‘Cause we are broken,

What must we do to restore our innocence?

And oh, the promise we adored?

Give us life again,

‘Cause we just wanna be whole.

            Blaine was giddy the rest of the day, drifting around the apartment as if the previous hadn't even happened. Christian watched him quietly, tucked into the corner of the couch with what must have been his fourth cup of coffee.

            “What happened to you? Yesterday you were all doom and gloom and now you're walking on the sun. If I didn't know better I would be convinced that you might actually shit a rainbow.” His roommate quirked an eyebrow, tucking his feet under his body.

            “He forgave me.” Blaine couldn't stop the little noise that followed. He sounded like he was in a haze; like he was dreaming. He was positively floating.

            “That's all? You didn't nail some Broadway audition? Didn't get a job? Didn't write a bestselling book?” The corner of Christian's mouth twitched.

            “I think this is better than any of those things.” Blaine plopped down on the couch beside his friend. “He forgave me, Christian. I really thought I fucked up for good and he accepted my apology.” His head fell against the back of the couch, smiling up at the ceiling.

            “Is that all?” Blaine tilted his head to eye his friend, eyebrows drawing together slightly before his gaze landed on the teasing smile.

            “Bitch,” Blaine chuckled, mock-punching Christian in the shoulder.

            Blaine had the sudden urge to just go out. To get out of the little, admittedly stuffy apartment and enjoy the outdoors just for something to enjoy. He went to his bedroom, planning an outfit, and then planning it again when it didn't seem right. Christian had stopped in the open doorway, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

            “What the fuck are you doing? Did you tear up your closet just for the hell of it or is there a method to your madness?”

            “There's always a reason.” Blaine cast his friend a look over his shoulder before turning back to eye the clothing items spread across his mattress.

            “Are you going to tell me or are you on some super secret, high profile, CIA mission?” Blaine choked back a laugh, the noise breaking off in his throat.

            “Maybe I just feel like getting dressed up and going out.” His roommate made a noise of disbelief behind him, taking a few steps into the room to eye Blaine's choices.

            “You're getting fancied up and stressing about an outfit just to go outside?”

            “You never know who could be out there, Christian! The world is filled with opportunities.” Blaine pushed out his lip slightly, chewing at the inside as his gaze roamed over the fabric.

            “Is this what you were like before you and Kurt broke up?” Blaine's face fell slightly, but when he twisted to look at his friend he only found calm curiosity. “All... puppy-like and bouncy and stressing about your looks like any other stereotypical gay man?”

            Blaine let out an indignant cry, giving a feeble slap at Christian's arm. “How dare you call me stereotypical! I am the Queen, I am certainly not typical.” They stared quietly at each other before breaking down into giggles.

            “You're the Queen, huh?” Christian poked a finger into Blaine's side, wringing out more laughter.

            “Shut up, shut up. I was offended and said the first thing that came to mind.” Blaine squirmed away from his roommate, attempting to fight the grin off his face. “Wait, you said puppy.”

            “Blaine, no.” Christian took a step back, palms out as a barrier.

            “Please, oh my God, please can we get a puppy? Please, please, please.”

            “No, no, definitely not, no.” Christian continued his backwards movement to the door.

            “You brought it up! This is your fault. You put this image in my head. I need it. I need a fluffy thing in my arms to cuddle and coo at. Ineed it.” Blaine chased after his friend, whining as he attempted to push Christian's extended arms down.

            “Go organize your outfits, gay-face. We aren't getting a dog.” And with that, his roommate bolted down the hallway.

            Central Park was by far one of Blaine's favourite things about the city. It was somewhere that, without fail, could help him breathe. There was something about how open it felt compared to the compact suffocating proximity of New York as a whole that just let his mind release any of its prior worries and be free.

            The snow had mostly melted overnight, which was surprising but not at all unwelcome. There were puddles here and there, the grass still soaked through which left laying in one of the fields out of the question. Blaine loved people watching. It seemed stupid, but sitting tucked into a corner of one of the benches or in the grass with a book and glasses that never liked to stay on his face and just occasionally watching people go about their days was probably one of his favourite things; aside from making music, of course. Knowing that there were other people that lived in the world and also had struggles just the same as he did was like a welcome reality check.

            There were parents who struggled by with their unruly children, pristine business people with briefcases more likely than not filled to the brim with important papers, straggling homeless men and women begging for change. But that was how he met Hunter.

            Blaine had wandered the park for what felt like hours, smiling at the strangers when they cast him a passing glance, whistling quietly to himself, and barely refraining from splashing in puddles like a five year old. And then he saw him. He was young, definitely far too young to be out on the streets. He sat under one of the trees, legs stretched out in front of him and picking worriedly at the acoustic guitar in his lap as if he was scared he was going to break it.

            He had shaggy blond hair that fell over his eyes, barely tanned skin, and clothes that looked like they hadn't been washed in days. His hands were wrapped with what looked like must have been a bed sheet once upon a time, probably an attempt at make-shift gloves for the winter. There was an upturned baseball cap between his feet, practically begging for change even though the boy owning it didn't say a thing. He just frowned at his instrument, pulling at a few of the strings and adjusting the tuning pegs before doing the same thing again.

            Blaine paused a few feet away, observing the boy quietly. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. Blaine dug out his wallet, flicking through the few bills in the pouch before unearthing a twenty. There was no harm in giving to those that needed it, right? He made his way over to the boy cautiously, dropping into a crouch in front of the baseball cap where the boy finally looked up. The corner of his mouth twitched before opening.

            “Hi.” He sounded far too good for a homeless person. Usually when Blaine thought of somebody without a home he thought old and questionable drug addicts with broken voices. This kid, however, was definitely not that case. His voice was almost like honey, curling around the word delicately as if he was savouring the way it sounded.

            “Good afternoon,” Blaine responded, smiling widely at the stranger. “What's your name?” And he almost, almost slapped himself. You don't just walk up to some random person and immediately ask their name. Except the boy grinned, showing off a row of (surprisingly) perfect, nearly white teeth.

            “Hunter,” he just sounded so friendly. Part of Blaine wanted to offer him a home on his and Christian's couch right away. Just say fuck it all and demand that this poor kid just live with them. But he knew that would never happen.

            “I'm Blaine; it's wonderful to meet you.” He held out a hand slowly, almost worried that he would scare the boy off. Except to his surprise (once again), the gesture was returned. Hunter's grip was strong, fingers curling around Blaine's hand as if it were a lifeline.

            “Likewise. Although, if I could ask, why are you talking to me? A lot of people just rush by and pretend that I don't exist. Sometimes they drop change when I play but otherwise they just carry on as they would.” Hunter's eyebrows furrowed slightly, lower lip jutting out ever-so-slightly in a way that reminded Blaine much of himself.

            “You looked like you were struggling with your guitar and needed some company.” He nodded toward the instrument which was now facedown on the boy's lap.

            “Oh.” Hunter's gaze dropped to the object in question, fingertips running over the wood grain pattern on the back. “Yeah, I guess company would be nice. I don't get very much of it.”

            Blaine offered him a sad smile, dropping out of his crouch to sit on the pavement (expensive jeans be damned) and cross his legs. “What seems to be the problem with it? You looked like you were having a hell of a time trying to figure it out.”

            Hunter picked up the guitar once more, resting it on his thigh and giving it a forlorn look. “I don't know. The other day it was just fine and now it won't tune and it sounds like shit and I have no idea what happened.”

            “May I see it?” Blaine held out tentative hands, wiggling his fingers slightly in the space between them. “I might be able to tell you the problem.” Hunter's eyes narrowed slightly but he handed over the guitar, careful to make sure that Blaine wasn't going to drop it or break it anymore than it probably already was. It was obvious that this was the most important thing the boy owned.

            “What makes you think you know more about it than I do?” Hunter's tone was slightly on edge as he crossed his legs to mimic Blaine's position, leaning forward slightly over his lap to watch closer at what Blaine was doing.

            Blaine gave a little smile, pointing a finger to himself, “Music major at NYU. I play guitar, piano, violin, drums; you name it, I've tried it.” Hunter's eyes widened slightly and he looked like he was trying to push down a smile. “Your bridge is cracked and the neck is warped. Also one of your tuning pegs isn't doing its job.” Blaine got up off the concrete, offering a hand to the boy looking up at him. “Come with me.”

            Hunter slowly took the proffered hand, confusion washing over his face as Blaine pulled him to his feet. “Where are we going?” He snatched his hat off the ground, picking out the couple of coins probably thrown there as a float and pocketing them before following after Blaine.

            “We are going to find you a new guitar.”

            “Blaine, I can't afford any of these,” Hunter hissed, sticking close by Blaine's side and eyeing the instruments on the racks with envy.

            “I can.” The older man waved to the shop owner, casting him a little smile before heading deeper into the shelves. When he turned, Hunter had frozen, staring at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth and Blaine almost laughed.

            “I can't let you do that.”

            “I want to. I wouldn't have brought you if I just felt like making you drool over guitars. I have plenty to spare, it's not a big deal.” And it was true. Despite Blaine always bitching and crying about not having any money for anything, he did still have what was in the trust fund his grandmother left him. He'd never touched it, hoping to keep it until he absolutely had to; there had to be a couple hundred thousand in it, his grandmother was a lot more well off than she let people believe. But this was important. He was helping somebody else and that made him feelgood because he wasn't selfishly using the money on himself. Maybe while they were there, he would get his own guitar considering the one he used most often was owned by NYU and still at the school.

            “I can't just let you buy me a new guitar.” Hunter followed after him all the same, though.

            “Sure you can.” Blaine stopped at the back of the store, eyeing the acoustics. When he looked over, the boy was looking at the left-handed guitars instead, fingertips touching gently at the pick guards. “Are you really left-handed? And you've been playing a right-handed all this time?”

            Hunter looked back at him, cheeks colouring slightly before dropping his eyes to the floor. “It was a friend of mine's. He would let me play because I loved it and then eventually just decided to give it to me. I used to have a lefty back home,” his eyes, although trained on the dark maroon carpet, seemed to glaze over slightly, “but then I had to leave. So I've just been struggling through playing upside down.”

            “I'm actually pretty impressed. Pick something you like.” Blaine turned back to the racks, taking down a black and white polished Ibanez.

            Purchases made, they headed back toward the park, guitars in bags slung on their backs and joking between them. Hunter fell in love with his the second he saw it. It was a dark, dusty looking brown that held a certain vintage appeal to it and Blaine understood exactly why he wanted it so badly. He'd hidden the price tag ridiculously fast, somehow managing not to let the boy see to a point that even he was surprised. Blaine had also bought him a new strap and a couple of picks, as well as a tuner (which was admittedly nothing fancy).

            He just looked so happy. They had stopped in a little café on the way back, grabbing coffees that Hunter insisted he pay for. Blaine let him, not wanting to demolish all of the boy's pride. Hunter was nineteen, Blaine had found out. He used to live in Brooklyn  before being kicked out for reasons that he didn't want to share, but by the longing looks he gave some of the more expensive outfits in the windows as they passed that were not-so-obviously of top-designer make gave Blaine a slight idea.

            That was when Hunter stopped him. “Blaine can I ask you something kind of... private? You don't have to answer if you don't want to.” He was staring at the sidewalk, watching his feet rather than Blaine.

            “Fire away.”

            “Are you... gay?” Blaine glanced down at him then to look into a pair of almost hopeful jade eyes. He knew it wasn't a romantic thing; the look in the boy's gaze wasn't one of adoration but of admiration instead. He was looking for someone to look up to.

            “Yeah, I am.” Blaine gave him a little smile.

            “Okay, good. I mean, not good that you're gay, well yes good because it's not bad because I don't care either way. But good for you that you're not hiding who you are.” Hunter's cheeks pinked again and he dropped his eyes back to the path ahead of them.

            “Are you?”

            “Gay? Wh—“

            “Hiding who you are?” Blaine stopped him, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and forcing him to meet his gaze. “You are, aren't you?”

            Hunter's eyes misted over and he sucked in a slow breath before letting it out shakily. “I don't have a choice. I didn't have a choice then and I don't have one now, either.” He looked like he was going to crumble, like if Blaine moved his palm from its place on the other man's shoulder that he would break into a thousand pieces. It was a face he knew well. It was a face that looked a lot like his own.

            “You always have a choice. I know it might not seem like it right now, but you'll get there one day. I'm sorry that I don't know how to be of more help than just an instrument but maybe you'll at least be able to make some money playing the guitar the right way. You'll get up there eventually, even if it's just scraping ends meet with barely earned cash, at least you'll be somewhere. Just don't give up, okay? Don't do what I did.” Blaine squeezed Hunter's shoulder. “I'm going to hug you now, okay?” Hunter nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Blaine pulled him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around the boy's shoulders and hugging him close. Hunter's hands found the small of Blaine's back, clinging tightly as he let out a sob into the older man's chest.

            “It's not fair. I didn't ask for this.” Blaine knew they were probably crossing so many weird we-just-met boundaries but he could honestly care less. He cupped the back of Hunter's neck, fingers petting through his dirtied hair.

            “I know. Life rarely is.” He leaned his cheek on the top of the boy's head, relieved that for once someone who needed comfort was shorter than him. He finally felt like the bigger person, finally felt like being physically larger was a huge factor in giving the feeling of safety. It was a feeling he never got used to, the only person smaller than him he'd ever comforted was Rachel Berry, and that was a long time ago. It had always been the vise-versa and he never understood how someone might like being bigger and looking down on everybody and making them feel safe. He finally got it. “Did you want to come to my apartment? You can shower and I can give you a couple pairs of sweatpants and a coat, maybe a few t-shirts. You could probably stay the night on my couch if you wanted.”

            Hunter pulled back slightly, tucking his face against Blaine's throat. “You've already done so much for me, I don't want to intrude. Besides, I'm used to the weather by now and I'm afraid that one night inside might throw me off balance. A shower and some new clothes might be really nice, though.”

            “Well, let's get going.” Blaine pulled away, smiling down at the boy before, on a whim, grabbing his hand.

            “You live here?” Hunter's gaze flew up the building, eyes widening at the height before settling again on the glass lobby doors.

            “It's not the nicest place, but it'll do.” Blaine pushed open the door, ushering the boy inside and toward the elevator. “My roommate should be at work or out doing roommate things, whatever those are.”

            Hunter laughed, and for the first time, it sounded like it might be real.

            Blaine showed his guest where the bathroom was, giving him a disposable razor as well and teaching him how to work the tricky faucet system of the shower before heading to his room. The empty guitar stand that stood beside his keyboard finally had something to fill it.

            Blaine smiled as he unzipped the case, carefully shimmying the instrument out and sitting on the edge of the bed.

            He didn't remember when he started singing, he didn't remember when he stood up and started dancing around the room with his guitar. He didn't remember when he felt so free.

            “I feel the salty waves come in, feel them crash against my skin. And I smile as I respire because I know they'll never win. There's a haze above my TV that changes everything I see and maybe if I continue watching I'll lose the traits that worry me.” Blaine grinned, closing his eyes. “Stop there, and let me correct it, I wanna live a life from a new perspective. You come along because I love your face, and I'll admire your expensive taste. And who cares? Divine intervention. I wanna be praised from a new perspective. But leaving now would be a good idea, so catch me up on getting out of here.”

            “You really are a music major aren't you?” Blaine jumped at the sound of another voice, guitar strings twanging as his hand slipped. He spun to face where Hunter was leaning against the doorframe.

            “Yeah, I really am.” Blaine smiled sheepishly, slowly moving to lay his new toy in its stand. Now that he had a shower and cleaned up, he was a lot more attractive than Blaine actually expected. His hair was a golden blond, not the dirty colour it was before, his arms were toned where they were crossed over his –oh man- bare chest. He was all-in-all a pretty attractive guy.

            “You said you had clothes. I didn't want to get dressed in dirty things just to get changed.” Hunter's cheeks flushed a gentle scarlet that also crept down his neck and faded out across his chest. And that was when Blaine realized that his arms weren't crossed in an attempt to be sultry, but in self-consciousness.

            “Yes, of course.” Blaine moved to his dresser, rifling through some of the things that were on the smaller side for him and picking out a total of four pairs of sweatpants, three t-shirts, an unopened four-pack of boxer-briefs he thought might be appreciated, and a couple pairs of socks.

            “I really can't thank you enough,” Hunter's voice was quiet as he followed Blaine back toward the living room, now seeming to be a completely new person with his new clothes. Blaine had given him an old backpack he'd never used, one of the ones that had been sitting in his closet for what must have been years (it still even had the tag on it).

            “It's really no problem.” Blaine reached into the coat closet, picking out an old but suitable winter coat and handing it to his new friend as well. “It's the least I can do.” Surprisingly, out of the boy's whole outfit, his boots had managed to hold up the best, but Blaine wasn't really surprised considering they looked a lot like they could be Docs.

            “Maybe I'll see you around the park? That's where I stay most of the time, the streets are too packed and it's harder to make money when there are more people around trying to do the same.”

            “Maybe I'll stop by just to see you.” Blaine gave him a grin, opening his arms and pulling Hunter in for one last hug.

            “And Blaine?” Blaine made a humming noise. “Thank you.” With that, he pulled out of the older man's arms, slinging his bag and guitar over his shoulder and disappearing out of the apartment. And then he couldn't contain the grin, he couldn't hold back the joy that spread across his face. He was coming back. He wasn't just some sad little boy anymore who did drugs and cried about how much his life sucked. He was Blaine Anderson and he was back.

            “Taking everything for granted but we still respect the time. We move along with some new passion, knowing everything is fine. And I would wait and watch the hours fall in a hundred separate lines, but I regain, repose, and wonder how I ended up inside.”

            He was Blaine Anderson and he was fucking fucked.

            It started with the second he woke up, or, if he was being technical, the lack of such. Blaine rolled over in bed, content to enjoy the last few minutes before his alarm went off. Well, minutes came and passed and the shrieking tone of Katy's Perry's Peacock never came. He opened an eye to find the numbers on his alarm clock (the backup of course) flashing obnoxiously. Okay, so the power went out or something last night, probably from the slush downpour. But that still didn't explain why his phone didn't go off.

            As it turned out, Blaine was just stupid. He had left it on silent and now it was almost a quarter after noon, a fact which sent him cursing and flailing off his bed.

            And then his body wash was empty, forcing him to scrounge up what he could and coming very near to just taking a knife to the container. And then he got shampoo in both eyes. And then managed to cut himself exactly seven times while shaving, which was some kind of new record for him.

            But then it was his outfit. First, the inseam of his favourite pair of black jeans decided to rip halfway up his thigh, which of course (naturally) caused a downward spiral for the rest of it. The bright red polo he planned on wearing for some reason didn't fit in the shoulders the way it was supposed to, all his socks seemed to have holes in them or went mysteriously missing (and people wondered why he hated them), his belt decided to bite the dust, and then, of all things, his silk boxers tore in the ass when he bent over. It was nearing 1p.m. and Blaine was fucked.

            Eventually (surprisingly) he made it out of the house and managed to hail a taxi –not without screaming his lungs out. He settled on red pants and a black polo (the exact opposite of his original plan) and a bowtie he still didn't know the exact colour of.

            Blaine sighed, running a hand over his face and slumping against the stained cushions of his seat. At least he had enough gel to smother his hair.

            “Bad day?” The taxi driver's eyes were watching him in the rear view mirror. She looked terribly sympathetic, which was almost unheard of.

            “You have no idea.” He was going to be late again and then Kurt was going to hate him forever. God, he sucked so badly.

            “You look like you ran half a mile after not sleeping for three days.” He really hoped she was exaggerating because if she wasn't Kurt was going to take one look at him and run for the hills.

            “Please tell me you're kidding. I have a date, and if I look that terribly I'm sure he'll bolt in the opposite direction.” He saw her mouth twitch slightly; corner quirking into what must have been an encouraging smile.

            “You look fine, I'm sure he'll fall right into your arms.”

            “I really hope you're right.”

            Miraculously Blaine managed to get to the little coffee shop at exactly 1:49p.m., nearly worshipping the skies for the light traffic for what must have been the first time ever. He ordered both of their coffees, taking the exact same seat that Kurt had chosen and watching the door quietly. He was going to do this. He was here and ready and Kurt was going to walk through that door and Blaine was going to woo him, dammit. Despite his shitty morning, he was going to make Kurt want him back, make him really and truly forgive him for being an absolute twat. He was going to do this right.

            Kurt stepped through the door at exactly 2p.m. and Blaine nearly threw up. He didn't look up as he stomped the slush off his boots. He did that weird pausing thing, still staring intently at the carpet while running the tips of his fingers through his hair before puffing out his chest, standing up straight, and heading straight for Blaine's table.

            What Blaine did was out of impulse; he realized that Kurt was walking toward him and stumbled out of his seat, barely swallowing back a pained noise as his knee found the edge of the table and scrambled around to pull out Kurt's chair before finally sinking back into his own.

            “You came.” If he could have taken back those words, he would have. He would have lassoed them right back down his throat because they made him sound like the faith he had in Kurt was dwindling precariously.

            But Kurt laughed, making a noncommittal noise down at the table as he sat across from Blaine. “Yeah, I did.” And then he looked up and Blaine's heart literally (probably) froze. Oceanic eyes traced over his face, starting with his smoothed out hair and slowly working downward; nose, cheeks, jaw, mouth, and then finally eyes.

            Blaine bit his lip, glancing up at Kurt through his eyelashes in a way that he definitely had not meant to be coy but probably ended up looking that way and man he sucked. “I got you a grande non-fat mocha. I wasn't sure if you still liked that, but I got it anyways. I can take it back if you want and get you something different—“ 

            “It's perfect, thank you.” Kurt always knew when to cut him off, when to point out that it was okay and he didn't need to worry. “So. Hi.”

            Just that little word set Blaine's heart racing again. He fucking loved this man so much that two little letters made his whole day. “Hi,” he responded, lips stretching into a grin. You're broken. You don't deserve to be happy. You don't deserve him. The smile dropped. “About yesterday—“

            Kurt's phone went off, RENT echoing around the little shop and catching the attention of other patrons. Kurt froze in his seat, fidgeting slightly while his eyes searched Blaine's face. Blaine made a little motion with his fingers, nodding toward where the sound looked like it was coming from. Whenever he tried to do something right, someone always had to fuck it up.

            Kurt's eyebrows drew together before evening out again. “It's probably just Rachel calling from work; I'll tell her I'm busy.” It was almost as if he was speaking to himself, giving a little awkward laugh into the tabletop. Blaine fiddled with his coffee cup. He was losing his chance. Rachel was going to want him to leave and then everything would be ruined—

            “I—Yes, it is.” When Blaine looked up, Kurt looked pained. He was sitting up straighter than he was before and the crease between his brows was back. Blaine just wanted to reach out and smooth all the stress lines on his face. And then he visibly paled, alabaster skin draining completely and fuck that was not good at all. “I know him, yes.”

            The person on the other end of the line must have been speaking a marathon because the longer Kurt was silent, the more pained he looked. He brought a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. He looked like he was going to be sick. “Y-yes,” he stuttered, eyes opening again as he swung himself out of his chair, “I'll leave right now.” No, no, no, he couldn't just leave, they just got here. They were just starting to figure things out! Kurt hoisted his bag up on his shoulder, pushing in the chair and finally, finally, looking back up at Blaine. “It's Aaron,” No. “he's been in a car crash. I'm so sorry, I have to go.” Kurt was quickly retreating to the door, his gaze still resting on Blaine's face and why the hell didn't he look even the slightest bit sorry?

            Half of Blaine wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and wail and throw a complete tantrum. Why aren't you paying attention to me? Don't I matter? But he just shrugged, chewing the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

            “I'll text you,” Kurt called over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

            He doesn't love you. He doesn't want you. He never wanted you. He's going right back to his fiancé because he loves him. Not you. You aren't worth his time. Blaine dropped his eyes to the table again, sucking in a slow breath. He wouldn't cry, not here. He doesn't wantyou. You're worthless and broken.

            Kurt left his coffee.