In New York City, New Year's Eve is a pretty big deal. Even away from Times Square, those last ten seconds of the old year are celebrated just as enthusiastically, if not even more.

Really, East Village during the bohemian swing is the place to be.

Fires burn on every corner outside of every shop, contained by old barrels and surrounded by packs of drunken partiers trying to escape the cold.  Gigantic bins of confetti are perched at the edge of every rooftop, tipped tauntingly in anticipation for the big count down.

Finn is weaving through the crowd with his camera, capturing as many aspects of the pre-new year as he can.  There's always something so surreal about these last few moments, and he wants them all on film.

Behind him, Rachel, Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Kurt, and Blaine are stumbling along, somehow remembering to see the New Year together even through the haze of alcohol.

Quinn and Rachel are both dressed in costumes from an earlier party; their outfits earn them both either appreciative glances or obnoxious catcalls.

Quinn is dressed in a tight, orange, paisley print dress and white go-go boots that somehow make her legs look a mile longer than usual.  There's a brown strip of cloth tied tight around her forehead, successfully giving off a 70's vibe.

Rachel is covered head-to-toe in black, skin tight leather, topped with a pair of fuzzy black cat ears and a tail tied loosely around her waist.

Santana and Brittany are in matching silver-sequined dresses and faux fur overcoats, tramping around on spike heels and taking drinks from anyone who offers.  Their laughter carries high over any other noise, and the crowd willingly parts for them.

Kurt and Blaine are fairly quiet, singing along to whatever music they might hear but otherwise remaining calm and, for the most part, sober.

When it's twenty seconds to the new year, they stop outside the Life Café.  Finn trains his camera on the crowd while his pulse thrums excitedly beneath his skin.

"This is it," he whispers to no one in particular.  "1990, here we come."

As the countdown starts, couples start turning to face their partners.

Brittany kisses her girlfriend early, giggling happily into Santana's mouth.  Quinn teases Rachel with a quick kiss on her neck.  Kurt and Blaine bump noses in anticipation.

They've been through so much this past year.  Things were hard, but when they were good...they were good.

3...

Quinn smiles and curls her arms around Rachel's waist.

2...

Santana and Brittany share a look that somehow speaks beyond the alcohol pumping like blood through their veins.

1...

Kurt surges forward, twining his fingers through Blaine's curls while their mouths slot together in the same action that so recently became familiar.  Tears burn the back of his throat and Blaine whimpers into the kiss, and they were never meant for anything else, anyone else.

All of them - they're where they're supposed to be.

Confetti pours from the rooftops, blanketing the street in a rainbow of colors.  Shouts of elation, of promise, tear through the night as couples part for air, only to laugh giddily into each other's mouths.  Fireworks are shot off in the distance, pooling across the sky in a shower of radiant sparks.

The world is a wild swirl of activity, and it dips and spins across the lens of Finn Hudson's camera.

He thinks that if the world were to end right now, no one would care.  IF an asteroid were to fall from the sky, or if a wave were to wash out the streets, the lights, and the buildings...

He thinks they'd let it come.

"Hey, Finnie-poo!" Rachel sings, breaking his thought process as she throws a thin arm around his shoulder.  Beside her, Quinn tips back a bottle of vodka and chugs.  "Magical, isn't it?"

Finn smiles.  They may have some history, but Rachel is still one of his best friends.  "Yah it - "

He cuts off in surprise when she grabs his camera and skips a few steps ahead, turning to train it on him.  "Come on Finn, smile for the camera!"

Fighting back a laugh, Finn lunges for it, only to have his hand slapped away.  "Rach..."

"Nope!  You need to be in this thing too.  It's only fair!"

And because it is, Finn doesn't complain.  He casts a look behind him, at Quinn, at Brittany, at Blaine, and at Kurt.

He turns back to face the camera with a smile.

Kurt stands in front of their apartment's entrance with a deflated frown.  Blaine squeezes his hand.

A giant lock is looped around the door handles.

"Damn it," Finn growls.  "I thought he'd give us more time..."

Blaine scoffs.  "It's Jesse, Finn."

For a moment, the seven of them just kind of stand there, staring at the lock like their will power alone will be enough to break it.

"Wait a second," Santana starts suddenly, standing straight despite the alcohol pumping through her veins.  She pulls away from Brittany and stumbles towards a pair of trashcans.  "I saw this in a movie once!"

She tips one over and shakes it to rid it of its contents.  Lifting it effortlessly over her shoulder, she makes towards the door and attacks the lock at an angle.

With a few hard hits, the lock crack and falls loose.

Everyone cheers, throwing their arms up in celebration.

"Santana, you are an angel," Kurt drawls in admiration.  "Literally."

She smiles warmly while tugging the doors open.  "Thanks, Hummel, but try telling me something I don't already know."

Their merriment is short-lived.

Where there once were tables, chairs, and a sofa, is now empty space.  Even the few paintings that Blaine had managed to purchase have been stripped clear off the walls.

Kurt squeaks in horror and runs down the hall to his own room, letting out a terrified shriek when he finds that all they've left behind are a broken lamp and his mattress.   His stomach drops, hitting the door like a sack of bricks while his knees start to tremble and he has to lean against the doorframe for support.

Blaine comes up behind him, resting a careful hand on his shoulder.  "We've been through worse, Kurt.  We'll get through this."

Closing his eyes, Kurt suppresses a sob and leans back into the touch.  "Think so?"

Blaine presses a kiss to the back of his neck.  "Know so."

That night, Kurt and Blaine find themselves tangled on Kurt's measly excuse for a mattress, sharing sweet, sloppy kisses.  Blaine has his leg caught between Kurt's, rocking his hips every now and then to pull a choked gasp from the other man's lips.

Kurt has a hand settled firm on Blaine' sass, squeezing reassurance every time Blaine decides to stop the motion.

Though it's still a time for celebration, they find themselves too tired and heavy from the alcohol to do any more, so they settle for this - the brushing of clothed skin and the shock of an accidental touch.

It's still dirty but also incredibly intimate, the way Kurt swallows Blaine' moans and the way all Blaine has to do is angle his hips just right to get Kurt to say his name.

Kurt thinks he'll never get used to this - the touching and the kissing and the gasping.  He'll never get used to the way Blaine looks when he comes, completely wrecked and yet still so impossibly beautiful.  He'll never get used to the fact that it's because of him that Blaine's mouth is always so damp and kiss-swollen. 

Months ago, this was only something he could have had in his most wildest of dreams.

He thinks it will never be enough, that he'll always want more.

Maybe not a family since he's always been terrible with kids and will probably never make enough money to support them anyway, but a life with just him and Blaine.  No more drugs, no more dancing, and a couple classes at whatever university would take him.  An apartment away from the city.  They can even get a dog.  Blaine can work on his music while Kurt gets some stupid, degrading assistant job at some magazine.  They'll cook real meals and each across from each other at an actual dining table.  They'll fall asleep peacefully in each other's arms, only to wake up hard and aching and desperate.

He knows it's not really a life they can have.

Already, quitting his dancing and dropping the drugs is going to be a pretty steep struggle.  He won't have a penny to his name by the end of this week.

But still...

He thinks maybe, just maybe, there's always a chance for something better.

Finn is beyond nervous.

His palms are sweaty and his hands are shaking and he keeps tripping over things.

Quinn and Rachel are on either side of him, walking purposefully into Buzzline's main building, and even though he should be taking strength from numbers, they only end up making him feel worse.

They check in quickly at the front desk, told only that they need to wait a minute or two before the head will see them.

"Just let me do the talking," Quinn reminds him, looking a knock-out in her well-fitted suit and inch-high heels.  "And Rachel, babe, you should probably stay out here..."

"Please, pookie," Rachel huffs, flipping her obnoxiously perfect hair over her shoulder.  "I'm the star of this footage - "

"Which is why you'll probably be a little too much.  We don't want to come off too strong."  Quinn gives her girlfriend and careful but steady glance, warning her with nothing but a look not to ruin this for Finn.

Glancing at her tall friend, Rachel turns her head but bites out a "fine." 

It doesn't take long at all for their turn to come, and it's with a hardly confident but resolute nod that Finn follows Quinn into the director's room.

The woman sitting behind the desk is surprisingly petite and kind-faced, hardly what Finn was expecting, though he knows not to let looks deceive him (just look at Quinn).

She stands up and reaches a hand out for Finn to take.  "Lynda James," she says simply.  "Head honcho here at Buzzline."

"Nice to meet you," Quinn returns, nodding for Finn to sit down when he shoots her a desperate look.  "I'm Finn's lawyer."

"Ah, yes, Miss Quinn Fabray."  Lynda's face scrunches with a knowing smile.  "It's nice to meet you.  Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to cut to the chase.  Buzzline really liked your work, Finn.  It's exactly the...gritty, hard-hitting edge we really like to focus on around here."

Finn nearly chokes on his own saliva.  "Seriously?"

Lynda laughs, although a little too loudly.  "Okay, well, sometimes we dip a little into the tabloid pool, but this, what you do, is what Buzzline needs!"

Finn turns to face Quinn, only to find her eyes locked on something happening outside Lynda's office.

Rachel is sitting on the secretary's desk, batting her eyelashes and scribbling something down on a piece of paper.  Even though he can't really hear it, Finn imagines just how high-pitched her giggling must be, as it always is when she's flirting.

Catching herself, Quinn clears her throat and turns back to face Lynda.  "Around how much are we looking at?"

Lynda's smile widens as she leans back in her chair and kicks her feet up on her desk.  "Three grand, for every piece of footage that we can actually use."

Finn freezes.

"Three...three thousand?"

Quinn shifts in her seat.  "We'll take it."

Still not knowing what to make of the whole "selling his soul to cooperate America" deal, Finn is disappointed to find that things only get worse.

"Quinn?  Quinnie?  Hey, pookie..."

When Rachel tries to reach for her girlfriend's arm on the way out of the building, Quinn swats her hand away and marches purposefully towards the door.

"Hey, Fabray, what the hell is your problem?"

Staying as far from their scene as he can without actually separating himself, Finn presses himself uncomfortably against a bike rack when Quinn spins around to face the other girl.

"You're my problem, actually."

Rachel scoffs and rolls her eyes.  "Oh, here we go again.  And what, may I ask, did I do this time?"

Genuine hurt flashes past Quinn's features, muddling the hazel of her eyes, but it's quickly replaced by a burning anger that Finn can feel from where he stands.  "You keep flirting with other people, Rachel!  Everywhere we go, no matter who it's with..."

"You never said we were exclusive..."

Quinn throws her hands up in exasperation.  "Sorry, I really just thought it was implied."

"Pookie - "

"You know, I put up with a lot, Rachel.  I put up with your dramatics and your constant need for attention.  I've held your hand through every protest and performance and...and for what?  Half the time, we don't even act like we're dating!  You're always hanging off of everyone else..."

Taking a step forward, Rachel grabs Quinn's smaller hands in her own, a tentative smile curling at her lips.  "What do you want from me, Quinn?  Whatever, whenever, it's yours."

Quinn swallows.  "I want commitment."

"Well then..."

Tugging at one of the many rings adorning her fingers, Rachel drops to one knee.  "Marry me, baby?"