Kurt/Blaine: Precipice (3/?)
Title: Precipice (3/?)
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13 overall.
Word Count: ~3400
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Homophobic language, bullying
Summary: Blaine is a new student at McKinley. Kurt is the star of the Cheerios. When Kurt is failing AP Chemistry, Coach Sylvester hires Blaine to tutor Kurt in order to ensure that he earns a grade that will allow him to stay on the squad. What will happen when the supposed nerd and the head cheerleader are forced to spend time together?
A/N: I started planning this fic when the very first Nerd!Blaine/Cheerio!Kurt gifset started floating around Tumblr. I've very much put my own spin on this, taking plenty of liberties especially when it comes to the definition of the word nerd. I hope you all enjoy this fic! <3 A million thanks to my wonderful beta
gleekto. :D
Maybe someday it’ll actually be a better day.
It doesn’t have the some punch as the other mantra, the one that feels better rolling over the tongue or across brainwaves, but this one is more honest. He wishes it was something he could dismiss as a proponent of the doomsday attitude he usually repels, but honestly, it’s just true. And it has been for a long time.
The shock of the slushy is still fresh, his muscles stuck, eyes clamped shut, his affected skin chilled to the point of numbness, his unaffected skin riddled with goosebumps.
“Blaine, are you-?” a voice asks.
“I’m fine,” he says, wiping the purple-he hates the smell of the grape ones-slush from his eyes to find Mike staring back at him.
“Do you need-?”
“I’m fine,” he repeats, taking a step away before pausing and looking up at Mike, at one of the few true friends he can say he’s earned since transferring to McKinley. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. I don’t want you to be late to class.”
“I really wouldn’t mind,” Mike says. The look on his face is so… concerned. Blaine’s stomach churns. “But if you’re sure you’re okay.”
Of course he isn’t okay. He’s covered in sugary chunks of ice, his clothes are stained, his ego has been pounded to a bloody pulp, his brain is exhausted. But, Mike doesn’t want to hear about that. Mike has probably been there before, so he knows what it’s like to be in this position. To feel the chill of humility that’s even colder than the sticky flecks of ice.
“I’m fine,” he lies. He covers it with a smile that has to look ridiculous with gobs of purple inching down his face, but he leaves before Mike can realize just how off of a physical response that was.
Blaine’s heart is thudding erratically and he can’t help but press a hand against it, pushing into his ribs until it feels like enough to counter the throbbing. Slushying is so… terrible. Awful. Bullying in a way that to Blaine feels worse than fists and aggressively placed toes.
Beatings come and go quickly, usually someplace out of the way where no one else will see lest the attacker be caught. Slushies, however, seem to be as commonplace as couples holding hands, as fists being bumped, as nods of acknowledgement being executed with careful tips of the chin. No one cares about the slushies. They leave no visible scars-unless clothing counts and Blaine can’t help but think that it most certainly should-or bruises, so they’re allowed alongside any other interaction between students.
If he was still at Dalton, this wouldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t be going through this three times a week, wouldn’t be continually subjected to acts of terror in any way shape or form. But he’s not at Dalton anymore.
He pushes open the door to the locker room and surveys his surroundings. He’s alone, or at least he appears to be. Honestly, that’s good enough for him at the moment. Usually, the space is open for him during these times so he can get himself ready for the world again without further bouts of taunting.
Still feeling the bits of ice trailing down his skin, he opens his locker and promptly pounds a fist against the outside of the adjacent one.
Of course.
Of course.
As if things aren’t bad enough, he forgot to bring a new bottle of gel to school. Now he not only has to deal with the constant prickle of silent scrutiny that surrounds him when he ends the day in different clothes than he starts in, but he also has to do it with hair unlike the school has ever seen him don.
Well, except for one person.
Kurt has seen him this way. And had promptly commented on the fact that his hair was curly. Clearly the rest of Blaine’s day will be going the same way.
He grabs the bag of clean clothes from his locker, exchanges his dress shoes for flip flops, and heads for the showers. The water is hot, reddening his skin in angry blotches where it hits his body the most fiercely. The burn is good, though. It counteracts the frigidity and makes him feel normal again. He takes a hot shower every morning. What he doesn’t do every day is get doused in slushy ice.
Blaine pauses mid-shower, staring at the cream-colored tiles before him. They’re such a contrast from the pristine white of the showers at Dalton. Reaching out a hand that shakes just a little, he touches the tips of his fingers to one. The pads of his index and middle fingers slide down the tiles, dipping into rivets of grout and memorizing the almost silky feeling of the porcelain. It’s appropriate that the tiles are a bastardized version of white because that's exactly what McKinley is-a bastardized version of Dalton.
Dalton is everything a school should be. It’s academically rigorous with a supportive staff and an endlessly safe atmosphere. McKinley is cold and seems to be filled with teachers interested in merely getting by instead of inspiring, teaching the bare minimum instead of encouraging students to learn more, go above and beyond. After the ‘incident,’ Dalton had become everything Blaine needed. But over the summer, his dad had taken a job at a hospital in Lima and everything had changed. He couldn’t commute to Westerville every day to attend Dalton and they hadn’t had boarders since the 1920s. It had been decided without his consent that he would attend McKinley High School and he’d made the best of it because that was what he did. He tried.
And he’s trying every day.
But in moments like this, he’s just tired of trying. He’s exhausted with putting on a big smile every morning, of pretending to be okay after getting a punch to the face by a gas station beverage. He shuts off the spray with a harsh push of his palm and rakes his fingers through his hair, spraying water around the stall, the pitterpatter of falling droplets creating the only sound in the otherwise silent locker room.
As soon as a slightly scratchy yet undeniably bleached and clean towel has been scrubbed over every inch of his body and some deodorant has been rubbed under his arms, he grabs the bag hanging from one of the nearby towel hooks and starts to redress piece by piece: clean boxer briefs, clean jeans, clean button-up, clean sweater, clean bowtie. Everything is clean except his shoes, and he grabs his dampened towel to take back with him along with his stained clothes to wipe his shoes clean of purple stickiness. With hurried movements he jerks open his locker, preparing to shove the bag of his morning clothes inside and get on with his day, but something is in the way.
A thump sounds as he pushes the bag inside, keeping it from being able to slide all the way in. He can feel his brow furrow before he’s even acutely aware of his confusion, and he pulls the bag out so he can see what the offending item is.
Sitting at the bottom of his locker is a bottle of hair gel.
“What?” he asks, reaching for it and turning it in his hand to read the label.
It’s not his usual brand. Actually, it’s a brand he’s never even heard of, but from the structure of the bottle and the style of the label, it’s obvious that it’s decent. Expensive, even.
Without giving the inside of his locker another look, he shoves the bag inside and heads for the mirrors. After squirting a healthy amount of the gel into his hand, he sets the bottle on the edge of the sink, not taking his eyes off of his reflection as he works the gel through his hair.
It’s not strong enough to do his usual style, but it’ll keep his hair from puffing up, from becoming completely out of control. He smiles at his reflection, knowing that he’ll probably get ribbed at least a little for the curliness of his locks but not as badly as he would have otherwise when something hits him.
He has no idea where the gel came from.
What if it has bleach mixed in? Or Nair?
He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles aching as they turn white from the tightness of his hold. How could he be so stupid? What in the hell had he been thinking? That some person just did this out of the goodness of their hearts? At Dalton, maybe, but not here. The only person who could have done it here is Mike. Mike knew that Blaine had run out of hair gel, had been next to him after PE when he’d made a comment about needing to buy more. But of course it wasn’t Mike. It was someone else. The same kind of someone who thrice-weekly douses him with a slushy, who calls him a faggot and a homo as if calling attention to his sexuality should be offensive somehow.
The bell rings as he’s waiting for his scalp to start tingling or burning, warning him that something terrible is about to happen. He can’t miss AP Bio. Forced to leave the fate of his hair up to chance, he quickly swipes the remaining muck from his shoes, and heads to class.
Every chance he gets, he looks in a reflective surface and by the time two periods have passed, he’s fairly certain that the hair gel actually hadn’t been tainted. Maybe it had been Mike. It makes him feel relieved that his hair isn’t going to be falling out or turning blond on him while he sits through his classes, but despite that, all afternoon long he can feel eyes on him. He’s painfully aware of every ringlet as it dries, can feel it springing up, mocking him with its unruliness. Nerves twist in his limbs, making his hands twitch and his legs want nothing more than to run. By the time the final bell rings, he’s fighting the urge to full-on sprint from the building.
Only once he’s in his car does he relax. His back molds into the seat, his skull thunks back against the headrest. He’s finally safe, is somewhere familiar. The smell is his car is almost as homey as his house.
Without looking, he slides his key effortlessly into the ignition and heads for home.
The day prior-Monday-Blaine had found a note in his locker much like he had the Thursday before. The handwriting was instantly recognizable. Neat. Careful. Kurt’s.
It had said that he would be at Blaine’s house on Tuesday night at seven for another tutoring session. If Kurt would have deigned to speak to Blaine at school, Blaine would have been able to tell him that his dad is having a group of guys from the hospital over to play poker, so it honestly isn’t the best time for a tutoring session, but Kurt hadn’t, so Blaine is prepared for Kurt to come over.
After their first session, Blaine had felt initially confused but then ecstatic. The entire time, he’d been sure that Kurt was ignoring him, but he hadn’t been. He had done so well on the worksheet Blaine made for him, had clearly understood all of the concepts Blaine had carefully covered. It had been about six months since he’d last tutored someone and he's glad to know that he hasn’t lost his touch.
As soon as Blaine gets home, he heads for the bathroom. He gels his hair with the right product, slicking it down and combing through it until it’s under control again. With a smile at his reflection, the one that finally looks like him again, he leaves, flicking off the light and hurrying down the stairs to complete his usual routine before his dad’s friends start showing up.
His homework is completed with relative ease, his dinner consumed as he reads through his AP Bio textbook. He tells his mother believable lies about his day. She never notices that he sometimes goes to school in one set of clothes and comes home in another because she’s usually not home for one or the other. While he does his homework, she reads something on her iPad and by the time his dad comes home with a flurry of other voices in his wake, it’s almost time for Kurt to arrive.
Poker nights at the Anderson house are always an ordeal. There’s a game in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, everything set up tournament style until they’re all gathered around the massive dining room table for the final match. It involves a lot of loud voices and swearing and a good half of his parents’ liquor cabinet being emptied, but it doesn’t happen often so Blaine’s mom doesn’t seem to mind.
The guys are already in full swing when the bell rings and Blaine rushes to open the door. Kurt is looking back at the packed driveway with a deep, worried crease between his eyebrows when Blaine greets him.
“What’s going on?” Kurt asks, fingertips clutching onto the strap of his messenger bag, his eyes still glued on the driveway.
“One of my dad’s quarterly poker nights,” Blaine explains. Kurt’s shoulders lower just a bit and he finally looks at Blaine, his eyes sweeping up to Blaine’s hairline and back to his eyes before stepping inside. “We’re going to have to go upstairs. They kind of take over the whole first floor.”
Kurt sneaks a peek into the living room, his lips set into a firm line before he follows Blaine toward the stairs. When they reach their destination, Kurt freezes at the threshold.
“Your bedroom?” he asks. Blaine turns, already picking up the materials from his dresser, and gives Kurt a questioning look. “Do we have to do this in here?”
“Unless you’d rather share a table with scotch-drinking medical professionals, yes we do,” Blaine says. “I know it isn’t ideal, but you didn’t exactly give me an option as to when we were meeting next.” Blaine pulls over a chair from beside the window and puts it near the bench at the foot of his bed. He gestures toward it before settling himself in on the mattress, getting his materials organized on the bench while he waits for Kurt to join him.
He doesn’t, though. Blaine looks up and finds Kurt walking around his bedroom, studying the pictures on the walls, inspecting the knick-knacks. Blaine tries to ignore the obvious scrutiny and busies himself with getting his borrowed textbook to the right page.
Finally, when Kurt has obviously had his fill of snooping, he sits down in the leather chair and gives the room one last look before getting out his own things.
“Your room isn’t what I expected,” Kurt admits as he uncaps his pen. The comment makes Blaine’s eyes open wider as he raises his gaze to meet Kurt’s.
“You’d thought about my bedroom?” he asks without thinking, his face immediately breaking out in an embarrassed flush. Kurt rolls his eyes.
“As if I give you and your life any more thought than is expressly necessary,” he retorts, scribbling something down at the top of his legal pad with a sigh.
Blaine wants to push the subject but decides against it. It won’t do any good, after all, and it’s not like it really means anything anyway. He can’t help but give his room a quick once-over, wondering what about it was so surprising to Kurt. Had he been expecting a chemistry set? Stacks of well-worn textbooks? A dry erase board covered with scribbled equations? Comic books? Action figures? He’s curious to say the least but Kurt is peeking at the page number of the book laid out before him on the bed and he knows that he needs to let it go and move on.
“Well, last week you did really well on the sheet I gave you,” Blaine says proudly, pulling the paper from where he has it neatly tucked away inside the back cover of the book and holding it out for Kurt to see. Kurt doesn’t look at it. “You got all of the answers right, so we’ll continue going over things in the same way.”
Kurt sighs and gives the legal pad a few aggressive flicks with the end of his pen.
“Yes,” he says, the tone of his voice a blistering deadpan that sends a flash of angry heat through Blaine's entire body. “You’re such a great teacher. You helped me so much.”
“What is your problem with me, Kurt?” Blaine asks, nostrils flaring as he slaps the paper down on top of the textbook. “I’ve never been anything other than nice to you. I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” Kurt grits out, every word emphasized with dramatic pauses between each one.
“Then why are you failing?” Blaine challenges, raising an eyebrow at him and waiting for Kurt’s next move. Kurt stares icily him and crosses one long red-sheathed leg over the other.
“What are we working on today?” he asks.
Blaine flexes his fingers and shakes his head before flipping back to the first page. If Kurt wants to play dirty, he can roll in the mud with the best of them.
“Chapter One,” he responds.
“Fine.”
“Great. So, we’ll start with pure substances,” Blaine says.
And with that, they slip right back into the same routine they’d found themselves last week. Blaine talks and Kurt pretends to ignore him. Once they’ve gone through the chapter in detail, Blaine gives Kurt a worksheet which Kurt answers with complete accuracy before leaving without a word. Blaine doesn’t bother following after him this time.
Blaine tries not to think about it too much, because honestly it doesn’t matter. He’s being paid to tutor Kurt and given Kurt’s performance on his assessments, he’s doing his job. If Kurt winds up failing the semester, it won’t be his fault. He would worry that it was a problem with test anxiety or something, but given the fact that Kurt is in National Honor Society and apparently hasn’t had a problem earning anything less than an A in the past, it isn’t likely.
He’s walking down the hallway the next day, eyes scanning for Hank Davies-or anyone else with a slushy in hand-when someone starts walking beside him. Blaine looks up and smiles when he sees who it is.
“Hey,” he greets. “Thanks for yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
“For the gel in my gym locker. You were a real lifesaver,” Blaine laughs, pointing to his head. “The school is not ready to see this completely untamed.”
“I didn’t put anything in your locker,” Mike says.
“You didn’t?” Mike shakes his head. Blaine can feel confusion seep into his brain, permeating every inch until he actually freezes in the middle of the hallway. Mike stops too, turning to face him. “If you didn’t, who did?”
“I have no idea. Someone nice?” Mike says. Blaine scoffs, reeling in the urge to say that he can’t think of a single other guy in the school who would be thoughtful and kind enough to do something like that.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Blaine says, shaking his head to dislodge the feeling of heavy bewilderment from his psyche. “Well, this is me.”
“I’ll see you in rehearsal later,” Mike replies before leaving. Blaine sighs and turns, getting ready to enter his AP Bio classroom, but his eyes drifts into the chemistry room next door just in time to see Kurt slide into his seat at the long lab table at the back of the room next to Finn Hudson.
Pairings: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13 overall.
Word Count: ~3400
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Homophobic language, bullying
Summary: Blaine is a new student at McKinley. Kurt is the star of the Cheerios. When Kurt is failing AP Chemistry, Coach Sylvester hires Blaine to tutor Kurt in order to ensure that he earns a grade that will allow him to stay on the squad. What will happen when the supposed nerd and the head cheerleader are forced to spend time together?
A/N: I started planning this fic when the very first Nerd!Blaine/Cheerio!Kurt gifset started floating around Tumblr. I've very much put my own spin on this, taking plenty of liberties especially when it comes to the definition of the word nerd. I hope you all enjoy this fic! <3 A million thanks to my wonderful beta
gleekto. :D
Maybe someday it’ll actually be a better day.
It doesn’t have the some punch as the other mantra, the one that feels better rolling over the tongue or across brainwaves, but this one is more honest. He wishes it was something he could dismiss as a proponent of the doomsday attitude he usually repels, but honestly, it’s just true. And it has been for a long time.
The shock of the slushy is still fresh, his muscles stuck, eyes clamped shut, his affected skin chilled to the point of numbness, his unaffected skin riddled with goosebumps.
“Blaine, are you-?” a voice asks.
“I’m fine,” he says, wiping the purple-he hates the smell of the grape ones-slush from his eyes to find Mike staring back at him.
“Do you need-?”
“I’m fine,” he repeats, taking a step away before pausing and looking up at Mike, at one of the few true friends he can say he’s earned since transferring to McKinley. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. I don’t want you to be late to class.”
“I really wouldn’t mind,” Mike says. The look on his face is so… concerned. Blaine’s stomach churns. “But if you’re sure you’re okay.”
Of course he isn’t okay. He’s covered in sugary chunks of ice, his clothes are stained, his ego has been pounded to a bloody pulp, his brain is exhausted. But, Mike doesn’t want to hear about that. Mike has probably been there before, so he knows what it’s like to be in this position. To feel the chill of humility that’s even colder than the sticky flecks of ice.
“I’m fine,” he lies. He covers it with a smile that has to look ridiculous with gobs of purple inching down his face, but he leaves before Mike can realize just how off of a physical response that was.
Blaine’s heart is thudding erratically and he can’t help but press a hand against it, pushing into his ribs until it feels like enough to counter the throbbing. Slushying is so… terrible. Awful. Bullying in a way that to Blaine feels worse than fists and aggressively placed toes.
Beatings come and go quickly, usually someplace out of the way where no one else will see lest the attacker be caught. Slushies, however, seem to be as commonplace as couples holding hands, as fists being bumped, as nods of acknowledgement being executed with careful tips of the chin. No one cares about the slushies. They leave no visible scars-unless clothing counts and Blaine can’t help but think that it most certainly should-or bruises, so they’re allowed alongside any other interaction between students.
If he was still at Dalton, this wouldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t be going through this three times a week, wouldn’t be continually subjected to acts of terror in any way shape or form. But he’s not at Dalton anymore.
He pushes open the door to the locker room and surveys his surroundings. He’s alone, or at least he appears to be. Honestly, that’s good enough for him at the moment. Usually, the space is open for him during these times so he can get himself ready for the world again without further bouts of taunting.
Still feeling the bits of ice trailing down his skin, he opens his locker and promptly pounds a fist against the outside of the adjacent one.
Of course.
Of course.
As if things aren’t bad enough, he forgot to bring a new bottle of gel to school. Now he not only has to deal with the constant prickle of silent scrutiny that surrounds him when he ends the day in different clothes than he starts in, but he also has to do it with hair unlike the school has ever seen him don.
Well, except for one person.
Kurt has seen him this way. And had promptly commented on the fact that his hair was curly. Clearly the rest of Blaine’s day will be going the same way.
He grabs the bag of clean clothes from his locker, exchanges his dress shoes for flip flops, and heads for the showers. The water is hot, reddening his skin in angry blotches where it hits his body the most fiercely. The burn is good, though. It counteracts the frigidity and makes him feel normal again. He takes a hot shower every morning. What he doesn’t do every day is get doused in slushy ice.
Blaine pauses mid-shower, staring at the cream-colored tiles before him. They’re such a contrast from the pristine white of the showers at Dalton. Reaching out a hand that shakes just a little, he touches the tips of his fingers to one. The pads of his index and middle fingers slide down the tiles, dipping into rivets of grout and memorizing the almost silky feeling of the porcelain. It’s appropriate that the tiles are a bastardized version of white because that's exactly what McKinley is-a bastardized version of Dalton.
Dalton is everything a school should be. It’s academically rigorous with a supportive staff and an endlessly safe atmosphere. McKinley is cold and seems to be filled with teachers interested in merely getting by instead of inspiring, teaching the bare minimum instead of encouraging students to learn more, go above and beyond. After the ‘incident,’ Dalton had become everything Blaine needed. But over the summer, his dad had taken a job at a hospital in Lima and everything had changed. He couldn’t commute to Westerville every day to attend Dalton and they hadn’t had boarders since the 1920s. It had been decided without his consent that he would attend McKinley High School and he’d made the best of it because that was what he did. He tried.
And he’s trying every day.
But in moments like this, he’s just tired of trying. He’s exhausted with putting on a big smile every morning, of pretending to be okay after getting a punch to the face by a gas station beverage. He shuts off the spray with a harsh push of his palm and rakes his fingers through his hair, spraying water around the stall, the pitterpatter of falling droplets creating the only sound in the otherwise silent locker room.
As soon as a slightly scratchy yet undeniably bleached and clean towel has been scrubbed over every inch of his body and some deodorant has been rubbed under his arms, he grabs the bag hanging from one of the nearby towel hooks and starts to redress piece by piece: clean boxer briefs, clean jeans, clean button-up, clean sweater, clean bowtie. Everything is clean except his shoes, and he grabs his dampened towel to take back with him along with his stained clothes to wipe his shoes clean of purple stickiness. With hurried movements he jerks open his locker, preparing to shove the bag of his morning clothes inside and get on with his day, but something is in the way.
A thump sounds as he pushes the bag inside, keeping it from being able to slide all the way in. He can feel his brow furrow before he’s even acutely aware of his confusion, and he pulls the bag out so he can see what the offending item is.
Sitting at the bottom of his locker is a bottle of hair gel.
“What?” he asks, reaching for it and turning it in his hand to read the label.
It’s not his usual brand. Actually, it’s a brand he’s never even heard of, but from the structure of the bottle and the style of the label, it’s obvious that it’s decent. Expensive, even.
Without giving the inside of his locker another look, he shoves the bag inside and heads for the mirrors. After squirting a healthy amount of the gel into his hand, he sets the bottle on the edge of the sink, not taking his eyes off of his reflection as he works the gel through his hair.
It’s not strong enough to do his usual style, but it’ll keep his hair from puffing up, from becoming completely out of control. He smiles at his reflection, knowing that he’ll probably get ribbed at least a little for the curliness of his locks but not as badly as he would have otherwise when something hits him.
He has no idea where the gel came from.
What if it has bleach mixed in? Or Nair?
He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles aching as they turn white from the tightness of his hold. How could he be so stupid? What in the hell had he been thinking? That some person just did this out of the goodness of their hearts? At Dalton, maybe, but not here. The only person who could have done it here is Mike. Mike knew that Blaine had run out of hair gel, had been next to him after PE when he’d made a comment about needing to buy more. But of course it wasn’t Mike. It was someone else. The same kind of someone who thrice-weekly douses him with a slushy, who calls him a faggot and a homo as if calling attention to his sexuality should be offensive somehow.
The bell rings as he’s waiting for his scalp to start tingling or burning, warning him that something terrible is about to happen. He can’t miss AP Bio. Forced to leave the fate of his hair up to chance, he quickly swipes the remaining muck from his shoes, and heads to class.
Every chance he gets, he looks in a reflective surface and by the time two periods have passed, he’s fairly certain that the hair gel actually hadn’t been tainted. Maybe it had been Mike. It makes him feel relieved that his hair isn’t going to be falling out or turning blond on him while he sits through his classes, but despite that, all afternoon long he can feel eyes on him. He’s painfully aware of every ringlet as it dries, can feel it springing up, mocking him with its unruliness. Nerves twist in his limbs, making his hands twitch and his legs want nothing more than to run. By the time the final bell rings, he’s fighting the urge to full-on sprint from the building.
Only once he’s in his car does he relax. His back molds into the seat, his skull thunks back against the headrest. He’s finally safe, is somewhere familiar. The smell is his car is almost as homey as his house.
Without looking, he slides his key effortlessly into the ignition and heads for home.
The day prior-Monday-Blaine had found a note in his locker much like he had the Thursday before. The handwriting was instantly recognizable. Neat. Careful. Kurt’s.
It had said that he would be at Blaine’s house on Tuesday night at seven for another tutoring session. If Kurt would have deigned to speak to Blaine at school, Blaine would have been able to tell him that his dad is having a group of guys from the hospital over to play poker, so it honestly isn’t the best time for a tutoring session, but Kurt hadn’t, so Blaine is prepared for Kurt to come over.
After their first session, Blaine had felt initially confused but then ecstatic. The entire time, he’d been sure that Kurt was ignoring him, but he hadn’t been. He had done so well on the worksheet Blaine made for him, had clearly understood all of the concepts Blaine had carefully covered. It had been about six months since he’d last tutored someone and he's glad to know that he hasn’t lost his touch.
As soon as Blaine gets home, he heads for the bathroom. He gels his hair with the right product, slicking it down and combing through it until it’s under control again. With a smile at his reflection, the one that finally looks like him again, he leaves, flicking off the light and hurrying down the stairs to complete his usual routine before his dad’s friends start showing up.
His homework is completed with relative ease, his dinner consumed as he reads through his AP Bio textbook. He tells his mother believable lies about his day. She never notices that he sometimes goes to school in one set of clothes and comes home in another because she’s usually not home for one or the other. While he does his homework, she reads something on her iPad and by the time his dad comes home with a flurry of other voices in his wake, it’s almost time for Kurt to arrive.
Poker nights at the Anderson house are always an ordeal. There’s a game in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, everything set up tournament style until they’re all gathered around the massive dining room table for the final match. It involves a lot of loud voices and swearing and a good half of his parents’ liquor cabinet being emptied, but it doesn’t happen often so Blaine’s mom doesn’t seem to mind.
The guys are already in full swing when the bell rings and Blaine rushes to open the door. Kurt is looking back at the packed driveway with a deep, worried crease between his eyebrows when Blaine greets him.
“What’s going on?” Kurt asks, fingertips clutching onto the strap of his messenger bag, his eyes still glued on the driveway.
“One of my dad’s quarterly poker nights,” Blaine explains. Kurt’s shoulders lower just a bit and he finally looks at Blaine, his eyes sweeping up to Blaine’s hairline and back to his eyes before stepping inside. “We’re going to have to go upstairs. They kind of take over the whole first floor.”
Kurt sneaks a peek into the living room, his lips set into a firm line before he follows Blaine toward the stairs. When they reach their destination, Kurt freezes at the threshold.
“Your bedroom?” he asks. Blaine turns, already picking up the materials from his dresser, and gives Kurt a questioning look. “Do we have to do this in here?”
“Unless you’d rather share a table with scotch-drinking medical professionals, yes we do,” Blaine says. “I know it isn’t ideal, but you didn’t exactly give me an option as to when we were meeting next.” Blaine pulls over a chair from beside the window and puts it near the bench at the foot of his bed. He gestures toward it before settling himself in on the mattress, getting his materials organized on the bench while he waits for Kurt to join him.
He doesn’t, though. Blaine looks up and finds Kurt walking around his bedroom, studying the pictures on the walls, inspecting the knick-knacks. Blaine tries to ignore the obvious scrutiny and busies himself with getting his borrowed textbook to the right page.
Finally, when Kurt has obviously had his fill of snooping, he sits down in the leather chair and gives the room one last look before getting out his own things.
“Your room isn’t what I expected,” Kurt admits as he uncaps his pen. The comment makes Blaine’s eyes open wider as he raises his gaze to meet Kurt’s.
“You’d thought about my bedroom?” he asks without thinking, his face immediately breaking out in an embarrassed flush. Kurt rolls his eyes.
“As if I give you and your life any more thought than is expressly necessary,” he retorts, scribbling something down at the top of his legal pad with a sigh.
Blaine wants to push the subject but decides against it. It won’t do any good, after all, and it’s not like it really means anything anyway. He can’t help but give his room a quick once-over, wondering what about it was so surprising to Kurt. Had he been expecting a chemistry set? Stacks of well-worn textbooks? A dry erase board covered with scribbled equations? Comic books? Action figures? He’s curious to say the least but Kurt is peeking at the page number of the book laid out before him on the bed and he knows that he needs to let it go and move on.
“Well, last week you did really well on the sheet I gave you,” Blaine says proudly, pulling the paper from where he has it neatly tucked away inside the back cover of the book and holding it out for Kurt to see. Kurt doesn’t look at it. “You got all of the answers right, so we’ll continue going over things in the same way.”
Kurt sighs and gives the legal pad a few aggressive flicks with the end of his pen.
“Yes,” he says, the tone of his voice a blistering deadpan that sends a flash of angry heat through Blaine's entire body. “You’re such a great teacher. You helped me so much.”
“What is your problem with me, Kurt?” Blaine asks, nostrils flaring as he slaps the paper down on top of the textbook. “I’ve never been anything other than nice to you. I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” Kurt grits out, every word emphasized with dramatic pauses between each one.
“Then why are you failing?” Blaine challenges, raising an eyebrow at him and waiting for Kurt’s next move. Kurt stares icily him and crosses one long red-sheathed leg over the other.
“What are we working on today?” he asks.
Blaine flexes his fingers and shakes his head before flipping back to the first page. If Kurt wants to play dirty, he can roll in the mud with the best of them.
“Chapter One,” he responds.
“Fine.”
“Great. So, we’ll start with pure substances,” Blaine says.
And with that, they slip right back into the same routine they’d found themselves last week. Blaine talks and Kurt pretends to ignore him. Once they’ve gone through the chapter in detail, Blaine gives Kurt a worksheet which Kurt answers with complete accuracy before leaving without a word. Blaine doesn’t bother following after him this time.
Blaine tries not to think about it too much, because honestly it doesn’t matter. He’s being paid to tutor Kurt and given Kurt’s performance on his assessments, he’s doing his job. If Kurt winds up failing the semester, it won’t be his fault. He would worry that it was a problem with test anxiety or something, but given the fact that Kurt is in National Honor Society and apparently hasn’t had a problem earning anything less than an A in the past, it isn’t likely.
He’s walking down the hallway the next day, eyes scanning for Hank Davies-or anyone else with a slushy in hand-when someone starts walking beside him. Blaine looks up and smiles when he sees who it is.
“Hey,” he greets. “Thanks for yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow at him.
“For the gel in my gym locker. You were a real lifesaver,” Blaine laughs, pointing to his head. “The school is not ready to see this completely untamed.”
“I didn’t put anything in your locker,” Mike says.
“You didn’t?” Mike shakes his head. Blaine can feel confusion seep into his brain, permeating every inch until he actually freezes in the middle of the hallway. Mike stops too, turning to face him. “If you didn’t, who did?”
“I have no idea. Someone nice?” Mike says. Blaine scoffs, reeling in the urge to say that he can’t think of a single other guy in the school who would be thoughtful and kind enough to do something like that.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Blaine says, shaking his head to dislodge the feeling of heavy bewilderment from his psyche. “Well, this is me.”
“I’ll see you in rehearsal later,” Mike replies before leaving. Blaine sighs and turns, getting ready to enter his AP Bio classroom, but his eyes drifts into the chemistry room next door just in time to see Kurt slide into his seat at the long lab table at the back of the room next to Finn Hudson.