannequin, grooving a little from side to side as he tried to figure out where to adjust first. He jumped as he heard a knock on the doorframe behind him. Trying to look as smooth and unrattled as possible – and really hoping it wasn't Jules because the man disliked him and his eccentricities enough already – he turned to see Cindy barely containing a laugh. Of the half-dozen girls who worked as secretarial support for the designers, she was his favourite if only because she actually knew of any of the designers who had been popular before Mary Quant. “Yes?”

“Sorry – I know I should never interrupt you when Mercedes is on,” she grinned. “Message for you. Since it's about tonight, I figured you'd rather have it sooner than later.”

Kurt closed the distance between them and took the slip of paper. In the ‘from' field he saw Don's name and smiled – he hadn't seen the man in a few weeks. The message was a jumble of fragments: sequin print, risotto at 7 – but Kurt understood loud and clear. “Fantastic,” he grinned to himself. Certainly a better evening than he had thought he would have. He had assumed it would be a night of leftover roasted chicken and Maude, a quick nap, then up to Ricky's; this would be much better food and company. “Thank you,” he added to Cindy.

“You're welcome,” she replied, then peered past his shoulder at the dress form. “What's that going to be?”

“I don't know yet,” he replied honestly, tucking a bit up around the neck to see how it might look. “What do you think?”

Cindy's brow lowered in confusion as she stared at it, then forced a clearly fake smile. “Great.”

Kurt raised his eyebrows, not buying it. “Mmhmm,” he replied dryly. “Get back to the front desk.” As he heard her walk away, he unpinned a section and paused to admire the way it draped over the shoulder – almost a capelet. He liked it…a lot, actually, it was old-fashioned maybe but with the resurgence of all things 50-s related right now – Happy Days and that annoyingly-catchy musical – it could work.

He sighed and shook his head. Jules would never approve it – he would say it was too matronly because Halston hadn't made one.

Maybe he could inlay it somehow into a jumpsuit…

* * * * *

When Kurt had gone to see The Boys in the Band for the first time with Rachel, they had laughed all the way home about the apartment set in which the play took place. Giving a hustler as a birthday present had seemed downright plausible compared to an apartment with a second-floor bedroom and bathroom, a spacious terrace, and that many built-in bookcases on anything less than a lawyer's salary.

Then he had been invited to Don and John's new place for dinner.

Nestled in a row of townhouses – “prewar buildings' as he guessed the ads called them now, as though there were such a thing as a new brownstone – off Waverly but within easy walking distance of the new lofts that were selling for a pretty penny considering they had been meat manufacturing plants barely five years before, the apartment occupied the top two floors of a painfully-narrow space. Even though he doubted the square footage was much larger than the apartment he and Rachel shared, the stairs made it feel bigger, more house-like instead of a walkup the size of a postage stamp. Plus their kitchen was quite a bit larger than his own, for which he was incredibly jealous.

At a few minutes after 6:30, Kurt ascended the stairs to the front door and pressed the top buzzer. After a moment, he heard the door unlatch as Don buzzed him in. He took the second flight of stairs quickly and knocked twice before entering – his friends insisted. He was immediately greeted by ABBA and the scent of a fantastic-smelling chicken stock. “Hello?” he called, looking around the empty living room in search of either man.

“In here,” Don called from the kitchen, and as Kurt peeked around the corner the elder man smiled broadly. “Hey – right on time.” He wasn't; he was half an hour early, but it was what Don always said to him. In the early days, Kurt had tended to accidentally be extra early. He hadn't been able to help himself, the excitement of being able to spend time with such fantastic personal and professional role models who had actively invited him over had always been too much. But Don, ever conscious of how nervous and excited he was, had never wanted to be cruel and had assured him his timing was perfect. Now, more than a decade later, it was just habit – but one Kurt never minded. “Wine's on the counter, help yourself. How was work?”

Kurt rolled his eyes in response to the question, and Don laughed in understanding. “It's a sea of orange polyester. You?” he asked as he stepped over to the counter and glanced at the labels before selecting a white and pouring himself a glass.

“Fantastic. I drew and patterned two great skirts no one will ever see or wear,” he replied. “The glamourless life of a designer striking out on his own.”

The move wasn't quite new anymore – it had been six months since Don had decided to leave a job he didn't entirely hate to pursue his own line. John had thought it was the only sensible thing to do, Kurt had thought it was both the craziest and bravest thing he had ever seen for someone to jump in without a net. These days he couldn't help but be jealous of the creative freedom…but he never had to worry about paying the rent, and he valued that a little too much, especially since Rachel's work was so prone to ebbs and flows. He needed the stability.

“You just need a buyer. Or a benefactor. Or a near-death little old lady you can befriend,” Kurt suggested.

“They do love a good outfit to wear out all night,” Don replied with a faint smile.

Kurt wasn't sure when the man had gotten so relaxed; he suspected that it was a gradual shift. But the man cooking risotto barefoot in his kitchen wearing a well-worn pair of tight jeans and a form-fitting western shirt was definitely a world away from the mentor who had befriended him back then. He couldn't say whether it was a product of age, or being near a dozen thriving gay bars, or creative freedom in general, but the man wore it well…unlike the handlebar mustache Kurt wished he could forcibly shave off.

“Maybe some of them want to relive their flapper days,” Kurt suggested.

Don laughed heartily, cringing. “God, that's a mental image for you – 75-year-old breasts in a drop waist jumpsuit with sequins and fringe.” Kurt tried to close his eyes against the picture Don painted but yelped as that only made it more vivid, and Don laughed harder. “Sorry – just drink more and it'll go away. I promise.”

“Or we'll replace it with something worse.”

“Or that,” Don agreed.

They fell into a comfortable silence before Kurt took a sip of his wine and asked, “John's working late?”

Don shook his head as he put a lid over the pot on the stove. “With a model upstairs. You know, I think that has to be the biggest perk of photography these days. I caught a glimpse of him on his way up – gorgeous young thing. What he would want with an old man like John is beyond me.”

He said it as casually as if he were reporting that John had stopped by the market to pick up milk rather than his long-term man having sex with a male model right above their heads. Kurt had long since stopped looking for resentment or jealousy in Don's voice – it wasn't there. More accurately, there wasn't any such pain to be found in the man himself.

Kurt couldn't fathom that. He could appreciate wanting to be with a sexy man, certainly, but e couldn't imagine cheating on someone he loved. And he really couldn't imagine not being furious if someone he loved cheated on him – not just furious, but betrayed.

Don and John had everything he wanted; he didn't think he would ever understand why that wasn't enough for them.

But he said nothing. His view was apparently antiquated now – or quaint, at least. A pre-liberation ideal of heterosexual mimicry – tough if heterosexuals were hosting key parties and going to filthy so-called resorts to swing all weekend, he wasn't sure who was imitating whom anymore. He couldn't figure out how they had skipped so far ahead – from kissing in parks with the threat of arrest t the ability to practically grope one another on dance floors and have sex with other men in a lovers' shared apartment. Shouldn't they have first gotten the right to chaste, cozy evenings together? Or sex with one man who loved you as much as you loved him instead of just ogling each other's asses from afar? Couldn't they have that happy medium before letting those who wanted to romp with every mountable man do so?

Still, they seemed happy – happier than he had been with a boyfriend anyway. And if, after 15 years together, they wanted a little spice, who was he to deny the men that?

John's arrival downstairs was pretold by hurried footsteps down the stairs and the front door opening then slamming shut. “Sounds like someone's done,” Don joked. A few minutes later, John emerged clad in a black silk robe, hair mussed. “How was he?”

“As good as he looked,” John replied with a smirk. “Jealous?”

“That you saw him first,” Don confirmed with a fond, familiar kiss that looked much more like what Kurt wanted than any model ever could.

“You should be – you too,” he added to Kurt as he slipped over to give their guest a hug. “Did I know you were coming?”

“Probably not,” Kurt replied at the same time Don confirmed, “No.”

“Oh good – I'd hate to think I'd kept you waiting when I should have known better?”

“Can you finish dinner? I have fabric for Kurt,” Don asked.

“Of course,” John replied, taking the spoon and shooing his lover with it. “Go talk shop – we'll catch up over dinner.”

“Perfect.” Don leaned in to kiss him again lightly, then slipped out from between John and the stove and motioned for Kurt to follow him.

The area that had once been the living room had been converted into a makeshift workspace complete with towering stacks of fabrics in every colour and pattern and texture, a desk covered in tools, and a sewing machine in the corner. It was the onl part of their apartment that reminded Kurt of his own. For a blissful six months he'd had a sewing room f his own, somewhere to keep his supplies and half-finished projects out of the way, but Rachel's marriage inevitably (and completely on schedule) crumbling into dust had taken his spare room as one of its many casualties. Now his sewing room took up the area that would have been used for a dining table if they were ever at home during the same meal time to eat together.

Don moved a partial stack of neatly-folded chiffons and picked up something shiny and multi-coloured; even at a distance, Kurt could see bits of geometric panels in purple hues with sequins and beads cutting across patches of lavender and teal. Kurt approached, already contemplating who he knew with the right skintone to pull it off. Ricky did look fantastic in springy jewel tones, dark enough not to be washed out but not tanned enough to disappear while the lights caught his gown… Don shook it out and in one smooth motion the fabric caught the air and unfurled into a magnificent banner of hand-painted silk jacquard, resplendent with pinks and purples and greens in rays and spirals. The coloured panes were divided by lines of perfectly-applied beads, and tonal pailettes added texture and shimmer to the background as it moved from pale lilac to lavender to dusky grey to nearly black. Kurt stared, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. The fabric itself was like a work of art, let alone as a dress…Ricky would turn every head in that one. “Where did you get this?”

“I have no idea. It was under that red doubleknit over there – maybe when Clyde's on 39th went out of business?”

“Even with everything we bought that day, we should remember this,” Kurt pointed out. He still had stacks of fabric from the closing sale filling his dining room, some of which he would rediscover periodically, but something this magnificent should never be forgotten.

“I have no idea. But take it.”

“Are you sure? I'm sure wherever it came from it wouldn't have been cheap-“

“Absolutely,” Don replied, carefully folding the fabric again, sequin-side in. “I won't use it, but you'll create something worthy of that gorgeous bead work.' He paused, looking Kurt up and down. “Those are yours too, right?” Kurt glanced down at his own clothes - the long belted safari tunic vest and matching pants out of a light grey wool crepe, tall black boots, and black turtleneck, and nodded. “I'm so envious of your eye. No one I know sees menswear like you do.”

Kurt smiled faintly at the compliment but pointed out, “Sadly not everyone shares your opinion.” A few years ago it would have meant the world to him for someone more experienced than he was to appreciate his vision, but that was cold comfort when he spent his days trying unsuccessfully to manipulate hideous fabric into barely-wearable garments.

Don sighed, leaning against the desk. “Jules is a small man with no vision who amasses power by never letting anyone else have the chance to show him up. There's one in every company, and they rise through the ranks and make everyone beneath them miserable. Eventually they get to the top and either run out every lower-ranked designer or someone discovers how witless they are. Either you leave or they do…but every person I talk to over there says you're the best.”

“Really?” Kurt was surprised to hear it but tried not to let it show. No one had said anything like that to him.

Don nodded. “Absolutely. Now, I know that doesn't help much, but atl east it's enough to know it's not you, right?”

Kurt hated to admit that it was true; he had long since given up on caring too much – or caring at all, really – what people thought of him…but knowing the opinion that his designs were all wrong wasn't a majority opinion was reassuring. He was well-acquainted with a single person thinking he was out of his mind, but it was nice to hear it wasn't the entire design team. “A little – thank you.”

Don smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now let's see what other gems we can find here for your night job, shall we?”

* * * * *

By the time Kurt half-staggered up the stairs to his apartment with an armload of fabric, his chances for a nap were virtually nonexistent. He had tried to leave at least twice, but with fun conversation and swapping silk and John deciding to make cookies, he hadn't quite gotten out of there until after 11. He barely had time to drop things off, pick up the costumes, and get back on the subway if he wanted to make it to Ricky's when he had promised. He would pay for missing the chance to grab a few ours' sleep tomorrow, he knew from experience, but staying home was out of the question.

Shifting his bounty to one arm, he fished out his key and nudged it into the lock. As he pushed open the door, he was surprised to hear the television droning quietly in the living room. Rachel always remembered to turn it off before she left for the theatre – she was very conscientious about electricity consumption and its impact on the environment. He closed the door behind himself and set the armload of fabric on the table, then peeked around the corner. Though he doubted a thief or other criminal would leave the tv on instead of taking it, it was new York – stranger things had happened.

Rachel sat on the couch, staring into space. Against the blue glare of the news, he could see her holding a mug of what he assumed from experience to be a post-sow cup of decaffeinated tea with lemon and honey. If she had beaten him home, he was even later than he thought. Ricky would kill him- Oh, who was he kidding? Ricky wouldn't even be ready yet by the time he arrived anyway. “How was the show?” he asked. She didn't respond, just cocked her head slightly to the side, sighed, and took a long sip of tea.

Great. So it would be one of those nights.

Kurt barely held in a sigh of his own but flicked on the light and moved over to the couc. Rachel automatically pulled her knees up closer to her chest to give him room – they had assumed these positions many times before, especially in the past 18 months, and he never minded – honestly. Rachel could be frustrating on occasion, but she was still one of his closest friends and part of that included supporting one another unconditionally…it was just the timing. These conversations never needed t happen on free nights or times he was running ahead of schedule, only when the night was already packed with plans and he was an hour behind. “What happened?”

“Nothing. That's the problem,” she sighed again. “I sang about learning to follow Jesus for three hours while dressed like a wayward flower child and spent the whole first act hoping Anna would get food poisoning or fall down the stairs or get hit by a scrim so I would get even one line. This isn't how things were supposed to be – I'm 33 and still in the chorus, understudying a minor featured role as a hooker?”

“Thirty-five,” Kurt corrected automatically, and she silenced him with a glare.

“Where did I go wrong? I was supposed to have so much more for myself by now. We both were – remember? When we used to talk about our lives and what we would accomplish? It's been almost 20 years and we're no better off than when we started.”

“Our apartment's better,” he offered. He hated when she talked like this; he understood why – she'd had a few really awful years now, both personally and professionally, and between her second divorce and her story segment getting cut from “A Chorus Line,” he wasn't surprised she was frustrated…but things were so much better now than they had been, and he wished she could see that.

“Not by enough,” she pointed out. “We were supposed to be living in a beautiful prewar brownstone by now – a home befitting a head designer of a successful line and a multiple-Tony-award-winning actress. We aren't young anymore, Kurt, we're not supposed to be living in a tiny two-bedroom near Lincoln Center.” He wanted to point out that it hadn't been so tiny when it was just a one-person apartment, but that would be pouring salt in the wound. She had felt bad about moving in after everything fell apart, and considering the uncharacteristic display of guilt and recognition that not everything was about her, Kurt didn't want to make her feel any worse about it. “I mean…think about what we thought we'd have by now. Where we thought we'd be. Can you honestly say any of this measures up?”

Kurt wasn't sure how to respond. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had first moved to the city…and in a lot of ways it was. They'd been here almost as long as they had lived in Ohio now, and things were so different. He wasn't sitting on fountains and chasing men through the park anymore, or wandering through the Village in the dark in search of a tiny restaurant with fogged windows. He could walk into any of two dozen bars and be served immediately if he wanted – to say nothing of the entire cadre of men he was about to go dress in gorgeous gowns for a party he never would have imagined back then. He could never have conceived of such things when he left Ohio; hell, back then he'd barely known there were a dozen men like him out there, and it was all so theoretical – he knew there should be people he could find who would understand him, but how? And where?

But at the same time…

He wouldn't trade what he had for anything – not in a million years. But he couldn't deny that this life still didn't quite match what he'd envisioned for himself back when he set out from Lima in search of a bright future. He'd thought by the time he was 30, he would have his own fashion house – Yves Saint Laurent had only been 27 when he had begun his own line after taking over Dior at 21 – and could walk down the street to see New Yorkers wearing his designs anywhere he went. Where was that professional success he'd expected? Where was the apartment he shared with his boyfriend where he played host to elegant soirees? Where was the boyfriend who did crossword puzzles while he read Vogue and they listened to soundtrack albums from the latest Broadway albums?

He appreciated all the new things he had that he never would have imagined…but was it so wrong to also expect that a few of the things he'd always wanted would have materialized by now?

“Perhaps it's all for the best,” he suggested, quoting a song from her current show with an awkward chuckle at his own joke. She shot him a harsh look that made clear she didn't feel like joking tonight, and he fell silent.

“I just don't know where we went wrong,” Rachel said quietly, clutching her mostly-empty mug in both hands. “We're so talented – both of us. Why shouldn't we be just as successful as we planned?”

“I guess there's a difference between the successes a teenager imagines and what really happens,” Kurt supposed; even the admission felt like failure. It shouldn't, he reminded himself; he had moved up in the world, and while he wasn't nearly to his goals yet he wasn't stuck in the basement cutting yard after yard of tulle anymore. He was designing garments and seeing many of them make their way to the final collections…and even if they weren't his ideal designs, even if he wasn't the head designer with all the creative freedom, that was still better than where he had started. “But we're improving,” he pointed out. “I know not as fast as we wanted, but it's forward motion-“

“Maybe for you. I'm in the chorus getting passed over by girls younger than me,” Rachel pointed out. “I'm that old lady now – the one I used to laugh at for still thinking she had a shot. They used to pass me up for being too young, now…” She sighed again. “And maybe if I had someone in my life it wouldn't hurt so much. But first Brian, then Tom, and I have to ask myself where I went so wrong.”

“Marrying homosexuals,” Kurt replied automatically, and Rachel shot him a dirty look. He couldn't help it; he'd tried to warn her. He'd spent practically her entire relationships with the men trying to warn her that they weren't exactly interested in her in the ways she would have liked, but she hadn't listened – not after her first perfect dates where they exchanged nothing but chaste pecks goodbye, not after Brian had insisted that they wait until marriage because he wanted to be respectful of her and her reputation even though no one in the city cared about that, not for the combined fourteen months Kurt had spent planning her elaborate nuptials...He had done everything short of standing up during the ceremonies to object to the union. Still, after a year and a half with Brian and only eight months with Tom things had fallen apart as each man realized he should be with men instead.

(In the case of poor Tom, he had been caught backstage messing around with four other chorus boys during Intermission in what was apparently not the first cast orgy that week. Kurt wasn't sure if it was for the best that Rachel had been the one to discover them or not; on one hand, it was a cruel image no wife should have to suffer, but on the other he was pretty sure she would have found a way to deny it had anyone else been the one to relay the news.)

“You're not doing any better,” she pointed out. “There are certainly gays around now, but you're as single as ever.”

Kurt shifted, tilting his head. He hardly needed reminding about that. He didn't know that he had spent his whole life single, but the relationship he'd dreamed of had definitely eluded him. Still tings were almost harder now; now that sex was so ubiquitous, it seemed like everyone just wanted momentary coupling. He wanted more than that, more than chasing a man through a bathhouse all night or staring down from the balcony at a nightclub to try to make eye contact with the improbably attractive man. He'd had those things, and they weren't bad, they just weren't…

They weren't evenings at home with soundtracks and magazines.

Still, he had Ricky for those things. And Rachel. And Don and John who were a thousand times more than he would ever have conjured on his own before he moved to New York. That was what was important.

And the fact that Ricky was waiting impatiently in face – and a corset, which never made anyone's mood better.

“Will you be okay?” he asked. “I was supposed to be uptown an hour ago, but if-…”

She sighed and offered a faint smile. “I'll be fine. Nothing different about tonight anyway.” He knew it was passive-aggressive, which was apparently a skill all Jewish women mastered somewhere around age 30, but he didn't feel like getting sucked in tonight. “I don't understand why you never let me come. The parties sound like fun.”

There were a thousand reasons he wouldn't let her come. The way she would insist on being the center of attention even though there were men there who were stunning – and brave and spirited…the fact that there were almost no women there at all, certainly not straight women or women who hadn't spent most of their lives as men…and the fact that he needed a place where Rachel wasn't. If she was going to live in his apartment and cook in his kitchen even though she didn't really know how to cook and stay such a huge part of his life, he needed to keep at least some of himself separate. He loved her in a way he couldn't really explain, especially considering how their relationship had begun, but they weren't 18 and using each other anymore. He had gotten used to having more of his life to himself during her marriages, and her attempts to worm her way back into every aspect of his day that didn't have to do with work now felt strange and forced and like going backwards.

“And I want to see a place where black gays can be so empowered - where else can transvestites dress and strut like Pam Grier?”

…but mostly because she would say things like that.

* * * * *

Kurt hurried up the steps out of the 135th Street subway station, trying not to think about how late he was. He carried four garment bags over his shoulder, fingers looped through the hangers and straining from the weight of all the fabric and sequins; in his other hand, he held a train case filled with everything he might need – twelve colours of thread, needles, scissors, spare buttons and rhinestones and pailettes and hooks and eyes – and over his shoulder he had looped his matching bag filled with accessories, hair products, his shoes, and the fabric Don had given him.

He didn't know why he was so worried about time. Though the ball was supposed to start at midnight, he didn't think they had ever gotten there before 1. Still, Ricky tended to get antsy if his gown was late, for reasons Kurt could understand, and he didn't particularly want to deal with that tonight.

No matter what time of day he climbed the six flights to Ricky's apartment, Kurt would never cease to be amused by the fact that it was easy to tell from the thin walls exactly where in the building other gay men lived. From apartment 21, he could hear the new Diana Ross single; apartment 46 brought him minute 6 of “Love is the Message,” which he could guarantee he would hear in its eleven-minute entirety at least once tonight; apartment 52 was blaring Donna Summer. As soon as he turned the landing between the sixth and seventh floor, he could hear a familiar bassline coming from 71, and as he ascended the final stairs a power-wailing lead singer added over top, muffled by the door but not so much that he couldn't tell exactly what song would be awaiting him when he finally reached the apartment.

Though normally Ricky's door would be locked with three extra bolts for safety, any time after 9 the door was unlocked and waiting for anyone who might be wandering past to either steal something or come apply makeup – Kurt guessed in this building, those were the only two options. He shifted the train case and twisted the knob with his fingertips, pushing open the door to see exactly the frenzy he expected. The tiny front room looked like a trim store had exploded, with every conceivable surface covered in feathers, sparkle, and fringe – or in tiny pots and tubes of makeup that ranged from cheap drug store brands to “good stuff” funded by boyfriends and side jobs. He counted eight people in the hundred-square-foot space, all in different stages of the nightly transformation from men to superhuman Amazonians with elaborate maquillage and cinched waists that would make any girl envious – or cringe. Over the music he heard the cackle of laughter and friendly barb-tongued insults; he must not be too late if he wasn't hearing the clack of shoes yet. Those always came last.

Though it felt like a different planet, Kurt could feel himself immediately relaxing as the concerns about time and Rachel and irritation about work melted away. He draped the garment bags over the first free chair he saw and set the train case on Ricky's kitchen counter; though it was barely a square foot and not nearly enough to be useful for cooking (or anything else), it was a place he could be sure the sewing kit wouldn't get lost.

Milan saw him first, from her position at the nearest makeup table, and she waved – mascara still in hand – calling out “Oh good, baby, you're here. Miss Thing's in the bedroom waiting for her gown. Love the boots.”

“Thanks,” Kurt replied. “How long has he been worried?”

“Oh not too long. Is mine in there?”

“Yes, of course,” Kurt nodded. “Let me get this in to Ricky and then-“

Milan nodded. “Gotcha baby. I've gotta finish my face anyway, take your time. You know these things never start on time anyway.”

Kurt grinned and sifted through the garment bags until he found the one he needed, then grabbed his luggage and carried both through the room and to the left, knocking on the door twice before pushing it open. Ricky stood at the center of the room, already wearing his corset and bra, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror as he fussed with the placement of his wig. The cascade of shiny black rolled curls began on top of the head and worked their way dramatically down one side, and Ricky seemed to be hurriedly trying to pin as many places as possible on the non-curled side in an effort to keep the monstrous hairpiece balanced. He muttered curses around a mouthful of bobby pins, then caught sight of Kurt in the mirror and turned around. With a quick motion he swiped the pins from his mouth and beamed, “Vonny! Thank God – I've fought with this about all I can. Is it done?”

“Better than done,” Kurt replied, unzipping the garment bag. He watched Ricky's face as the young man's eyes widened and mouth dropped a moment, then spread into an ecstatic grin. “And you have to see the new fabric I have for you. It'll leave this one in the dust.”

“How? It's perfect.” Ricky walked over, pushing back the vinyl protecting the dress and running his fingertips over the gold bugle beads Kurt had spent way too many hours painstakingly sewing on by hand. “You were right about the navy,” he added, nodding.

“Black would have been too severe, but it'll read as dark under those lights.”

“Perfect – get me into it?” He stepped in front of the mirror again, securing the back of his wig while he waited for Kurt to set everything down and free the dress from its hanger. Kurt slipped down the side zipper and helped his best friend step into it. Ricky shook his head, grinning as Kurt zipped him up and smoothed the sides carefully. “I'm never taking it off. What am I going to do when you get famous and I have to go back to buying off the rack?” he joked.

“You never bought off the rack,” Kurt pointed out.

“Fine – stealing off the rack,” Ricky amended with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Help me with those bracelets there?” he added, pointing to the stack on the nightstand. Kurt reached over and snagged them, glad he wasn't trying to find them in the mass of jewelry scattered across the top of the dresser. He took Ricky's wrist and looped the bracelet beneath, fussing with the clasp. A lot of what Ricky had were older pieces with finicky fastenings, and this was no exception. “One of these days you'll realize how good you are and start giving us a run for our money.”

It was an old conversation and one Kurt had long since tired of. He had no particular desire to do what they did; he loved a good costume, of course, and his closet was filled to the brim with ball-appropriate jackets and shoes he had embellished just for the occasion. But gowns would never be him. Makeup would certainly never be him.

He was never quite sure how to explain why not; there was no good way of separating himself from the group without it sounding like he was diminishing what they did. Ricky looked amazing in a dress – and not just because he cinched himself into an impossible silhouette and had access to much better makeup now than he had a decade before. His friend lit up this way, walked so much taller when they strode into the darkened ballrooms and basements where throngs of men danced and competed…Kurt just lit up when people wanted him to design for them. He loved seeing his work on people, moving and swirling down makeshift runways; he didn't need to squeeze himself into a dress to enjoy himself.

“I'll let you deal with the heels all night,” he replied, and Ricky laughed softly.

“Mm – but they look so good.”

“Beauty is pain.” Kurt finished fastening the bracelets and stepped back to look Ricky up and down. He picked a wayward strand of white thread off his hip, then nodded in approval. “You're going to clean up tonight.”

“You think?” There was still a faint vulnerability to Ricky's grin that Kurt knew no one else was allowed to see. In front of everyone else, Ricky knew he was the best girl in that room. But here, with just the two of them, he could see the genuine smile behind the dark red lipstick.

“I know,” Kurt replied.

“I still say you've gotta walk at least once, Vonny.”

“As what?” Kurt asked, crossing his arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Butch?” There were a dozen categories or more for the drag queens, ranging from best walk to best gown to best face, but for anyone who didn't come in a dress there was only one: butch. He was pretty sure his runway walk wouldn't be considered quite manly enough for that.

Ricky laughed. “Mm – you may have a point. That lesbian who comes with Crystal's group would beat you in a heartbeat.” Kurt shot him a look, which made Ricky giggle and wrap him in a hug. It was the last time all night he would be taller; once his best friend donned heels, he would be the shortest in the group. As it was, Ricky's hair was already taller than his own. “Go ahead and worry about the other girls. I'll finish up in here.”

“Finish up what? You look great,” Kurt replied, and Ricky grinned as he pulled back.

“A girl can always have more makeup to do. Go,” he shooed him, and Kurt laughed as he headed back into the front room.

Though Ricky's apartment wasn't the largest around, it wasn't hard to see why it was the default place to get ready; not only was it the closest to most of the ball locations, but his lack of roommates meant no one had objected when he had turned the entire living room into a giant dressing room. Lighted vanities and makeup tables that had been amassed from a few dozen thrift stores and block sales lined two walls; the third was taken up by two full-length mirrors and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with shoes and Styrofoam wig heads. With the walk-in closet, Kurt couldn't imagine many places would be better for a base of operations.

He walked back over to the chairs where he had left the garment bags, slipping two of the pile and carrying them over their recipients. He loved this part best, showing off his handiwork, and he couldn't help but prance a little in excitement. “Voila,” he said as he laid one bag over the back of Milan's chair.

“Thanks, baby,” she replied, staying very still as she applied lipstick. “How much do I owe you? Did you really only say $45?”

Don thought he was crazy. John thought he was absolutely out of his mind. But he couldn't bring himself to charge what things would sell for when he knew how at least a few of them paid for things. Even if things weren't as dire as they once had been, Kurt guessed as long as there were men who wanted sex that was considered…unconventional, there would be men they could pay to get it. He knew at least a few of the queens he knew worked on the side to pay for everything above basic essentials, and he couldn't-…the idea of taking money from friends that they earned by blowing dirty old guys too scared or too creepy to even go to a bathhouse made him queasy.

He knew Ricky still did it – and still claimed he enjoyed himself and it was none of Kurt's business. So he didn't ask questions anymore. But that didn't mean he felt any more comfortable charging much beyond the cost of supplies.

Besides. This was his hobby; it didn't have to make money. If it paid for the materials and maybe bought the supplies for his own costume for the night, he considered it a win.

By 12:48, they were as ready as they were going to be. The beaded dress that had looked short while he worked on it looked shorter than anything Rachel had worn even in 1966 once Milan actually slipped into it, but with her miles of arms and legs she looked incredible, and the white-gold was even better than Kurt had expected against her cocoa-brown skin. And Renee's shoulders were narrowed perfectly in the floor-length sheath dress that looked right at home under her afro wig…though Kurt wasn't sure how much sense it made to create a wig that was designed to look like a woman wearing her hair “natural.”

But Ricky walked like the belle of the ball from the time he strutted out of the bedroom – head held high, lips pursed, train of his gown flowing behind him. It was hard to deny he was their leader as the rest of them fell into easy formation behind him; Kurt, in his black paisley jacket and ruffled shirt, took his usual place at Ricky's right hand as they stepped out, ready to navigate the twelve dark blocks to the basement ballroom where their evening would really begin.