The Hummel Cab service was founded in 1946. Originally the cars had been mustard yellow with orange on the cap above the wheels. Though the business had run during the war, it was official until the war ended. With the soldiers coming home, more people were in the city. New York City buzzed with bittersweet joy over the win. Immigrants were coming into the country; the country of new beginnings. The Hummel Cab service served to help both sides of the equation – transport the new burst in visitors as well as supply jobs to the incoming Americans. The company grew and became reliable. It was a family owned company. Harry Hummel, at the ripe age of 85, gave the company to Greg Hummel. The tradition of giving the company to the eldest son continued through the years. Finally, Jeff Hummel gave the service to Burt Hummel. As the past would predict, Burt would give his company to his only son, Kurt Hummel.

A woman gripped the hand of her child tightly as they stood on the curb of the south entrance from Grand Central Station. Her child absentmindedly played with the tassel of her scarf which blew in his face. Ahh, Kurt noted, tourists. He pulled his cab over to the curb and the woman seemed relieved. She opened the cab door and ushered her son to get in. She followed after him and firmly shut the door. The city was nothing but a drone in the car. The woman got out a creased piece of paper and handed it to Kurt. He studied it and replied, "I know exactly where that is." His tone seemed calm, and once again the woman was relieved. He drove the mother and son to the apartment building she'd given him and dropped them off. The building looked awfully sketchy; no wonder she was so jittery.

Kurt Hummel did not want and refused to believe that he was going to be driving a taxi all his life. Sure, it was nice to see his dad proud. However, he had classes at NYU to attend. He was going to graduate and become a fashion designer. This was the future he'd planned with Rachel Berry since they were 4. The two kids had lain down on the scruffy carpet in her apartment and day dreamed of a time where they'd have an apartment of their own. Rachel already knew she wanted to be on Broadway. Her dads had signed her up for singing and dancing lesson. She taught Kurt some of the dance moves she had learned after each lesson. Kurt's father wasn't happy with them at first, but he encouraged his son all the same when he practiced them afterwards. Kurt's mother had been his biggest fan.

Now, Rachel attended NYU with him. Both of them had barely scraped their way through high school. Thank god for Glee club, they'd reminisce, or else we'd be fucked. The past remained the past. NYU held promise. Rachel's new small part in an original off-Broadway show held promise. What didn't hold promise was the fact that Kurt was currently in a fucking taxi driving people around instead of interning like he'd planned on doing for the summer.

Originally the job was going to be a one week deal for his father. Then one week rolled into two, two weeks rolled into a month, and a month rolled into now. Now: when it was 11:38 on a Thursday night, and he was parked outside a bar in hopes to find just one more person before he called it quits and went home. A short boy with curly hair attacked the door handle. He tried to open it until another guy did it for him. Both of the boys were drunk. They shuffled into Kurt's cab before colliding heads. This was preceded by giggles; shortly after giggled followed sloppy, tongue filled kissed along each other's neck.

"Ah hem," Kurt cleared his throat. The short boy looked at him, annoyed. His hazel eyes showed annoyance.

"What do you want? Can you see we're in the middle of something?"

"Where am I supposed to take you?"

"Oh right." The other boy giggled. "Nearest hotel, make it quick." Once again the boys began to kiss. Kurt wasn't in a mood to break up their awful display of affection, so without a work he drove them to a hotel. He kicked the out. The shorter boy forgot his credit card in the cab. It was signed "Blaine Anderson."

Blaine Anderson was raised by his nanny and sitcoms. He was introduced the world of television drama and in it he flourished. He learned witty remarks; he gathered a basic form of society. Sure, some would consider his grasp on the universe foolish. They weren't Blaine, though. They didn't have Blaine's money. They couldn't afford to be foolish the way Blaine could.

In grade school he was top of the class. His smiles made girls weak in the knees and his winks made some straight boys even question themselves. It sounds like fiction, but so did most of Blaine's life. Who'd believe a seven year old had run away from home for three days and never have his parents realize he was gone? They'd never checked the fake body formed from lumpy pillows under the blanket until the fourth day. It was then they sent a search around their apartment building for Blaine. He was found watching a street musician sing.

After his first attempt to run away, his nanny enrolled him in singing lessons. He sang in the school's group. He sang in the shower. It was common for him to hum along with most of his activities. Rachelle, his nanny, grew to be his mother. On his ninth birthday, a huge snow storm occurred. Both of his parents had been out of the country. Considering the storm, both of their flights got cancelled. Rachelle sat with him by the window of their apartment and ate ice cream cake. A fine layer of snow covered the streets below into a white wonderland.

Rachelle died when Blaine was going into his sophomore year of high school. The funeral was small. His father, who had signed her checks each month, didn't attend. His mother had talked her therapist and the shrink had reasoned with her to go to the funeral. Blaine needed a support system, after all. Much to his mother's surprise, Blaine didn't shed a single tear. It snowed that day. A fine layer of snow covered her casket until it was beautiful.

Trevor was the first boy to come to the Anderson household. Then there was Alex. Alex followed Jasper. Jasper became Jack. The moans were never heard by his parents, who were either away or not paying attention. Sometimes Blaine would leave the condom wrappers in plain sight. His parents never noticed. He was never reprimanded, so he did it more. He no longer muffled his sounds into a pillow. He positioned the bed to hit every creak in the room. Still, nothing was said to him regarding his habit. Not a word. When he ran away, he was brought home. When he went out and didn't return until the next day, the smell of weed and beer still on him, he was greeted with the proposition for pancakes if he dressed quickly.

Author's note: Shall I continue? I suppose I will whether you like it or not. I just wanted to upload this bit up before I continue. Thanks for clicking on it; aren't I supposed to thank you and pester you for reviews at this point? REVIEWZ R NICEST THINGZ YA.