13:57

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the favorites and alerts! A few more reviews maybe? Just maybe? Anyway. . .enjoy!

It's the seventh apartment that they've seen, and Blaine's getting kind of tired of it. He's perfectly willing to live in the Columbia dorms, and honestly thinks that it would be a nice way to get to know some of the other students, but his father is adamantly against it. He kind of has a point, with how little room there is in the dorms – not even enough for every freshman – and since Blaine has the means, he shouldn't begrudge some kid with financial aid a place to stay.

That's all well and good, but Blaine just knows that isn't the real reason they're walking all over Morningside Heights looking at one bedrooms. It's status, to his dad, who's already upset that Blaine didn't follow in his footsteps to Princeton.

His mom, on the other hand. . .she isn't happy at all that her little boy is going so far away for college. She'd tried to convince him to go to Dayton, a nice, conservative Catholic school close to home. She definitely doesn't want him living all alone in the city, and keeps asking if he's absolutely sure that he and "that nice Rachel girl" don't want to share an apartment.

It's the same thing with every place that they see. His dad inquires about the square footage and the crown molding, and his mom nervously asks about the doormen and the security. Blaine just wanders around, because honestly, all of the housing is about the same. White walls, hardwood floors, and tiny, cabin-like kitchens. It's not like he's going to live here forever.

It's finally on apartment number eight that he snaps. It's a nice place, just across from St. John's Cathedral, and only a few blocks from school. His dad is running his fingers along one of his doors, and his mother is worrying about whether an ax murderer could climb the fire escape.

"It's fine, Mom," Blaine says decisively. "Dad, come on. They're all pretty much the same. Let's just pick one and go. We still have to get furniture before dinner."

"We'll just move dinner back, son," his dad says. "I'm sure they'll be able to bump our reservations."

Blaine just sighs, and pulls out his phone to text Kurt. His boyfriend absolutely hates last minute change of plans, and sometimes he thinks that his parents do this just to put the other boy completely out of whack. He quickly warns Kurt that dinner will be moved back. The response is almost instantaneous.

More time to perfect the coif. 3

Blaine smiles and pockets the phone again. His parents are conferring anxiously, while the broker just keeps his hands politely clasped, a smile on his pointed face. Blaine strolls over to look out the window.

New York City. It's never been a dream of his to live here. He's always just kind of assumed that this is how it will work out. His dad has always had his future laid out for him. Four years at Princeton, where he'll major in political science. Then he'll either intern for a Senator, or go straight to law school, preferably Yale. Three years later he'll be running for office, or becoming an associate at a Chicago law firm.

Of course, being gay put a crimp in some of those plans, but his father seems completely content to just ignore that and forge on ahead. His mother, meanwhile, just likes to remind him about that "nice Rachel girl."

Looking at the top of St. John's, however (only recently finished), he can't quite keep a smile off his face. New York was always just an eventuality, not a dream, but he still can't quite keep from being completely excited. The entire city just screams of possibility, and he can't keep his brain quiet, thinking about all of the things that he'll do. Broadway shows, ice skating in Central Park, Shakespeare, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, shopping for Rolexes in China Town. . .maybe, he thinks excitedly, he'll even save someone from being mugged!

"All right, this will be fine," his dad is telling the broker. As the two head downstairs to the lobby to sign the paperwork, Blaine suddenly finds himself pressed against his mother, who is now wailing something about serial killers, cannibals, and homeless people.

"Mom, I'm going to be fine," he protests.

"But you're living in Harlem. I have watched the movies! I know what happens in Harlem. There are gangs, and Puerto Ricans, and. . .and. . ." she suddenly takes a deep breath and bursts into song. "Here come the Jets, and we're gonna beat, every last buggin gang on the whole buggin'g street!"

Blaine just stares at her in disbelief. Is she singing West Side Story to him? Really?

"Mom," he says patiently. "It's not Harlem, it's Morningside Heights. It's like. . .the Upper, Upper West Side. It's an Ivy League school, Mom. . .they don't let their students get murdered by 1960s Puerto Rican gang members."

"Well, good," she says, sniffing away a tear. "Now then, let's see if we can talk your dad into just buying some simple IKEA furniture for this place. It really is too small for the Stickley set we were thinking about. . ."

xxx

It turns out that Craft absolutely does not move reservations back, so they end up at Tony diNapoli's instead. Blaine thinks it's absolutely fantastic. The steakhouse sounded okay, but the family size portions being passed around the table are way better. He loves Italian food, loves the cliché, twinkly Christmas lights, and loves the fact that it's all very reminiscent of a loud, family-oriented scene from Lady and the Tramp.

Plus, he really enjoys watching Kurt eat spaghetti.

"So, Kurt, have you met anyone at NYU?" Blaine's father asks nonchalantly in the middle of the dinner. Blaine's head spins so fast that he thinks he'll get whiplash, and he knows that he probably looks like the little girl from the Exorcist, but he just can't believe that those words came out of his father's mouth. Dinner had actually been going well for once – no awkward mentions of how Kurt was such a good "friend" or even a mention of Rachel.

Kurt, however, just smiles back pleasantly. "Of course," he says, and Blaine tries to ignore the triumphant glance that his parents shoot each other. Kurt, however, is just smiling mischieviously at Blaine. "My roommate is pretty great, actually, and I think that I'll be really good friends with his ex-girlfriend. Oh, and I met Alex, who's transgendered and halfway through his operations."

Blaine kind of enjoys the queasy looks that his parents are exchanging. Kurt gasps, as though suddenly having an epiphany.

"Oh! You meant like. . .like a potential boyfriend? Well, I did meet this one guy. . ." Blaine kind of splutters a little at that, but Kurt is still grinning, so he figures that it's going somewhere. "He doesn't go to NYU, but he is in the city. We have a lot of the same interests, and he's absolutely gorgeous." Kurt lets out a breathless little sigh. "In fact, I think I'm in love with him."

"Think?" Blaine asks, quirking up one little eyebrow. Predictably, Kurt blushes. Meanwhile, Blaine's parents look pleased again. Really? It's hard to believe that anyone's parents could be this excited to hear about their child's significant other cheating.

"All right, I'm sure I'm in love with him," Kurt says, and turns a beautific smile on the elder Anderson's. "His name's Blaine. Maybe you know him? I believe he's your son."

Blaine cracks up, and his mother, at least, has the good grace to look slightly ashamed. His dad actually smiles, a bit.

"Okay," he says. "Fair enough. I was a bit out of line."

Blaine bites his lip to protest that, actually, his dad was a lot out of line, but Kurt's caught his hand under the table, and is gently squeezing it. So Blaine calms down, too, and just enjoys the rest of his meatballs.

Mmmm. Balls.

Then he chokes a little, because Kurt is staring at him, and oh God can Kurt read his mind? Now everybody is staring at him, but that's probably because his eyes are bulging out of his head, and he's making kind of gross choking noises. And – ow, ow, Dad, the vicious back slaps really aren't helping.

Eventually he manages to swallow the bite. His mom just stares at him for a long moment.

"What if you're eating a meatball in your apartment all by yourself and you choke and die?" she wails. "Now you have given me something new to worry about!"

Blaine rolls his eyes and asks if they're getting dessert.

After dinner his parents head back to their hotel, though not before reminding Blaine that he should send them a text when he gets back to his new apartment, and that the text had better come before eleven, and that they'll be meeting him for an eight o'clock breakfast in the morning before their flight back. Blaine smoothly assures them he'll do all of those things, and then promises he'll take a taxi back, instead of the dirty, crime-ridden subway.

"But don't get in a cab with one of those Middle Easterners," his mom says insistently. "They're all terrorists!"

And then finally, finally, he and Kurt are alone. Their hands automatically gravitate together, fingers interlacing, swing back and forth a little with the movement of their bodies.

"Sorry about that," Blaine says. Kurt smiles.

"Your parents are. . .interesting," Kurt says.

They instinctively walk toward the Park, admiring all of the Upper East Side brownstones as they walk. Blaine pauses after about two blocks, staring at one particularly beautiful building. There's chandelier light from the second floor window, and a warm glow coming from what he assumes is a bedroom on the third floor. He can hear the piano playing from one of the open windows.

"We'll live in one of those, someday," Blaine says, squeezing Kurt's hand. He expects a snappy retort, a comment about the décor, or the location, or. . .or. . .something, but there's no response. He turns to look at Kurt, who is staring at the house with tears running down his face.

"Oh, Kurt," Blaine sighs, tracing the tear tracks and thinking furiously about what he'd said. He can't find a hurtful word in it, and realizes with a sinking heart that dinner with his parents must have been more upsetting than he'd realized.

"I'm so stupid," Kurt says furiously, running his wrists furiously across his fact to get rid of the tears. "I don't know why I cry over absolutely everything."

"Kurt, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Kurt says, and grabs Blaine's hand. "Nothing. Everything is perfect. We're in New York, and I love you. That's all."

Blaine smiles, staring at his boyfriend. Kurt does cry too much. He cried the first time they met, and he cried after they lost Regionals junior year. He cried when his bird died, cried when they graduated, cried after singing a duet at Nationals. He cried at Disney movies, romantic comedies, and even the occasional war movie. Kurt cries too much, but he's so beautiful when he does it, that Blaine can't even mind."

He just leans forward, gently brushing his lips against his boyfriends. "I love you, too," he whispers. Kurt just leans into him, and they both stare at the building for a minute or so.

"All right," Kurt says finally. "But when we live here, we're totally going to have to change the wallpaper."

Blaine laughs in agreement, before tugging his boyfriend back down the street. They find a Starbucks just off Park Avenue that is amazingly still open. It's one easy glance between them and they're walking in to get some caffeine for the cab right across town.

Kurt is pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, laughingly insisting that he's going to pay this time, even if Blaines' parents are loaded and his dad is just a mechanic. Blaine pretends that he's going to let him, but they both know that when they get to the register Blaine will flash a charming smile, and the hapless barista will be under his spell. Nothing that Kurt will say will matter.

Blaine thinks that one day this move will probably piss off the other boy, but for right now they both know that Blaine has the money and Kurt, quite frankly, does not.

Things don't go as planned, though, from the minute they reach the counter. Neither of them are looking across it, Kurt focusing too much on pulling his wallet out of his tight, tight jeans, and Blaine focusing too much on his boyfriend's perfect little tongue, that's poking out a little as he concentrates.

"Hi, dolphins!" The barista says cheerfully, and both of their heads jerk up in surprise.

"Brittany?" Kurt gasps as the same time that Blaine asks "what are you doing here?"

Brittany pouts. "I'm working, obviously. I thought you could tell by the apron?"

It turns out that Brittany and Santana are both living in the city, down in Tribeca. It's Kurt who suggests that the two girls join Rachel, Blaine and himself for dinner the following weekend. Brittany agrees happily, of course, and Blaine just grins.

New York should be called the city of miracles, because it's almost impossible for him to acknowledge that they're all here, now, in the city. It does hurt a little that Santana didn't tell him, although there's a little, niggling nugget at the back of his head suggesting that just maybe she had, and maybe he hadn't cared enough to listen.

Either way, they stay in the coffeeshop until closing, and then they all grab a cab together. The driver glances back at them like they're insane, all piled into the back, and all headed to different sections of the city. Kurt is humming a little under his breath, and Brittany is trying to count the trees as they go by. Blaine knows that he's smiling like an idiot, so it's possible that the cab driver is right, and they are all a bunch of nutters.

Xxx

He feels an intense weight lift off his shoulders the minute that he walks into the apartment. It doesn't feel like home, yet. Not with the white walls, and the empty floors. It does, however, feel like freedom. It's the first time in his life he's felt completely free from his parents.

He does a little dance in the middle of the room, arms outstretched and feet tapping a quick beat on the floor. His arms in the air, and he suddenly feels the intense need to just sing.

After a rousing outburst of Last Friday Night he wanders into the bedroom. It's as bare as the rest of the apartment, just the kings sized bed and a dresser. His dad had been suspicious when he'd wanted the bigger bed, but Blaine had just innocently said that he wanted a bed that would fill up the room, so he wouldn't feel as lonely living all by himself. His mother had instantly given in. There's a small note lying on top, and Blaine curiously goes over to pick it up.

He recognizes the blocky cursive instantly as being from his dad, and considers not even reading it for a moment. But he'd been surprisingly cool on the trip, other than the horrible trip-up at dinner, so Blaine sits down on the bed and opens the letter.

It's three pages of instructions. Instructions on how to comport himself, what classes to take, where to eat, who to talk to. And then, on the last page, instructions on how to keep his "alternative lifestyle" out of the public eye. And then a pamphlet on STDs and gay sex.

Blaine doesn't know whether to be touched or offended. It's the most accepting his dad has ever been. On the other hand. . .STDs? Really?

He's about to throw the entire thing out when he realizes that there's still something sitting in the bottom of the envelope, something small and heavy. He turns the envelope over, and a small, bronze key spills out. There's a piece of masking tape on it, with writing on it. Blaine squints to read the small writing, clearly written in his mother's script.

For Kurt. When you're ready.

When Blaine talks to his boyfriend that night, it's one of the few times when he's the one crying.

A/N: Short chapter. Man, when Blaine doesn't have an angst, he's kind of boring, eh? Anyway. . .so. Much. Fluff.

COMING SOON: Brittana in New York, bitches! Plus a reunion at Popovers, some sorostitutes, and the first hints of possible conflict.

Reviews are love!