When a small arm tapped him on the shoulder, he didn’t turn around. He just knew.

“There you are,” Blaine said, gently. “I’ve been looking for you forever.”

“Forever’s a long time,” the boy said wryly.

“Maybe not forever.” Blaine tugged a gloved palm over his gelled hair; he’d been in such a hurry he’d left his hat behind in his haste. “But ever since... since that night I saw you outside Prince Street station, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Blaine turned around, extending his hand. “Kurt Hummel,” the boy said, a name to finally put to the face. Blaine winced as he reached for it lightly. He was scared Kurt’s delicate bones might crack under the weight of his handshake, even though Blaine was making every effort he had to be as gentle and caring as possible to Kurt.

“Hi. Blaine Anderson,” he said. “Look, my friend has a restaurant nearby. Let’s go and get you warmed up with something a little more appetizing than Rachel’s Borscht.”

Kurt’s face turned up slightly. “The dead pigeons in the doorways I sleep in are more appetizing than Rachel’s Borscht,” he replied.

Blaine chuckled. “How old are you?”

“I turned twenty last May.”

“You’re...” Blaine gasped, unable to believe this broken boy was a man, was older than him. He looked no more than fifteen at the most, all rosy, smooth cheeks and chestnut hair. “I turned nineteen at the beginning of February.”

“Hm.” Kurt almost seemed to be appraising him. “Aquarius. The true humanitarians of the zodiac, or so I’ve heard.” He shook his head. “Sadly for me, I tend to be a little skeptical when it comes to humanitarians.”

“When was the last time you even had a shower?”

“Oh, probably when they cancelled Eastwick!” Kurt grinned and fluttered his eyelashes. “Why, are you offering?”

“Absolutely, but there’s someone I’d like you to meet first. C’mon, take my hand. I’ll lead the way.”

--

They walked, hand-in-hand, in near silence. Kurt stopped every few minutes to cough into the tattered handkerchief he clasped in his hand. His hands were larger than Blaine might have expected, purplish-blue fingers poking through the tattered holes in what looked to be a once-expensive pair of nubuck gloves. His fingernails were ragged, earth brown dirt clinging underneath his nails and cuticles. Blaine reached for Kurt’s hands and placed them in his own, the two sharing breaths and eye contact as they paused for a moment as they walked to Jicama.

“Well, well, Britts,” Santana said, walking forward to the doorway as the bell above the door signaled their entrance. “Looks like our Hobbit finally found Smeagol under the bridge.”

Brittany twirled a lock of her blonde hair around her finger. “Blaine, Santana didn’t have her second breakfast. Or her first.” She looked to her girlfriend, concerned. “Blaine’s friend needs breakfast. You always told me it’s the most important meal of the day, even though for you it’s not a meal, because you only have a drink.”

“Mercedes!” Santana yelled across the dining room. “Two machacha con huevos and a stack of jalapeno corncakes!”

“I don’t like --” Blaine started.

“They’re not for you, short round,” Santana said, as she led them to a table by the window. “Quinn will take care of you. I gotta go check on my steamed clams.”

“Quinn.” Blaine said tersely. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Hello. Welcome to Jicama. What can I get for you today?” she said in a bored monotone, then checked her watch.

“It’s her last shift,” Blaine explained to Kurt.

“Oh, well in that case? A single plum, served in perfume, floating in a man’s hat.” Kurt paused and looked up from studying his nails. “I’ll have a diet coke.”

Blaine couldn’t help but notice the scarf that was wrapped around Quinn’s slender neck. “Quinn, is that Alexander McQueen?”

“It’s vintage, but in wonderful condition,” Quinn said. It wasn’t something Quinn would choose for herself, the former cheerleader preferring pale, pastel sunshine colors, and Blaine and instantly knew exactly where it had come from. “Santana gave it to me as a leaving present.”

“I believe that’s my scarf,” Kurt replied.

“You?” Quinn snorted. “A homeless man, who just happens to be the owner of a three hundred dollar woman’s silk scarf?”

“I believe so. Look at the label.”

Quinn’s hands were on her hips, now. “I think I’d know fakes. Santana would never embarrass me with fakes. She keeps the price tags attached on everything she owns.”

“Look,” Kurt repeated, “at the label.”

“It’s just a scarf,” Quinn replied, but removed it and looked on the label. Her pretty cheeks flushing, she passed it to Blaine immediately. “Take it. It doesn’t go with my complexion, anyway.”

Kurt turned to Blaine with an adorable, toothy smile and called after Quinn as her boots clacked away. “Can you amend my order? I’d also like a slice of humble pie.”

--

There was something behind the scarf, Blaine realized, but before he asked Kurt too many questions he just sat back and let Kurt tuck into his brunch. Blaine had craned his neck, but couldn’t see anything of significance on the label, but it didn’t matter. Kurt had immediately wrapped it around his neck, a scarlet security blanket exactly the same as the one that had hugged his tender neck that first night Blaine had seen him huddled in the doorway.

“Why did you bring me here, Blaine?” Kurt said, setting down his fork. Blaine felt like crying; Santana’s portions were always generous, but Kurt had barely eaten one of his corn cakes even though he’d told Blaine during the meal he’d subsisted on watered-down soup from the soup kitchen and the odd hand-out from a passerby for months. “To be given the same prejudice, the same discrimination that I receive everywhere by people you call your friends?”

“Quinn is...” Blaine frowned. “Quinn is not my friend. But Santana has a huge heart. Don’t be fooled by her exterior; she’s like the horchata she serves. A little spicy, and something of an acquired taste, but really very sweet.”

“Blaine. She called me Smeagol.”

Blaine laughed. “You should hear the nicknames she has for Rachel's fiance and the bartender here! No, no. I brought you here to talk to her. She’s been looking to hire again since Quinn handed in her notice.”

“Are you...” Kurt started. “But I don’t have any customer service experience. I don’t even have an address!”

Reaching across the table, Blaine placed his palm on the base of Kurt’s hand. Even after eating and drinking, Kurt’s hand was still ice cold to the touch. “Brittany still asks people why they want to eat rodents every time they order the mole. Mercedes,“ Blaine gestured to the curvy African American girl with the bright smile and even brighter clothes, “she lives in Brownsville. And Sam, the guy behind the bar? Santana puts him behind the bar because he’s dyslexic. He can’t even read the menu.”

“Charity begins at home, I see,” Kurt said, softly.

“Blaine. Thank you. Thank you, for everything. I... I still don’t have a permanent address, though. I can occasionally sneak into hostels and use showers there, although they often demand a small fee. I’m sure I could...”

Blaine squeezed Kurt’s hand a little more tightly this time. “Rachel and Finn’s apartment in Greenwich Village is very spacious. It’s only a two bed, but if we move Rachel’s trophies and treadmill from her walk-in closet, I’m sure we could find the space for you.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “You want me to move back in the closet?” He snorted. “After all the trouble I had coming out of one?”

Unable to help himself, Blaine opened his mouth and stared at Kurt in wide-eyed shock. He’d been aware Kurt might be gay like him or like Santana, but it was beyond presumptuous to ask outright. It would be offensive implying Kurt was gay. He seemed prissy, and a little feminine, but also strong and determined. Stereotypes wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors. And, so far, Kurt Hummel had defied every stereotype of a homeless, down-on-their luck individual that Blaine had ever been told by Rachel.

“Rachel’s closet’s bigger than my room,” Blaine said, shaking his head. “You’ll see for yourself. Come on. Finish your drink while I have a chat with Santana over there, and then we’ll go and check it out.”