When the last of the boxes had been carried to the moving van, when his beloved piano had been carefully wrapped and eased down the stairs, when the last bit of evidence of his years of existence in New York had been wiped away and his apartment was nothing but rooms again, just like the day he'd moved in, with no trace of him left in them, Blaine set the key on the kitchen counter, shouldered his backpack, switched off the last light and closed the door, locking himself out. He leaned against the door and let himself breathe. Two flights down to the street, one cab ride, a hotel room for the night, then an early plane back to Ohio, into the empty and undefined space that was now his future. He'd come to New York with so much hope, never imagining that it wouldn't give him everything he'd ever wanted. That was how it always happened in the movies – magical New York, city of dreams, king of the hill, top of the heap. He laughed, a short, bitter sound, and shook his head against the door. It wasn't New York's fault. If the city hadn't given him everything he'd wanted, it was only because, really, there was just one thing that mattered to him. All the things he'd accomplished and all the opportunities he'd been offered hadn't meant a thing because the only thing he'd truly cared about was the one thing New York couldn't give him. Which was wrong. He knew it was wrong to hijack his whole life because fate wasn't cooperating with him. And that was why he had to leave.

He pushed off the door with a sigh, but his feet didn't take him down the stairs like he'd planned. Instead he found himself going up, up five full flights to the ancient wood plank door that led out onto the roof. Well why not? One last time.

The sun was just setting, casting the kind of light that turned New York from a dirty-guttered, crowded megalopolis to the fairy-tale romance city of An Affair to Remember and When Harry Met Sally. When he'd first moved in Blaine had loved to come up here at just this time and look out over the skyline bathed in gentle color until the last of the light faded away. He'd be so young then and so full of hope. It had seemed impossible that he wouldn't finally find what he was looking for in such a beautiful place. But that had been years ago. Now, though the city looked just as brilliant in the slanting pink rays, Blaine knew that for him those promises were empty. Tonight was just a goodbye.

He turned back to the door and the crescent moon caught his eye, hanging low on the horizon framed by a gap in the nearby buildings. And just below it a star – Venus, he knew – the only star in the evening sky. The first star.

Star light star bright . . .

It was automatic, but he stopped himself before he could finish.

His grandfather Monaghan had taught him that rhyme, when he was only a tiny boy. He'd told him how he used to wish on the first star – always the same wish, for the person whose name he couldn't even read on his wrist. And little Blaine – even then such a romantic – had taken that story very much to heart. Whenever he caught the first star of the evening he'd repeated his grandfather's rhyme, but he'd never actually wished for anything, no matter how badly he longed for the latest movie action figure or complicated Lego set. He knew what he was supposed to wish for and so on the evening of his first full day marked he'd stayed outside as the sun began to set and waited for it, scarcely able to breathe. And when Venus had finally appeared he'd said it for the first time, out loud though in a whisper, sending up his wish powered, he thought, by his years and years of almost-wishes.

Kurt Hummel.

Every night, at first, but eventually the shine had worn off and Blaine had stopped watching for the first star every night. Still, when he caught it, the wish was always the same. Over and over again, for so many years.

He stared at that star for a long time, until the sky darkened and others joined it, faint in the city glow. Then he opened the door and began the long descent to the street.

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“You never told me that story,” Kurt said.

Blaine looked out at the other rooftops, just turning pink in the setting sun. They'd climbed to the roof of their new building to escape the heat and curled up together on the rattan love seat somebody had conveniently dragged up there.

“I guess I don't really like to talk about before I had you, now that I have you.”

He felt Kurt's head nod against his.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I made the wish?” Blaine asked.

“I don't have to. I know you made the wish.”

“What? How can you know that?”

“You're my Blaine,” Kurt said softly. “You never really gave up hope. If you had, we wouldn't be here right now.”

Blaine snuggled into Kurt's chest and watched the sun slip behind a taller building, casting their side of the roof into blessed shadow. If he turned a little to the left he knew he'd see the moon hanging low with the sparkle of Venus below it. But he didn't turn. He was perfect just where he was.