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Fic: thousand ways to leave this place [2/2]
Title: thousand ways to leave this place
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kurt/Blaine, Mercedes, Tina, Quinn, Finn, Rachel, Burt, Carole, ensemble, EVERYONE EVER
Summary: Kurt has to figure out how life works now.
Count: 19,037 words total; 7,933 in this part
Notes: SPOILERS. Not kidding. I took just about every spoiler that we know of for the next four or five episodes and ran like hell with it. Also, this is the fluffiest fucking thing in the entire world and itis going to get jossed into oblivion by 2x08 and everything that follows, and possibly even by 2x07 tonight got jossed to smithereens by 2x07. Title is from "Hold Hands and Fight" by the Rosebuds. Thank you to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jothra, canadabear, newredshoes, bookelfe, and a very confused non-fannish-friend for the help with the French.
Part 1
Kurt doesn't know exactly when in the confusing jumble of the last ten minutes Blaine took his hand (actually, that's a lie; Kurt knows it happened on the second verse of the Hipsters' rendition of “Only Girl in the World,” right when the octogenarian soloist sang that she wanted her baby to take her like a thief in the night), but he's grateful for its solid, warm, comforting presence as he pulls Blaine through the all-too-familiar tangle of the auditorium's curtains and wiring, knowing exactly what he needs to do to get to stage right without being seen by the audience.
Blaine doesn't complain or ask any questions or say a word; he just keeps up, and when Kurt stops, it's sudden enough that Blaine almost runs into him from behind. Kurt stopped because he saw the faint glow of the lamp on the technician's control board, which means that those six people standing in the wings... Kurt jumps when Blaine squeezes his hand and then lets go. Kurt takes one step forward, then another, and it's Brittany of all people who's the first to glance over her shoulder and spot him. She leaves Santana's side and -- impressively silent in stage heels -- flings herself at him.
Kurt staggers back a step with the force of Brittany hitting him, and he staggers a little more when she tries to wrap her legs around him as well as her arms. "Brittany," he hisses very quietly, and she takes the hint and puts her feet back on the floor.
"Hi Kurt!" she whispers, beaming at him.
Then someone else grabs him and he realizes belatedly that it's Tina, murmuring something that he can't hear; somebody reaches in and violently ruffles his hair and Quinn hugs him like a lady (a lady with a very fierce grip). Finn claps him on the shoulder, looking totally delighted, and even Puck's teeth are showing in the dim light as he stands back and smirks. Applause rolls across the audience while the Hipsters take their abbreviated bows onstage and begin exiting on stage left.
"Break a leg," Kurt whispers to whoever is nearest; it happens to be Brittany and she blinks then glances down at her leg, but Quinn hears and she smiles at him. The six of them whirl to face the stage as a musical cue starts. Tina waves at Kurt before she turns. For a split second, he almost takes an automatic step forward to join them, before he remembers.
When they've gone out into the bright lights, singing the opening notes of a song that sounds vaguely familiar (maybe it's by the Zutons, Kurt thinks numbly) and matched by the other six New Directions entering from stage left, Kurt becomes aware of Blaine again, and of the fact that at some point in the last thirty seconds, the rest of the Warblers showed up. Someone claps his back, pretty gently all things considered; Blaine settles his hands on his shoulders to get him to hold still and then he reaches up and runs his fingers through Kurt's hair, which Santana had apparently mussed beyond reason, to fix it.
Kurt watches the New Directions' set surrounded by his teammates, with a surreptitious hand brushing his.
Third place has already gone to the Hipsters.
Kurt's heart is hammering in his chest. He's not generally big on casual touch but the Warblers seem pretty intent -- mostly unknowingly, he thinks -- on breaking him of that; they're all lined up in two rows and an awful lot of them are grabbing at each other. Jonathan has slung the crook of his elbow across the back of Kurt's neck and Blaine is on his other side, his hand tight on Kurt's shoulder. Arm blocked from the audience's view by Blaine's body, Kurt has a white-knuckled fistful of the back of Blaine's blazer.
He wants to win; Kurt always wants to win. But he knows what a loss will mean for McKinley. He can't even look at the other side of the stage. He knows they're over there holding hands and mouthing please, please, please. This feels like Regionals last year, a heavy hand on his shoulder and everyone practically vibrating with tension, but worse, because Kurt both wants and doesn't want both outcomes.
"Say it," Dobbler is muttering very quietly behind him. "Say it, say it, say it." Someone else tells him to shut up, and then everyone around Kurt is suddenly going wild, shouting and jumping up and down and bro-hugging each other, and Kurt realizes that the winner was announced and that the announcer is trying to congratulate William McKinley High School on their second place finish, but the auditorium is erupting and he can't be heard.
Jonathan is pounding him gleefully on the back and Blaine is trying to say something, his smile lit up in a way that Kurt has never seen, but that delight falls away as he sees the look on Kurt's face. He asks Kurt something that he can't hear.
"It's not good enough," says Kurt.
"What?" shouts Blaine over the noise.
"Second place isn't good enough!" Kurt shouts back, suddenly furious, and it's all shrilly pouring out of him at once; the thing that has been giving him fits of anxiety and guilt as he has tried not to talk about the New Directions. "They're going to disband the club; there's not enough funding and the principal struck a deal with Mr. Schue that if they didn't place at Regionals, he would shut them down!"
Blaine's expression has gone stunned; standing beside him, Shawn looks very, very serious.
"Hold up," Shawn bellows. "Seriously? If they don't go on to Regionals, they're done for?" His voice carries enough that several of the nearest Warblers stop celebrating and turn to stare.
Kurt nods.
"You're sure?" Shawn asks.
Kurt nods, five times in rapid succession. All he can think of is what it felt like last May when they thought they were finished; when they cried in Mr. Schuester's living room and how empty and terrible the prospect of a high school career without glee had been. He realizes belatedly that he still has an iron grip on Blaine's blazer.
Shawn cups his hands to his mouth and shouts. "Huddle up!" With the help of the nearest Warblers grabbing or smacking the guys on the outward edges, they all crowd in around Shawn. The audience is still going crazy in their seats; they loved them. The huge cheering contingent from Dalton and the nearby all-girls' Catholic school -- where most of the guys find their dating pool -- is waving signs and shouting. "Listen," says Shawn, "we won this, fair and square, and we all know that. But McKinley's glee club is gonna get shut down for good if they don't go to Regionals."
"... You've got to be kidding," says Enrique flatly.
"Mr. Clifton," says Blaine, looking up at the teacher on the edge of their huddle. "What would happen if we forfeited before they can officially award us first prize?"
A couple of guys groan; most of them are quiet, though, listening, and Kurt cannot believe this is even being discussed.
Mr. Clifton adjusts his glasses and looks at Blaine and Shawn like he's never seen them before. "Well," he says, "there's not exactly precedent for it, but -- the trip to Regionals should go to the runner-up."
"These guys have got it really rough," Shawn says, low and intent. "Their school doesn't have the resources or the don't-be-a-dick policies we're lucky enough to have. This is a democracy; Blaine and I aren't gonna stand here as captains and tell you guys what we're going to do as a group, but I think we agree on what we think is the right thing here." He glances at Blaine, who nods firmly.
That's kind of condescending, even if it is true, Kurt thinks; he thinks of the four scholarships that are paying for his tuition. But it's the outcome he wants (it's the outcome he needs; the outcome he wants is to win), so he keeps his mouth shut. He's the new guy. This isn't his argument to make.
Nobody says anything for several long seconds. Kurt doesn't breathe. Then Enrique says, "Ask the seniors. The rest of us will be back next year; they're the ones who're never gonna get another shot at this."
Shawn puts his hand up. "I'm for it." Slowly, Dobbler sticks his hand in the air; then David and Warren and Andy -- and Kurt suddenly realizes that he is looking at all nine seniors' hands.
"Okay," says Shawn grimly, and then there is a smiling balding man coming toward them with a large trophy.
It takes the combined efforts of Shawn, Blaine, and mostly Mr. Clifton to convince the officials that yes, the Warblers do actually want to give up their title. The crowd buzzes, clearly sensing that something is happening. Kurt still can't bring himself to look at the abject misery that he knows is standing off to his right, even though he knows that everything is about to change.
"Well, ladies and gentleman!" the announcer finally says, sounding utterly nonplussed. "We have something completely unheard of in the history of the West-Central Ohio Sectionals competition. The Warblers have forfeited--"
"Respectfully, respectfully forfeited," Shawn mutters.
"--their title, which means that your very own William McKinley High School New Directions will be going on to the Regional competition!"
There is utter silence.
Then a voice shrieks on the other side of the stage, and the audience roars.
Kurt smiles to himself very, very faintly, then starts as Blaine reaches back, grabs his hand, and drags him into the front line -- right into Rachel Berry's arms.
"Kurt!" gasps Rachel, and she flings her arms around his neck. If asked, Kurt would proclaim this the most uncomfortable hug that he has ever been forced to be a part of, but in the moment -- well, maybe he hugs her back. "Thank you, thank you--" She lifts her head back for a moment so she can tell him, "Of course, we wouldn't have needed your assistance if I had sung Quinn and Santana's solos--" and then she hugs him (really, throws herself at him) again.
"He did it," Kurt says, pointing at Shawn, and to her credit, Rachel immediately detaches herself and then hugs the stuffing out of a very wary-looking Shawn. Blaine is laughing off to the side, looking all too amused by the entire situation, and Kurt narrows his eyes at him. "Rachel, sic him," he says, and Blaine says, "Please d--" and then he yelps as Rachel pounces on him.
Rachel was just the first wave of attack; the entirety of the New Directions have descended on the Warblers, and Kurt is a little terrified of his two lives mixing like this, but he doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter. Tina and Mike try to rush him all at once, and he says, "It wasn't me; they took a vote," and, apparently taking her cue from that, Santana grabs Dobbler by the surprised face and kisses him right on the mouth. Everyone is hugging the Warblers (who are, for the most part, laughing and totally welcoming it, which isn't a huge surprise, given that Santana is making her way through the cute ones and Brittany has attached herself to Adam's side) and clapping them on the backs -- and out of the corner of his eye, Kurt spots Finn shaking Blaine's hand, towering over him.
He starts to turn in that direction, danger sense going off, but then Mercedes is there, grabbing him in a fierce hug, and this is physical affection that Kurt will return with no qualms and no embarrassment. “Come on,” Mercedes says in his ear; “let's go rescue your boy.”
“He's not my boy,” Kurt protests as they break apart, but Mercedes just grabs him and drags him over, and Blaine grins when he sees them coming.
“Mercedes! We meet at last,” he says, and he goes right in for a hug with her. Finn is shooting Kurt a patently unsubtle thumbs up of approval over Blaine's shoulder and Kurt furiously waves at him to stop it – and he does, but mostly because that's the moment when Rachel launches herself into Finn's arms, saying something breathless about Bruno Mars, and kisses him.
The stage has officially become a riot, Kurt decides, watching Lauren Zizes happily try to chat up Gunther (Gunther's English isn't always tip-top; all the Twilight references may actually be working), and Artie exchange a complicated-looking hand gesture with David, and Puck give out a couple of vicious high fives. This is completely ridiculous. This cannot be real life. Quinn is smiling brighter than he's ever seen her smile, standing off to one side, watching all of them, and Sam – is right in front of Kurt. He's grinning at Kurt; it's the first time Kurt has seen him since the day that Sam hauled Azimio off him in the hallway and then got whaled on for his trouble.
“Thanks, Kurt,” he says, and Kurt gets as far as, “I didn't d--” before he's pulled into a very manly, very unexpected back-slapping hug. Then Sam moves on, and the New Directions' Betsey Johnson dresses and shirt-and-tie combos are officially scattered among the Warblers' blazers, and maybe the mingling isn't quite as world-ending as Kurt had initially panicked that it would be.
Maybe.
Backstage, Kurt grabs Blaine by the elbow and drags him off to the side, away from the glee clubs tromping off toward the backstage hallway and the door that will lead out to the lobby. “Who are you, and how have you turned my life into an after school special?!” Kurt hisses, hauling him behind the nearest curtain.
Blaine laughs; says, “Honestly, I think Shawn really deserves more of the credit--” and Kurt steps in and hugs him, hard. He doesn't mean to do it; he's just so overwhelmingly grateful for the selfless thing that 10 boys just did out there for a group of strangers and he can't find the words to express how relieved he is, despite being disappointed that this means they have to lose, and Blaine is so close in the near-darkness and he smells nice and – Kurt loses his mind a little, he must, because this was not at all his intent when he pulled Blaine back here.
Blaine gives a startled whoosh of breath but almost immediately wraps his arms around Kurt, just as tight. It is not the hips-apart, double-tap-on-the-back hasty hetero hug that Sam had laid on him. They're holding on and holding on, well past the time when it would be socially appropriate to let go. Kurt has never touched another guy like this; Blaine is lithe and warm and the planes of his back are strong under Kurt's hands. They're almost the same height (Kurt is just barely taller) and it's all too tempting to think of just bowing his head and hooking his chin over Blaine's shoulder, but he doesn't do it.
“Thank you,” Kurt says very quietly. Blaine lets the side of his head come to rest against Kurt's; a silent you're welcome.
Their chests are pressed together; Blaine can doubtless feel how hard and fast Kurt's heart is beating. If his life actually was an after school special, this is exactly when one of them would turn and a kiss would happen. Kurt doesn't know if he's ready for that; he wants it, he knows he does, but there's so much going on and that would add a whole new terrifying level of complication to his life.
Just as he has decided that he wants to find out if he's ready for it (and that he's hoping that Blaine does it, because he's been too burned too badly in the past to risk it), someone belts, “Kurt!” from somewhere nearby, and Kurt just about jumps out of his skin and Blaine starts against him, and they spring apart.
The curtain flies open and Kurt has never wanted to see Rachel Berry's face less in his entire life. “There you are; everybody's looking for you!” she says to Kurt, and then she realizes that he has sheepish-looking company. She gives Blaine a beady-eyed once over, then insists, exasperated, “You too; come on!”
Which is how Kurt winds up being dragged out of a blackout curtain alongside Blaine.
It's a good night anyway.
Kurt finds his family in the lobby. His dad hugs him fiercely while Kurt meekly says, "Hi Dad" into his shoulder, and he tells Kurt he's proud of him (because, Kurt hadn't thought about it, but of course the entire audience had been able to see him go white and then start shouting when the Warblers were announced the winners; he wonders if there will be consequences when he gets back to school tomorrow, but decides it can wait) and in the meantime, he can hear Carole laughing and introducing herself to Blaine behind them. Blaine is polite and respectful and funny and all of the things that parents love; he endears himself to Carole within the space of about five seconds.
Kurt lets Carole hug him, too, even as his dad greets Blaine and shakes his hand (and if it's a hard enough handshake to be painful, like Kurt suspects it is, Blaine never complains), and they're all just so happy to see him -- family, the glee club, even Mr. Schuester, everyone -- that Kurt almost can't believe he ever felt unappreciated and unnoticed this fall.
Blaine has to go back to Dalton with everybody else; Kurt tries to say thank you to the Warblers as a group while they wait to get on the bus. He gets sheet music and David's empty duffel bag thrown at him for his trouble, so it doesn't seem like anybody is holding an immediate grudge or accusing him of being a Jesse St. James.
Kurt can't wrap his mind around that. If he didn't know the New Directions and know what this means to them, he would be livid if someone tried to give up a title that he had helped earn.
He's grateful.
Kurt's dad and Carole take Kurt and Finn and Rachel and Mercedes out to dinner at Breadstix, and afterward, Dad drives him the two hours back to Westerville in the pickup. They don't say much, but his dad doesn't make a single complaint about listening to Broadway cast recordings and whenever Kurt glances over and sees his dad's face lit by the dashboard lights or the headlamps of an oncoming car, a little more tension that he hadn't even known was there eases out of Kurt's shoulders.
It sinks in over the course of several days that the New Directions are going to face Vocal Adrenaline at Regionals and then potentially go on to New York, and that Kurt won't be with them. It was easy to be jubilant when he was surrounded by the joy and gratitude of all of his old friends who he hadn't seen in too long; it's harder when he's deep in the throes of midterms and everyone around him is always either sleeping, studying, or in a terrible mood from too much of the latter and not enough of the former.
Blaine in particular has a tendency to push himself farther than is reasonable. When Kurt spots Blaine with his head pillowed in his arms on the library table for the third time this week, he rolls his eyes.
Cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA (which is still how Kurt thinks of him, that full name, even after a solid month and a half at Dalton) stops, too, his books under his arm, and says, “Uh, Kurt?”
Kurt hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder. “I'm going on a mission of mercy,” he says, brusquely. “See you at the meeting Thursday?”
“...Sure,” says cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA, and Kurt leaves him standing there with a bemused, confused expression.
“This is a terrible habit to make,” Kurt says, looming over Blaine, and when Blaine doesn't move a muscle or make a sound, Kurt frowns. He watches him for several seconds; the slow rise and fall of Blaine's back, his one visible eye closed, the vulnerable curve of his neck – he's asleep.
By the time that Blaine starts to stir, Kurt is sitting at the table, legs neatly crossed and his world history textbook open in front of him, along with a binder that he's taking notes in. Blaine slowly lifts his head; the whole right side of his face is red and his hair is flattened. He blinks blearily at Kurt. “Hey,” he says, quizzical.
Without looking up from his studying, Kurt pushes a to-go cup of espresso across the table. “You should really stop studying here if you're just going to pass out like a sack of potatoes,” he says. “I've already disposed of no less than three separate Warblers who wanted to write on you with a Sharpie.”
“Oh my God!” groans Blaine, wrapping his hand around the coffee cup and dragging his mouth to it. “You're the best!” It's unclear whether he's talking about his near death by permanent marker or the coffee; Kurt suspects the coffee. (Kurt actually suspects that Blaine is talking to the espresso, not to Kurt.)
“I know,” says Kurt lightly as he keeps reading about Napoleon's failed invasion of Russia, but something flutters in his chest and one side of his mouth has quirked up.
He sounds much more alert after he takes a sip of the warm coffee, which he should, considering how many shots of espresso Kurt had had the student worker put in it. “Seriously,” he says, yawning. “Thank you.”
“The next time you fall asleep in here, I'm going to let Wes and Jonathan write all over your face,” Kurt warns, and Blaine laughs quietly, pulling one of his books in toward himself.
“I would probably deserve that,” he says, flipping to a particular page. Almost immediately, he is frowning at it. After a second, he finishes: “One of the first things I learned here is not to fall asleep in public places. It'd serve me right.”
Kurt shoots a sidelong look at Blaine, then at the French textbook that he seems to be trying to light on fire with the power of his mind. He sighs and closes his own book. “As-tu besoin d'aide?”
Blaine blinks tiredly, then looks up at him. “What?”
“L'aide,” he says, impatient. “Do you need it.”
He clearly considers it for a couple seconds, then he says, “No; nah. I'm good. Thanks, though.”
Five minutes later, Kurt says, without looking up, “You need to either accept my offer or stop sighing at your textbook like it broke your heart and left you in San Francisco.”
“Do you really know this stuff?” Blaine asks, canting his book toward Kurt. “I mean, you're only in French II, right?”
“And you're somehow in French III,” Kurt retorts, taking a quick glance over the page's lesson about the subjunctive case, “which is a similarly unsuitable placing.”
“--Hey,” Blaine protests, scrubbing his eyes.
“Fourteen and a half minute Céline medley,” he reminds him ruthlessly, giving her name its proper pronunciation. “I've been studying the French language and culture since sixth grade.”
“Paris Fashion Week?” Blaine asks, shrewd.
“It's a dream,” Kurt admits. “Now, if you're too proud to accept help--”
He frowns at him. “I'm not,” Blaine says, borderline crabby, and he shoves his chair closer to Kurt's with a scrape that's loud enough that the librarian shushes them. Kurt decides not to take his sour mood personally. He actually finds it kind of funny. One so rarely sees Blaine outside the context of his general easygoing good-guy geniality that Kurt can't help but get a perverse kick out of ruffling his sleep-deprived feathers. He leans in to look at the book.
“Mais c'est quoi, ton problème?” Kurt asks, unimpressed, his voice quieter after the librarian's reprimand. Their heads are bent together over the book. “The subjunctive case is child's play.”
Blaine grumbles, entirely in French, that nobody likes a smug tout savoir.
Before he really thinks about what he's saying (or about how atrocious Blaine's attempt at translating an English phrase into French was), Kurt points out, “You do,” and he catches Blaine swiftly smiling despite himself.
“Peut-être,” Blaine allows, voice warm even as he pulls a face, and their hands brush when Kurt reaches for his pencil.
“You really want to sing this in the winter concert?”
Kurt had had to ask.
Now he's being whirled around the choir room in a crude simulation of a waltz; crude because the dance break is not even close to being in three-quarter time. This is completely silly and ridiculous and over the top – and Kurt loves every absurd dramatic second of it. As badly as he has wanted it, has dreamed of dancing with a handsome boy for years, Kurt gave up on the idea around the same time that he gave up on the idea that he could convince Finn Hudson that what he really wanted was to date men. Logically, Kurt had known that having a boy sing to and dance with him would eventually be a possibility. He's getting out of Ohio if it kills him, and in New York or Los Angeles or London, there will be other boys who spent lonely teenage years swaying across their bedroom floors alone, practicing for the day when they can finally hold a dance partner.
An abstract "it will happen some day" is very different than a concrete "it is happening right now." Blaine's eyes are unfailingly on Kurt's even as they spin together, their hands clasped and Blaine's other hand on Kurt's waist feeling like it burns through layers of clothing, and Kurt almost misses his next cue because he can't stop smiling. It's desperately difficult to concentrate when he's this giddy, and this on the edge of a laugh.
“I simply must go,” he sings, tearing himself out of Blaine's arms and stalking away across the floor.
“But baby, it's cold outside,” Blaine croons from behind him.
“The answer is no.” Kurt turns around and keeps walking backward, shaking his finger no, no, no at Blaine, who's coming on strong, grinning.
“But baby, it's cold outside,” he pleads, reaching out to Kurt, who lets him almost come within arm's reach before he swings away, his nose in the air.
“This welcome has been,” (“How lucky that you dropped in”), “so nice and warm,” Kurt sings, reaching the piano and letting himself glance back at Blaine.
“Look out the window at that storm!” Blaine points a dramatic finger, arm outstretched and elbow locked, at the window.
The view is sunny.
Kurt misses his next cue because he's hoisting himself up to sit on the piano and he is, Gaga help him, giggling. “Gosh,” Blaine sings, and he's coming closer, “your lips look delicious.” He's looking right at Kurt's mouth, color slowly rising into his face, and Kurt clutches at the edge of the piano and promptly forgets the line about his brother.
“Waves upon a tropical shore.” Blaine reaches out to Kurt, who abruptly realizes that he has been staring at Blaine; at his perfect hair and his dark eyes and the way his shoulders flex under his blazer as he moves.
Kurt hurriedly puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder and uses it as leverage to throw himself off the piano and spin away. “My maiden aunt's mind is vicious,” he sings, unsure of when this stopped being a game and started feeling real.
“Oooh, your lips are delicious.” Blaine holds out his hand again, patient, and this time, Kurt hesitantly takes it.
“But maybe just a cigarette more...” Blaine's hand is warm and strong, rough with guitar calluses, and his fingers stroke Kurt's wrist and a rush of heat overwhelms him and he almost, almost steps in instead of away. But instead, he yanks his hand back and backs off, putting the piano between them; Blaine skips his line about a blizzard and looks stricken, like he thinks Kurt is actually running from him, and he opens his mouth off-beat--
“I've gotta get home,” Kurt sings, aiming a tiny smile at him, leaning on the piano, and Blaine recovers.
“Baby, you'd freeze out there,” he murmurs, and Kurt has spent a year mocking Finn and Rachel for stalking each other around the piano during duets, but there is something mesmerizing about watching Blaine come around the piano after him.
“Say, lend me a coat,” Kurt drawls, letting Blaine catch up and then tugging at the lapel of his blazer, letting his palm brush Blaine's chest. Blaine twitches under his hand and he smiles, bright and immediate, and he misses the first couple words in his next line because he's mouthing 'New Kid' at Kurt.
“--your knees out there.” Blaine actually sinks down and takes several steps after him on his knees, and Kurt laughs, his fingers over his mouth.
“You've really been grand,” he sings, extending his hand to Blaine to help him back onto his feet.
Blaine bounds up and presses Kurt's hand to his heart. His voice rings out on, “I thrill when you touch my hand!”
Kurt's own heart is pounding. He pulls his arm back and makes an imperious dismissive gesture at Blaine, his head held high. “But don't you see?”
“How can you do this thing to me?” Kurt would almost believe the anguish in Blaine's voice as he serenades – except that there's a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
“There's bound to be talk tomorrow--”
“Think of my lifelong sorrow--”
“At least there will be plenty implied...” Kurt gives up on any pretense of being on the run. They're just standing and singing to each other; close enough that he can smell Blaine's faint cologne, close enough that he could lift a hand at his side without moving his arm, and touch Blaine.
“If you got pneumonia and died,” Blaine sings to him, and he's looking uncharacteristically jittery.
Kurt furrows his eyebrows at him; breathless: “I really can't stay...”
“Get over that hold out!” Blaine nearly sings over him and Kurt opens his mouth to hit the iconic last notes, but the music swells instead, a strangely-placed break, and Blaine says, “Kurt, I--” in a choked voice that is just about the least suave, least smooth thing that Kurt has ever heard.
Then there are loud voices and stomping footsteps from just outside and he hurriedly steps backward, and four or five Warblers come in together. They're arguing about a football game or a videogame or something equally pointless; Wes lifts his head as the last few notes of “Baby, It's Cold Outside” play over the sound system and he looks between the two of them and seems to realize what has been interrupted, his eyebrows rising, but it's way too late. Kurt grabs his blazer off the piano and shrugs into it, taking a seat. He can feel Blaine's eyes on him for several long seconds before Blaine turns his back to pull the CD out of the stereo system.
Kurt has been back from Christmas vacation for three days and is in the middle of a very angry run through his nightly routine, listening to "No Good Deed" from Wicked on repeat with his computer speakers cranked all the way up, when someone bangs on his door hard enough to be heard above the music; hard enough that he starts and knocks over an open bottle of toner. Hissing, Kurt grabs for the bottle and sets it upright, but too late to stop a puddle from pooling. He glares at his desk, then grabs a roll of paper towels – and someone is pounding on the door, and Kurt storms across the floor and throws the door open.
He and Blaine stare at each other for several long seconds.
"One more disaster I can add to my generous supply!" Elphaba belts out of Kurt's computer speakers.
All at once: “I'm sorry, I was an epic jerk,” says Blaine, who is actually dripping with cold water, enough that he is soaking wet spots into the carpet in the hall. He is talking faster than Kurt has ever heard him. “I don't know if you realize this, but I'm crazy about you, Kurt, and sometimes it makes me crazy, which is something that never happens to me; of course you should go out with that guy from the GSA if you like h--”
“Stop,” says Kurt, standing there with his arms folded over his chest and the roll of paper towels clutched tightly in one hand, and Blaine immediately shuts his mouth. “Go back.”
“I'm – sorry I was a jerk?” Blaine says, warily, like he's not entirely sure this is what Kurt means; like he doesn't know what to expect.
Carefully controlling the upward pitch that his voice wants to rise into, Kurt shakes his head and says, “After that.”
He sounds resigned. “You should go out with Adrian Wu.”
Kurt twirls his finger to say back, back.
“... I'm crazy about you?” He asks it hesitantly but Kurt can see the bare hope in his face, and Kurt can't help it anymore; he drops the roll of paper towels and his hands flash out to fist in the lapels of Blaine's drenched hoodie, and Blaine's face crumples in relief as he grabs Kurt's waist. His hands are cold and damp even through Kurt's shirt and he doesn't care. Even Kurt himself doesn't know why he's ceaselessly nodding, whether he's silently confirming to Blaine that that was what he wanted to hear repeated or he's telling him that he feels the same way; maybe both. He stops nodding so they can rest their foreheads together and Blaine cups his cold hands on either side of Kurt's neck, just inches below cradling his jaw, and they breathe shakily, out of sync with each other. Kurt's fingers are actually cramping from the strength of his grip on Blaine's sweatshirt.
“I really am sorry,” Blaine murmurs, his voice husky.
“I was never actually going to go out with Adrian, for the record,” Kurt says, and he feels Blaine start against him.
“Wh--”
“It was the principle of the thing,” Kurt tells him firmly, and he would scowl if he wasn't so nervous and thrilled at the same time; “You were being ridiculous,” and Blaine is just starting to ruefully laugh when Kurt tilts his face toward him, hesitant about the mechanics but not about his intentions. Blaine's laugh cuts off immediately and slowly, haltingly, they angle in until finally
(finally)
their lips brush. It's the faintest of pressure, featherlight and chaste and careful, and it is nothing like Kurt's two kisses that never counted. Blaine's mouth is soft and gentle and Kurt decides on the spot that this is the #1 perfect first kiss ever and that no one can convince him otherwise. Incongruously, all he can think of is how Anne Hathaway insisted in The Princess Diary that when she kissed her true love, her foot would pop up behind her, the way that heroines used to kiss in old black and white movies, and now he is comparing himself to a heroine, wonderful -- but he suddenly totally gets it.
(But he is not doing it.)
When Blaine pulls away, he doesn't really pull away; he just separates their mouths by a hair's breadth and says, “I've wanted to do that forever,” his breath ghosting across Kurt's lips. He sounds downright giddy. Kurt's eyes are still shut.
“Why didn't you?” he asks, knowing his voice has gone breathy and not caring.
“You'd been through so much crap, you know?” Blaine says. “You came to me for help and then I wanted to give you a chance to settle in here and figure out what you wanted; trying to make some move when I first met you would have been – gross.”
Kurt opens his eyes and makes a tch sound, tongue against his teeth, and he leans back enough that Blaine's face comes into focus rather than being a too-close blur. Wry: “Thanks.”
“That's not what I mean,” Blaine says, serious, looking right into his eyes, and it should be cheesy but it somehow isn't, and Kurt lets himself sway into him a little bit. And then Blaine ruins it by opening his mouth and starting to talk very fast again. “I wanted to just grab your face and kiss you, but then I thought that was a really bad idea because somebody's done that to you before and I wanted to make sure you had a choice--”
“Blaine,” says Kurt, more patiently than this abject stupidity deserves (though it is abject stupidity that makes him want to hug Blaine until he can't breathe, so it's acceptable). “You just showed up at my room looking like Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice.” Blaine glances down at himself, white dress shirt translucent and plastered to his body under his hoodie, and then laughs. Kurt finishes: “You couldn't be Karofsky if you tried.” Blaine cracks a completely goofy smile.
Several doors down, a lock clicks open; Omid steps out of his room, wearing a jacket with the hood up. His eyes hold on the two of them for a minute (Kurt clinging to Blaine's sweatshirt, Blaine soaked and smiling and cupping Kurt's face in his hands) and then he slides back into his room – as if they can't see him – and shuts the door.
Kurt makes a disbelieving, amused sound, shutting his eyes, and Blaine huffs a laugh. “I should--” says Blaine, starting to draw away, and Kurt steps backward and drags Blaine into his room with him; Blaine is shivering under his hands, and probably not, Kurt abruptly realizes, because they just kissed.
“I can't believe you went outside like this,” Kurt says, stepping away and muting the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked, and he and Blaine are plunged into sudden silence. He goes rummaging through the drawer that he uses for linens. It's easier to stop the song that is bubbling up in his throat, and threatening to spill out of his mouth, if he keeps his hands busy. “Did you come all the way from the library?”
“Wait, I thought I was Mr. Darcy and it was romantic,” Blaine protests, his teeth chattering, and Kurt throws a towel over his head. He pulls it around himself with grateful fervor, rubbing his own arms. He is dripping all over Kurt's throw rug.
“Mr. Darcy went swimming in slow motion at the height of the English summer,” Kurt says, opening and closing more drawers. “You went outside in the fresh December freezing rain in Ohio. Wear these.” He hands Blaine the pile of clothing that he has collected, a pair of dry socks on top.
“Wha--” says Blaine, and Kurt steps out into the hall and closes the door on him. He leans back against it, his eyes closed, and he allows himself to open his mouth in shock and then finally begin to smile. The front of his T-shirt is spotted with cold rainwater.
He cracks an eye when he hears a sound. Omid trudges down the hall, shooting Kurt an unreadable look, and then, right as he passes, he holds up his fist. Kurt breathes out silently and bumps their knuckles together.
“Okay,” says Blaine's muffled voice. “I'm decent.” When Kurt swings the door open, they look at each other for a couple of seconds, then Blaine half-smiles and spreads his arms, as if to embrace the awkward and say, well, what do you think? He's wearing a loose pair of yoga pants with a striped henley that strains just a little across his chest, and one of Kurt's oversized cable-knit cardigans. His hair is all zany damp curls.
He looks obscenely good, Kurt decides, but he might just feel that way because he recognizes those clothes as his and there is something possessive in it.
“It's an improvement.” Kurt's mouth curves into a lopsided smile and Blaine smiles back, his face soft -- then he blinks at him as Kurt crosses to his closet. “You need to get out,” Kurt says, plucking a jacket out of the closet and holding it out by the shoulders.
“--What?”
Kurt shakes the jacket impatiently. It is Armani; shearling-lined with a herringbone pattern, one of his favorite old waterproof, warm standards. “Curfew is in three and a half minutes.”
Blaine stares at him for a second, then he says a profound, “Crap,” and he puts his arm through the first sleeve and Kurt hurriedly helps him with the other arm, then pushes it up over his shoulders and leaves him to settle it as he goes back into his closet and comes out with a pair of yellow canvas boots.
Blaine shoots the yellow boots a very amused look, but he steps into them and lets Kurt wind a scarf around his neck. Then he grabs Kurt's hands, preventing him from compulsively adding any more layers. “Come on a real date with me,” appeals Blaine. “Friday night, food, not in the dining hall.”
“Okay,” Kurt agrees breathlessly, and Blaine leans in and kisses him again; still close-mouthed but harder this time, less like Kurt might break if he touches him. Kurt immediately, fiercely presses into it and can feel Blaine's stubble, and he's dimly grateful that Blaine is still holding his hands because he thinks they would be fluttering uselessly otherwise. Blaine wrenches himself away and pulls up the hood of his borrowed coat, and before Kurt can give the side-eye to the ridiculous full effect of the outfit, Blaine is saying, “Bye” with a brilliant smile and flinging the door open.
Kurt is left with sudden silence and a neat pile of soggy shoes and clothing on his floor. He climbs up onto his bed and pulls the window treatment aside to peer outside; approximately seven seconds later, a figure in an Armani coat dashes across the quad, and Kurt presses his forehead to the window pane with his eyes closed.
That, he thinks, smiling so hard that it actually physically hurts, was his first real kiss.
When his iPhone buzzes, he lunges for it.
fyi you're never getting these boots back, says the text, and Kurt is still laughing (and shaking his head, because hell yes he is getting them back) when the phone rings and he picks it up.
"Seriously," says Blaine's voice. "These are awesome. Plus, Jonathan just totally stole them."
"Get Jonathan's unworthy feet out of my boots," Kurt orders, and it's okay if he thuds onto his back in bed and keeps smiling like he just got out of the loony bin, because there's no one here to see it.
"But my feet are worthy?" Blaine prompts, and Kurt doesn't have to be in the same building to know that he's grinning from ear to ear. Kurt can hear it in his voice.
They talk for three hours, first while Kurt pulls his shit together and hangs up wet wrinkly clothes to dry, and then while he pretends he's skimming the reading for tomorrow's American literature quiz on the Beats but he's actually just letting Blaine tell him all the things he likes about Kurt until he is pretty sure his skin is never going to fade back to its natural color ever again.
Kurt would never wear an ugly red hoodie outside of the sanctity of his room, but just the same, he wonders if Blaine will notice if he keeps it for a while.
On Monday, Kurt gives a presentation about On the Road and the class applauds politely; no one calls him Bummel after he says the phrase “bum a ride.” After school, Shawn makes the Warblers run "Somewhere Only We Know" until even Kurt deigns to collapse on the undoubtedly filthy chorus room floor with the rest of the tenors, using his boyfriend's chest as a pillow, and said boyfriend – possibly delirious with dance-exhaustion – puts an arm around him and starts crooning, "baby, you can light my fire." Kurt snorts at him and goes along with the chorus of groans that the song choice earns Blaine, but he not so secretly loves it.
On Tuesday, half the Warblers and several of their girlfriends squeeze into the lounge on Kurt's floor along with most of his hallmates, and they all shout at the American Idol finale.
On Wednesday, Kurt helps finalize poster designs for Pride Week and he talks to his dad for a half an hour, and Carole mentions the idea of driving down to spend the day in Columbus this weekend.
On Thursday, Mercedes sends a flurry of texts during lunch, demanding to know when he's coming home next and whether he's bringing Blaine. Kurt's old jealousy barely even twinges when she mentions that Vocal Adrenaline stopped by McKinley this morning for an intimidation session.
He texts back: I certainly hope you schooled their asses, and Mercedes responds: you know it baby. Come hell or high water, the New Directions are going to Nationals in New York this year.
On Friday, Kurt goes to his locker an hour early. By the time the bell rings for class, every square inch of metal is covered by magazine cut-outs and song lyrics and a mirror attached by magnets and cards and, most of all, photographs; his dad and Carole on their wedding day, Blaine's framed class picture, Mercedes and Tina with their arms around each other's necks and Finn photobombing the background, most of the New Directions flushed and beaming after Sectionals (behind the group, Noah Puckerman is drinking something out of a Nalgene bottle that probably broke the terms of his probation), a bunch of hallmates piled up on the spare bed in Kurt's room, Jonathan staring at the camera while wearing a hat made of balloons, Blaine and David and Shawn roaring with laughter at a terrible joke.
Just below Blaine's class picture, there's a Google map with a handwritten note. Someone has drawn a stick figure in a blue blazer alongside an arrow pointing directly to the city of Los Angeles, and the note says, in Blaine's horrendous illegible scrawl: Nationals 2012.
Kurt steps back to admire his handiwork, and he smiles to himself in satisfaction, and he closes the locker door.
French translations:
As-tu besoin d'aide? - Do you need help?
Mais c'est quoi, ton problème? - Really, what's the problem?
Tout savoir - Ridiculous attempt at the English phrase “know it all”; seriously, it is terrible. It literally means “all know.” Blaine is shit at French, you guys.
Peut-être - Maybe
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Kurt/Blaine, Mercedes, Tina, Quinn, Finn, Rachel, Burt, Carole, ensemble, EVERYONE EVER
Summary: Kurt has to figure out how life works now.
Count: 19,037 words total; 7,933 in this part
Notes: SPOILERS. Not kidding. I took just about every spoiler that we know of for the next four or five episodes and ran like hell with it. Also, this is the fluffiest fucking thing in the entire world and it
jothra, canadabear, newredshoes, bookelfe, and a very confused non-fannish-friend for the help with the French.Part 1
Kurt doesn't know exactly when in the confusing jumble of the last ten minutes Blaine took his hand (actually, that's a lie; Kurt knows it happened on the second verse of the Hipsters' rendition of “Only Girl in the World,” right when the octogenarian soloist sang that she wanted her baby to take her like a thief in the night), but he's grateful for its solid, warm, comforting presence as he pulls Blaine through the all-too-familiar tangle of the auditorium's curtains and wiring, knowing exactly what he needs to do to get to stage right without being seen by the audience.
Blaine doesn't complain or ask any questions or say a word; he just keeps up, and when Kurt stops, it's sudden enough that Blaine almost runs into him from behind. Kurt stopped because he saw the faint glow of the lamp on the technician's control board, which means that those six people standing in the wings... Kurt jumps when Blaine squeezes his hand and then lets go. Kurt takes one step forward, then another, and it's Brittany of all people who's the first to glance over her shoulder and spot him. She leaves Santana's side and -- impressively silent in stage heels -- flings herself at him.
Kurt staggers back a step with the force of Brittany hitting him, and he staggers a little more when she tries to wrap her legs around him as well as her arms. "Brittany," he hisses very quietly, and she takes the hint and puts her feet back on the floor.
"Hi Kurt!" she whispers, beaming at him.
Then someone else grabs him and he realizes belatedly that it's Tina, murmuring something that he can't hear; somebody reaches in and violently ruffles his hair and Quinn hugs him like a lady (a lady with a very fierce grip). Finn claps him on the shoulder, looking totally delighted, and even Puck's teeth are showing in the dim light as he stands back and smirks. Applause rolls across the audience while the Hipsters take their abbreviated bows onstage and begin exiting on stage left.
"Break a leg," Kurt whispers to whoever is nearest; it happens to be Brittany and she blinks then glances down at her leg, but Quinn hears and she smiles at him. The six of them whirl to face the stage as a musical cue starts. Tina waves at Kurt before she turns. For a split second, he almost takes an automatic step forward to join them, before he remembers.
When they've gone out into the bright lights, singing the opening notes of a song that sounds vaguely familiar (maybe it's by the Zutons, Kurt thinks numbly) and matched by the other six New Directions entering from stage left, Kurt becomes aware of Blaine again, and of the fact that at some point in the last thirty seconds, the rest of the Warblers showed up. Someone claps his back, pretty gently all things considered; Blaine settles his hands on his shoulders to get him to hold still and then he reaches up and runs his fingers through Kurt's hair, which Santana had apparently mussed beyond reason, to fix it.
Kurt watches the New Directions' set surrounded by his teammates, with a surreptitious hand brushing his.
Third place has already gone to the Hipsters.
Kurt's heart is hammering in his chest. He's not generally big on casual touch but the Warblers seem pretty intent -- mostly unknowingly, he thinks -- on breaking him of that; they're all lined up in two rows and an awful lot of them are grabbing at each other. Jonathan has slung the crook of his elbow across the back of Kurt's neck and Blaine is on his other side, his hand tight on Kurt's shoulder. Arm blocked from the audience's view by Blaine's body, Kurt has a white-knuckled fistful of the back of Blaine's blazer.
He wants to win; Kurt always wants to win. But he knows what a loss will mean for McKinley. He can't even look at the other side of the stage. He knows they're over there holding hands and mouthing please, please, please. This feels like Regionals last year, a heavy hand on his shoulder and everyone practically vibrating with tension, but worse, because Kurt both wants and doesn't want both outcomes.
"Say it," Dobbler is muttering very quietly behind him. "Say it, say it, say it." Someone else tells him to shut up, and then everyone around Kurt is suddenly going wild, shouting and jumping up and down and bro-hugging each other, and Kurt realizes that the winner was announced and that the announcer is trying to congratulate William McKinley High School on their second place finish, but the auditorium is erupting and he can't be heard.
Jonathan is pounding him gleefully on the back and Blaine is trying to say something, his smile lit up in a way that Kurt has never seen, but that delight falls away as he sees the look on Kurt's face. He asks Kurt something that he can't hear.
"It's not good enough," says Kurt.
"What?" shouts Blaine over the noise.
"Second place isn't good enough!" Kurt shouts back, suddenly furious, and it's all shrilly pouring out of him at once; the thing that has been giving him fits of anxiety and guilt as he has tried not to talk about the New Directions. "They're going to disband the club; there's not enough funding and the principal struck a deal with Mr. Schue that if they didn't place at Regionals, he would shut them down!"
Blaine's expression has gone stunned; standing beside him, Shawn looks very, very serious.
"Hold up," Shawn bellows. "Seriously? If they don't go on to Regionals, they're done for?" His voice carries enough that several of the nearest Warblers stop celebrating and turn to stare.
Kurt nods.
"You're sure?" Shawn asks.
Kurt nods, five times in rapid succession. All he can think of is what it felt like last May when they thought they were finished; when they cried in Mr. Schuester's living room and how empty and terrible the prospect of a high school career without glee had been. He realizes belatedly that he still has an iron grip on Blaine's blazer.
Shawn cups his hands to his mouth and shouts. "Huddle up!" With the help of the nearest Warblers grabbing or smacking the guys on the outward edges, they all crowd in around Shawn. The audience is still going crazy in their seats; they loved them. The huge cheering contingent from Dalton and the nearby all-girls' Catholic school -- where most of the guys find their dating pool -- is waving signs and shouting. "Listen," says Shawn, "we won this, fair and square, and we all know that. But McKinley's glee club is gonna get shut down for good if they don't go to Regionals."
"... You've got to be kidding," says Enrique flatly.
"Mr. Clifton," says Blaine, looking up at the teacher on the edge of their huddle. "What would happen if we forfeited before they can officially award us first prize?"
A couple of guys groan; most of them are quiet, though, listening, and Kurt cannot believe this is even being discussed.
Mr. Clifton adjusts his glasses and looks at Blaine and Shawn like he's never seen them before. "Well," he says, "there's not exactly precedent for it, but -- the trip to Regionals should go to the runner-up."
"These guys have got it really rough," Shawn says, low and intent. "Their school doesn't have the resources or the don't-be-a-dick policies we're lucky enough to have. This is a democracy; Blaine and I aren't gonna stand here as captains and tell you guys what we're going to do as a group, but I think we agree on what we think is the right thing here." He glances at Blaine, who nods firmly.
That's kind of condescending, even if it is true, Kurt thinks; he thinks of the four scholarships that are paying for his tuition. But it's the outcome he wants (it's the outcome he needs; the outcome he wants is to win), so he keeps his mouth shut. He's the new guy. This isn't his argument to make.
Nobody says anything for several long seconds. Kurt doesn't breathe. Then Enrique says, "Ask the seniors. The rest of us will be back next year; they're the ones who're never gonna get another shot at this."
Shawn puts his hand up. "I'm for it." Slowly, Dobbler sticks his hand in the air; then David and Warren and Andy -- and Kurt suddenly realizes that he is looking at all nine seniors' hands.
"Okay," says Shawn grimly, and then there is a smiling balding man coming toward them with a large trophy.
It takes the combined efforts of Shawn, Blaine, and mostly Mr. Clifton to convince the officials that yes, the Warblers do actually want to give up their title. The crowd buzzes, clearly sensing that something is happening. Kurt still can't bring himself to look at the abject misery that he knows is standing off to his right, even though he knows that everything is about to change.
"Well, ladies and gentleman!" the announcer finally says, sounding utterly nonplussed. "We have something completely unheard of in the history of the West-Central Ohio Sectionals competition. The Warblers have forfeited--"
"Respectfully, respectfully forfeited," Shawn mutters.
"--their title, which means that your very own William McKinley High School New Directions will be going on to the Regional competition!"
There is utter silence.
Then a voice shrieks on the other side of the stage, and the audience roars.
Kurt smiles to himself very, very faintly, then starts as Blaine reaches back, grabs his hand, and drags him into the front line -- right into Rachel Berry's arms.
"Kurt!" gasps Rachel, and she flings her arms around his neck. If asked, Kurt would proclaim this the most uncomfortable hug that he has ever been forced to be a part of, but in the moment -- well, maybe he hugs her back. "Thank you, thank you--" She lifts her head back for a moment so she can tell him, "Of course, we wouldn't have needed your assistance if I had sung Quinn and Santana's solos--" and then she hugs him (really, throws herself at him) again.
"He did it," Kurt says, pointing at Shawn, and to her credit, Rachel immediately detaches herself and then hugs the stuffing out of a very wary-looking Shawn. Blaine is laughing off to the side, looking all too amused by the entire situation, and Kurt narrows his eyes at him. "Rachel, sic him," he says, and Blaine says, "Please d--" and then he yelps as Rachel pounces on him.
Rachel was just the first wave of attack; the entirety of the New Directions have descended on the Warblers, and Kurt is a little terrified of his two lives mixing like this, but he doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter. Tina and Mike try to rush him all at once, and he says, "It wasn't me; they took a vote," and, apparently taking her cue from that, Santana grabs Dobbler by the surprised face and kisses him right on the mouth. Everyone is hugging the Warblers (who are, for the most part, laughing and totally welcoming it, which isn't a huge surprise, given that Santana is making her way through the cute ones and Brittany has attached herself to Adam's side) and clapping them on the backs -- and out of the corner of his eye, Kurt spots Finn shaking Blaine's hand, towering over him.
He starts to turn in that direction, danger sense going off, but then Mercedes is there, grabbing him in a fierce hug, and this is physical affection that Kurt will return with no qualms and no embarrassment. “Come on,” Mercedes says in his ear; “let's go rescue your boy.”
“He's not my boy,” Kurt protests as they break apart, but Mercedes just grabs him and drags him over, and Blaine grins when he sees them coming.
“Mercedes! We meet at last,” he says, and he goes right in for a hug with her. Finn is shooting Kurt a patently unsubtle thumbs up of approval over Blaine's shoulder and Kurt furiously waves at him to stop it – and he does, but mostly because that's the moment when Rachel launches herself into Finn's arms, saying something breathless about Bruno Mars, and kisses him.
The stage has officially become a riot, Kurt decides, watching Lauren Zizes happily try to chat up Gunther (Gunther's English isn't always tip-top; all the Twilight references may actually be working), and Artie exchange a complicated-looking hand gesture with David, and Puck give out a couple of vicious high fives. This is completely ridiculous. This cannot be real life. Quinn is smiling brighter than he's ever seen her smile, standing off to one side, watching all of them, and Sam – is right in front of Kurt. He's grinning at Kurt; it's the first time Kurt has seen him since the day that Sam hauled Azimio off him in the hallway and then got whaled on for his trouble.
“Thanks, Kurt,” he says, and Kurt gets as far as, “I didn't d--” before he's pulled into a very manly, very unexpected back-slapping hug. Then Sam moves on, and the New Directions' Betsey Johnson dresses and shirt-and-tie combos are officially scattered among the Warblers' blazers, and maybe the mingling isn't quite as world-ending as Kurt had initially panicked that it would be.
Maybe.
Backstage, Kurt grabs Blaine by the elbow and drags him off to the side, away from the glee clubs tromping off toward the backstage hallway and the door that will lead out to the lobby. “Who are you, and how have you turned my life into an after school special?!” Kurt hisses, hauling him behind the nearest curtain.
Blaine laughs; says, “Honestly, I think Shawn really deserves more of the credit--” and Kurt steps in and hugs him, hard. He doesn't mean to do it; he's just so overwhelmingly grateful for the selfless thing that 10 boys just did out there for a group of strangers and he can't find the words to express how relieved he is, despite being disappointed that this means they have to lose, and Blaine is so close in the near-darkness and he smells nice and – Kurt loses his mind a little, he must, because this was not at all his intent when he pulled Blaine back here.
Blaine gives a startled whoosh of breath but almost immediately wraps his arms around Kurt, just as tight. It is not the hips-apart, double-tap-on-the-back hasty hetero hug that Sam had laid on him. They're holding on and holding on, well past the time when it would be socially appropriate to let go. Kurt has never touched another guy like this; Blaine is lithe and warm and the planes of his back are strong under Kurt's hands. They're almost the same height (Kurt is just barely taller) and it's all too tempting to think of just bowing his head and hooking his chin over Blaine's shoulder, but he doesn't do it.
“Thank you,” Kurt says very quietly. Blaine lets the side of his head come to rest against Kurt's; a silent you're welcome.
Their chests are pressed together; Blaine can doubtless feel how hard and fast Kurt's heart is beating. If his life actually was an after school special, this is exactly when one of them would turn and a kiss would happen. Kurt doesn't know if he's ready for that; he wants it, he knows he does, but there's so much going on and that would add a whole new terrifying level of complication to his life.
Just as he has decided that he wants to find out if he's ready for it (and that he's hoping that Blaine does it, because he's been too burned too badly in the past to risk it), someone belts, “Kurt!” from somewhere nearby, and Kurt just about jumps out of his skin and Blaine starts against him, and they spring apart.
The curtain flies open and Kurt has never wanted to see Rachel Berry's face less in his entire life. “There you are; everybody's looking for you!” she says to Kurt, and then she realizes that he has sheepish-looking company. She gives Blaine a beady-eyed once over, then insists, exasperated, “You too; come on!”
Which is how Kurt winds up being dragged out of a blackout curtain alongside Blaine.
It's a good night anyway.
Kurt finds his family in the lobby. His dad hugs him fiercely while Kurt meekly says, "Hi Dad" into his shoulder, and he tells Kurt he's proud of him (because, Kurt hadn't thought about it, but of course the entire audience had been able to see him go white and then start shouting when the Warblers were announced the winners; he wonders if there will be consequences when he gets back to school tomorrow, but decides it can wait) and in the meantime, he can hear Carole laughing and introducing herself to Blaine behind them. Blaine is polite and respectful and funny and all of the things that parents love; he endears himself to Carole within the space of about five seconds.
Kurt lets Carole hug him, too, even as his dad greets Blaine and shakes his hand (and if it's a hard enough handshake to be painful, like Kurt suspects it is, Blaine never complains), and they're all just so happy to see him -- family, the glee club, even Mr. Schuester, everyone -- that Kurt almost can't believe he ever felt unappreciated and unnoticed this fall.
Blaine has to go back to Dalton with everybody else; Kurt tries to say thank you to the Warblers as a group while they wait to get on the bus. He gets sheet music and David's empty duffel bag thrown at him for his trouble, so it doesn't seem like anybody is holding an immediate grudge or accusing him of being a Jesse St. James.
Kurt can't wrap his mind around that. If he didn't know the New Directions and know what this means to them, he would be livid if someone tried to give up a title that he had helped earn.
He's grateful.
Kurt's dad and Carole take Kurt and Finn and Rachel and Mercedes out to dinner at Breadstix, and afterward, Dad drives him the two hours back to Westerville in the pickup. They don't say much, but his dad doesn't make a single complaint about listening to Broadway cast recordings and whenever Kurt glances over and sees his dad's face lit by the dashboard lights or the headlamps of an oncoming car, a little more tension that he hadn't even known was there eases out of Kurt's shoulders.
It sinks in over the course of several days that the New Directions are going to face Vocal Adrenaline at Regionals and then potentially go on to New York, and that Kurt won't be with them. It was easy to be jubilant when he was surrounded by the joy and gratitude of all of his old friends who he hadn't seen in too long; it's harder when he's deep in the throes of midterms and everyone around him is always either sleeping, studying, or in a terrible mood from too much of the latter and not enough of the former.
Blaine in particular has a tendency to push himself farther than is reasonable. When Kurt spots Blaine with his head pillowed in his arms on the library table for the third time this week, he rolls his eyes.
Cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA (which is still how Kurt thinks of him, that full name, even after a solid month and a half at Dalton) stops, too, his books under his arm, and says, “Uh, Kurt?”
Kurt hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder. “I'm going on a mission of mercy,” he says, brusquely. “See you at the meeting Thursday?”
“...Sure,” says cute Adrian Wu from his math class and the GSA, and Kurt leaves him standing there with a bemused, confused expression.
“This is a terrible habit to make,” Kurt says, looming over Blaine, and when Blaine doesn't move a muscle or make a sound, Kurt frowns. He watches him for several seconds; the slow rise and fall of Blaine's back, his one visible eye closed, the vulnerable curve of his neck – he's asleep.
By the time that Blaine starts to stir, Kurt is sitting at the table, legs neatly crossed and his world history textbook open in front of him, along with a binder that he's taking notes in. Blaine slowly lifts his head; the whole right side of his face is red and his hair is flattened. He blinks blearily at Kurt. “Hey,” he says, quizzical.
Without looking up from his studying, Kurt pushes a to-go cup of espresso across the table. “You should really stop studying here if you're just going to pass out like a sack of potatoes,” he says. “I've already disposed of no less than three separate Warblers who wanted to write on you with a Sharpie.”
“Oh my God!” groans Blaine, wrapping his hand around the coffee cup and dragging his mouth to it. “You're the best!” It's unclear whether he's talking about his near death by permanent marker or the coffee; Kurt suspects the coffee. (Kurt actually suspects that Blaine is talking to the espresso, not to Kurt.)
“I know,” says Kurt lightly as he keeps reading about Napoleon's failed invasion of Russia, but something flutters in his chest and one side of his mouth has quirked up.
He sounds much more alert after he takes a sip of the warm coffee, which he should, considering how many shots of espresso Kurt had had the student worker put in it. “Seriously,” he says, yawning. “Thank you.”
“The next time you fall asleep in here, I'm going to let Wes and Jonathan write all over your face,” Kurt warns, and Blaine laughs quietly, pulling one of his books in toward himself.
“I would probably deserve that,” he says, flipping to a particular page. Almost immediately, he is frowning at it. After a second, he finishes: “One of the first things I learned here is not to fall asleep in public places. It'd serve me right.”
Kurt shoots a sidelong look at Blaine, then at the French textbook that he seems to be trying to light on fire with the power of his mind. He sighs and closes his own book. “As-tu besoin d'aide?”
Blaine blinks tiredly, then looks up at him. “What?”
“L'aide,” he says, impatient. “Do you need it.”
He clearly considers it for a couple seconds, then he says, “No; nah. I'm good. Thanks, though.”
Five minutes later, Kurt says, without looking up, “You need to either accept my offer or stop sighing at your textbook like it broke your heart and left you in San Francisco.”
“Do you really know this stuff?” Blaine asks, canting his book toward Kurt. “I mean, you're only in French II, right?”
“And you're somehow in French III,” Kurt retorts, taking a quick glance over the page's lesson about the subjunctive case, “which is a similarly unsuitable placing.”
“--Hey,” Blaine protests, scrubbing his eyes.
“Fourteen and a half minute Céline medley,” he reminds him ruthlessly, giving her name its proper pronunciation. “I've been studying the French language and culture since sixth grade.”
“Paris Fashion Week?” Blaine asks, shrewd.
“It's a dream,” Kurt admits. “Now, if you're too proud to accept help--”
He frowns at him. “I'm not,” Blaine says, borderline crabby, and he shoves his chair closer to Kurt's with a scrape that's loud enough that the librarian shushes them. Kurt decides not to take his sour mood personally. He actually finds it kind of funny. One so rarely sees Blaine outside the context of his general easygoing good-guy geniality that Kurt can't help but get a perverse kick out of ruffling his sleep-deprived feathers. He leans in to look at the book.
“Mais c'est quoi, ton problème?” Kurt asks, unimpressed, his voice quieter after the librarian's reprimand. Their heads are bent together over the book. “The subjunctive case is child's play.”
Blaine grumbles, entirely in French, that nobody likes a smug tout savoir.
Before he really thinks about what he's saying (or about how atrocious Blaine's attempt at translating an English phrase into French was), Kurt points out, “You do,” and he catches Blaine swiftly smiling despite himself.
“Peut-être,” Blaine allows, voice warm even as he pulls a face, and their hands brush when Kurt reaches for his pencil.
“You really want to sing this in the winter concert?”
Kurt had had to ask.
Now he's being whirled around the choir room in a crude simulation of a waltz; crude because the dance break is not even close to being in three-quarter time. This is completely silly and ridiculous and over the top – and Kurt loves every absurd dramatic second of it. As badly as he has wanted it, has dreamed of dancing with a handsome boy for years, Kurt gave up on the idea around the same time that he gave up on the idea that he could convince Finn Hudson that what he really wanted was to date men. Logically, Kurt had known that having a boy sing to and dance with him would eventually be a possibility. He's getting out of Ohio if it kills him, and in New York or Los Angeles or London, there will be other boys who spent lonely teenage years swaying across their bedroom floors alone, practicing for the day when they can finally hold a dance partner.
An abstract "it will happen some day" is very different than a concrete "it is happening right now." Blaine's eyes are unfailingly on Kurt's even as they spin together, their hands clasped and Blaine's other hand on Kurt's waist feeling like it burns through layers of clothing, and Kurt almost misses his next cue because he can't stop smiling. It's desperately difficult to concentrate when he's this giddy, and this on the edge of a laugh.
“I simply must go,” he sings, tearing himself out of Blaine's arms and stalking away across the floor.
“But baby, it's cold outside,” Blaine croons from behind him.
“The answer is no.” Kurt turns around and keeps walking backward, shaking his finger no, no, no at Blaine, who's coming on strong, grinning.
“But baby, it's cold outside,” he pleads, reaching out to Kurt, who lets him almost come within arm's reach before he swings away, his nose in the air.
“This welcome has been,” (“How lucky that you dropped in”), “so nice and warm,” Kurt sings, reaching the piano and letting himself glance back at Blaine.
“Look out the window at that storm!” Blaine points a dramatic finger, arm outstretched and elbow locked, at the window.
The view is sunny.
Kurt misses his next cue because he's hoisting himself up to sit on the piano and he is, Gaga help him, giggling. “Gosh,” Blaine sings, and he's coming closer, “your lips look delicious.” He's looking right at Kurt's mouth, color slowly rising into his face, and Kurt clutches at the edge of the piano and promptly forgets the line about his brother.
“Waves upon a tropical shore.” Blaine reaches out to Kurt, who abruptly realizes that he has been staring at Blaine; at his perfect hair and his dark eyes and the way his shoulders flex under his blazer as he moves.
Kurt hurriedly puts a hand on Blaine's shoulder and uses it as leverage to throw himself off the piano and spin away. “My maiden aunt's mind is vicious,” he sings, unsure of when this stopped being a game and started feeling real.
“Oooh, your lips are delicious.” Blaine holds out his hand again, patient, and this time, Kurt hesitantly takes it.
“But maybe just a cigarette more...” Blaine's hand is warm and strong, rough with guitar calluses, and his fingers stroke Kurt's wrist and a rush of heat overwhelms him and he almost, almost steps in instead of away. But instead, he yanks his hand back and backs off, putting the piano between them; Blaine skips his line about a blizzard and looks stricken, like he thinks Kurt is actually running from him, and he opens his mouth off-beat--
“I've gotta get home,” Kurt sings, aiming a tiny smile at him, leaning on the piano, and Blaine recovers.
“Baby, you'd freeze out there,” he murmurs, and Kurt has spent a year mocking Finn and Rachel for stalking each other around the piano during duets, but there is something mesmerizing about watching Blaine come around the piano after him.
“Say, lend me a coat,” Kurt drawls, letting Blaine catch up and then tugging at the lapel of his blazer, letting his palm brush Blaine's chest. Blaine twitches under his hand and he smiles, bright and immediate, and he misses the first couple words in his next line because he's mouthing 'New Kid' at Kurt.
“--your knees out there.” Blaine actually sinks down and takes several steps after him on his knees, and Kurt laughs, his fingers over his mouth.
“You've really been grand,” he sings, extending his hand to Blaine to help him back onto his feet.
Blaine bounds up and presses Kurt's hand to his heart. His voice rings out on, “I thrill when you touch my hand!”
Kurt's own heart is pounding. He pulls his arm back and makes an imperious dismissive gesture at Blaine, his head held high. “But don't you see?”
“How can you do this thing to me?” Kurt would almost believe the anguish in Blaine's voice as he serenades – except that there's a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
“There's bound to be talk tomorrow--”
“Think of my lifelong sorrow--”
“At least there will be plenty implied...” Kurt gives up on any pretense of being on the run. They're just standing and singing to each other; close enough that he can smell Blaine's faint cologne, close enough that he could lift a hand at his side without moving his arm, and touch Blaine.
“If you got pneumonia and died,” Blaine sings to him, and he's looking uncharacteristically jittery.
Kurt furrows his eyebrows at him; breathless: “I really can't stay...”
“Get over that hold out!” Blaine nearly sings over him and Kurt opens his mouth to hit the iconic last notes, but the music swells instead, a strangely-placed break, and Blaine says, “Kurt, I--” in a choked voice that is just about the least suave, least smooth thing that Kurt has ever heard.
Then there are loud voices and stomping footsteps from just outside and he hurriedly steps backward, and four or five Warblers come in together. They're arguing about a football game or a videogame or something equally pointless; Wes lifts his head as the last few notes of “Baby, It's Cold Outside” play over the sound system and he looks between the two of them and seems to realize what has been interrupted, his eyebrows rising, but it's way too late. Kurt grabs his blazer off the piano and shrugs into it, taking a seat. He can feel Blaine's eyes on him for several long seconds before Blaine turns his back to pull the CD out of the stereo system.
Kurt has been back from Christmas vacation for three days and is in the middle of a very angry run through his nightly routine, listening to "No Good Deed" from Wicked on repeat with his computer speakers cranked all the way up, when someone bangs on his door hard enough to be heard above the music; hard enough that he starts and knocks over an open bottle of toner. Hissing, Kurt grabs for the bottle and sets it upright, but too late to stop a puddle from pooling. He glares at his desk, then grabs a roll of paper towels – and someone is pounding on the door, and Kurt storms across the floor and throws the door open.
He and Blaine stare at each other for several long seconds.
"One more disaster I can add to my generous supply!" Elphaba belts out of Kurt's computer speakers.
All at once: “I'm sorry, I was an epic jerk,” says Blaine, who is actually dripping with cold water, enough that he is soaking wet spots into the carpet in the hall. He is talking faster than Kurt has ever heard him. “I don't know if you realize this, but I'm crazy about you, Kurt, and sometimes it makes me crazy, which is something that never happens to me; of course you should go out with that guy from the GSA if you like h--”
“Stop,” says Kurt, standing there with his arms folded over his chest and the roll of paper towels clutched tightly in one hand, and Blaine immediately shuts his mouth. “Go back.”
“I'm – sorry I was a jerk?” Blaine says, warily, like he's not entirely sure this is what Kurt means; like he doesn't know what to expect.
Carefully controlling the upward pitch that his voice wants to rise into, Kurt shakes his head and says, “After that.”
He sounds resigned. “You should go out with Adrian Wu.”
Kurt twirls his finger to say back, back.
“... I'm crazy about you?” He asks it hesitantly but Kurt can see the bare hope in his face, and Kurt can't help it anymore; he drops the roll of paper towels and his hands flash out to fist in the lapels of Blaine's drenched hoodie, and Blaine's face crumples in relief as he grabs Kurt's waist. His hands are cold and damp even through Kurt's shirt and he doesn't care. Even Kurt himself doesn't know why he's ceaselessly nodding, whether he's silently confirming to Blaine that that was what he wanted to hear repeated or he's telling him that he feels the same way; maybe both. He stops nodding so they can rest their foreheads together and Blaine cups his cold hands on either side of Kurt's neck, just inches below cradling his jaw, and they breathe shakily, out of sync with each other. Kurt's fingers are actually cramping from the strength of his grip on Blaine's sweatshirt.
“I really am sorry,” Blaine murmurs, his voice husky.
“I was never actually going to go out with Adrian, for the record,” Kurt says, and he feels Blaine start against him.
“Wh--”
“It was the principle of the thing,” Kurt tells him firmly, and he would scowl if he wasn't so nervous and thrilled at the same time; “You were being ridiculous,” and Blaine is just starting to ruefully laugh when Kurt tilts his face toward him, hesitant about the mechanics but not about his intentions. Blaine's laugh cuts off immediately and slowly, haltingly, they angle in until finally
(finally)
their lips brush. It's the faintest of pressure, featherlight and chaste and careful, and it is nothing like Kurt's two kisses that never counted. Blaine's mouth is soft and gentle and Kurt decides on the spot that this is the #1 perfect first kiss ever and that no one can convince him otherwise. Incongruously, all he can think of is how Anne Hathaway insisted in The Princess Diary that when she kissed her true love, her foot would pop up behind her, the way that heroines used to kiss in old black and white movies, and now he is comparing himself to a heroine, wonderful -- but he suddenly totally gets it.
(But he is not doing it.)
When Blaine pulls away, he doesn't really pull away; he just separates their mouths by a hair's breadth and says, “I've wanted to do that forever,” his breath ghosting across Kurt's lips. He sounds downright giddy. Kurt's eyes are still shut.
“Why didn't you?” he asks, knowing his voice has gone breathy and not caring.
“You'd been through so much crap, you know?” Blaine says. “You came to me for help and then I wanted to give you a chance to settle in here and figure out what you wanted; trying to make some move when I first met you would have been – gross.”
Kurt opens his eyes and makes a tch sound, tongue against his teeth, and he leans back enough that Blaine's face comes into focus rather than being a too-close blur. Wry: “Thanks.”
“That's not what I mean,” Blaine says, serious, looking right into his eyes, and it should be cheesy but it somehow isn't, and Kurt lets himself sway into him a little bit. And then Blaine ruins it by opening his mouth and starting to talk very fast again. “I wanted to just grab your face and kiss you, but then I thought that was a really bad idea because somebody's done that to you before and I wanted to make sure you had a choice--”
“Blaine,” says Kurt, more patiently than this abject stupidity deserves (though it is abject stupidity that makes him want to hug Blaine until he can't breathe, so it's acceptable). “You just showed up at my room looking like Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice.” Blaine glances down at himself, white dress shirt translucent and plastered to his body under his hoodie, and then laughs. Kurt finishes: “You couldn't be Karofsky if you tried.” Blaine cracks a completely goofy smile.
Several doors down, a lock clicks open; Omid steps out of his room, wearing a jacket with the hood up. His eyes hold on the two of them for a minute (Kurt clinging to Blaine's sweatshirt, Blaine soaked and smiling and cupping Kurt's face in his hands) and then he slides back into his room – as if they can't see him – and shuts the door.
Kurt makes a disbelieving, amused sound, shutting his eyes, and Blaine huffs a laugh. “I should--” says Blaine, starting to draw away, and Kurt steps backward and drags Blaine into his room with him; Blaine is shivering under his hands, and probably not, Kurt abruptly realizes, because they just kissed.
“I can't believe you went outside like this,” Kurt says, stepping away and muting the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked, and he and Blaine are plunged into sudden silence. He goes rummaging through the drawer that he uses for linens. It's easier to stop the song that is bubbling up in his throat, and threatening to spill out of his mouth, if he keeps his hands busy. “Did you come all the way from the library?”
“Wait, I thought I was Mr. Darcy and it was romantic,” Blaine protests, his teeth chattering, and Kurt throws a towel over his head. He pulls it around himself with grateful fervor, rubbing his own arms. He is dripping all over Kurt's throw rug.
“Mr. Darcy went swimming in slow motion at the height of the English summer,” Kurt says, opening and closing more drawers. “You went outside in the fresh December freezing rain in Ohio. Wear these.” He hands Blaine the pile of clothing that he has collected, a pair of dry socks on top.
“Wha--” says Blaine, and Kurt steps out into the hall and closes the door on him. He leans back against it, his eyes closed, and he allows himself to open his mouth in shock and then finally begin to smile. The front of his T-shirt is spotted with cold rainwater.
He cracks an eye when he hears a sound. Omid trudges down the hall, shooting Kurt an unreadable look, and then, right as he passes, he holds up his fist. Kurt breathes out silently and bumps their knuckles together.
“Okay,” says Blaine's muffled voice. “I'm decent.” When Kurt swings the door open, they look at each other for a couple of seconds, then Blaine half-smiles and spreads his arms, as if to embrace the awkward and say, well, what do you think? He's wearing a loose pair of yoga pants with a striped henley that strains just a little across his chest, and one of Kurt's oversized cable-knit cardigans. His hair is all zany damp curls.
He looks obscenely good, Kurt decides, but he might just feel that way because he recognizes those clothes as his and there is something possessive in it.
“It's an improvement.” Kurt's mouth curves into a lopsided smile and Blaine smiles back, his face soft -- then he blinks at him as Kurt crosses to his closet. “You need to get out,” Kurt says, plucking a jacket out of the closet and holding it out by the shoulders.
“--What?”
Kurt shakes the jacket impatiently. It is Armani; shearling-lined with a herringbone pattern, one of his favorite old waterproof, warm standards. “Curfew is in three and a half minutes.”
Blaine stares at him for a second, then he says a profound, “Crap,” and he puts his arm through the first sleeve and Kurt hurriedly helps him with the other arm, then pushes it up over his shoulders and leaves him to settle it as he goes back into his closet and comes out with a pair of yellow canvas boots.
Blaine shoots the yellow boots a very amused look, but he steps into them and lets Kurt wind a scarf around his neck. Then he grabs Kurt's hands, preventing him from compulsively adding any more layers. “Come on a real date with me,” appeals Blaine. “Friday night, food, not in the dining hall.”
“Okay,” Kurt agrees breathlessly, and Blaine leans in and kisses him again; still close-mouthed but harder this time, less like Kurt might break if he touches him. Kurt immediately, fiercely presses into it and can feel Blaine's stubble, and he's dimly grateful that Blaine is still holding his hands because he thinks they would be fluttering uselessly otherwise. Blaine wrenches himself away and pulls up the hood of his borrowed coat, and before Kurt can give the side-eye to the ridiculous full effect of the outfit, Blaine is saying, “Bye” with a brilliant smile and flinging the door open.
Kurt is left with sudden silence and a neat pile of soggy shoes and clothing on his floor. He climbs up onto his bed and pulls the window treatment aside to peer outside; approximately seven seconds later, a figure in an Armani coat dashes across the quad, and Kurt presses his forehead to the window pane with his eyes closed.
That, he thinks, smiling so hard that it actually physically hurts, was his first real kiss.
When his iPhone buzzes, he lunges for it.
fyi you're never getting these boots back, says the text, and Kurt is still laughing (and shaking his head, because hell yes he is getting them back) when the phone rings and he picks it up.
"Seriously," says Blaine's voice. "These are awesome. Plus, Jonathan just totally stole them."
"Get Jonathan's unworthy feet out of my boots," Kurt orders, and it's okay if he thuds onto his back in bed and keeps smiling like he just got out of the loony bin, because there's no one here to see it.
"But my feet are worthy?" Blaine prompts, and Kurt doesn't have to be in the same building to know that he's grinning from ear to ear. Kurt can hear it in his voice.
They talk for three hours, first while Kurt pulls his shit together and hangs up wet wrinkly clothes to dry, and then while he pretends he's skimming the reading for tomorrow's American literature quiz on the Beats but he's actually just letting Blaine tell him all the things he likes about Kurt until he is pretty sure his skin is never going to fade back to its natural color ever again.
Kurt would never wear an ugly red hoodie outside of the sanctity of his room, but just the same, he wonders if Blaine will notice if he keeps it for a while.
On Monday, Kurt gives a presentation about On the Road and the class applauds politely; no one calls him Bummel after he says the phrase “bum a ride.” After school, Shawn makes the Warblers run "Somewhere Only We Know" until even Kurt deigns to collapse on the undoubtedly filthy chorus room floor with the rest of the tenors, using his boyfriend's chest as a pillow, and said boyfriend – possibly delirious with dance-exhaustion – puts an arm around him and starts crooning, "baby, you can light my fire." Kurt snorts at him and goes along with the chorus of groans that the song choice earns Blaine, but he not so secretly loves it.
On Tuesday, half the Warblers and several of their girlfriends squeeze into the lounge on Kurt's floor along with most of his hallmates, and they all shout at the American Idol finale.
On Wednesday, Kurt helps finalize poster designs for Pride Week and he talks to his dad for a half an hour, and Carole mentions the idea of driving down to spend the day in Columbus this weekend.
On Thursday, Mercedes sends a flurry of texts during lunch, demanding to know when he's coming home next and whether he's bringing Blaine. Kurt's old jealousy barely even twinges when she mentions that Vocal Adrenaline stopped by McKinley this morning for an intimidation session.
He texts back: I certainly hope you schooled their asses, and Mercedes responds: you know it baby. Come hell or high water, the New Directions are going to Nationals in New York this year.
On Friday, Kurt goes to his locker an hour early. By the time the bell rings for class, every square inch of metal is covered by magazine cut-outs and song lyrics and a mirror attached by magnets and cards and, most of all, photographs; his dad and Carole on their wedding day, Blaine's framed class picture, Mercedes and Tina with their arms around each other's necks and Finn photobombing the background, most of the New Directions flushed and beaming after Sectionals (behind the group, Noah Puckerman is drinking something out of a Nalgene bottle that probably broke the terms of his probation), a bunch of hallmates piled up on the spare bed in Kurt's room, Jonathan staring at the camera while wearing a hat made of balloons, Blaine and David and Shawn roaring with laughter at a terrible joke.
Just below Blaine's class picture, there's a Google map with a handwritten note. Someone has drawn a stick figure in a blue blazer alongside an arrow pointing directly to the city of Los Angeles, and the note says, in Blaine's horrendous illegible scrawl: Nationals 2012.
Kurt steps back to admire his handiwork, and he smiles to himself in satisfaction, and he closes the locker door.
French translations:
As-tu besoin d'aide? - Do you need help?
Mais c'est quoi, ton problème? - Really, what's the problem?
Tout savoir - Ridiculous attempt at the English phrase “know it all”; seriously, it is terrible. It literally means “all know.” Blaine is shit at French, you guys.
Peut-être - Maybe
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