There's Friends for Life, and Acquaintances [1/2] for VILLIAGEIDIOT

[k_b_mod]

Title: There's Friends for Life, and Acquaintances (1/2)
Recipient: villiageidiot
Author/Artist: narie
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 14470 (!)
Summary: Of making friends, and keeping them. McKinley!Blaine AU.
Notes Dear villiageidiot, I hope against hope that you like this, because I think it won't be what you were expecting. Once I saw your prompts the idea would not let me go, however - plus, the odds of getting inadvertently jossed by canon were so high that I decided to simply joss myself.

Inordinate levels of gratefulness are due to my most wonderful beta-reader, D, who held my hand when the going got rough. Also, there's one line in French. I am aware it is grammatically incorrect. Title and cut texts from the song Plastik Hearts, by Dirty Pretty Things.



The seventh slushie of the eight week of junior year was the proverbial straw, because it coincided with his first dumpster toss, a one-two that left him cold and sputtering atop slowly decaying leftovers. He withstood all kinds of abuse as a member of New Directions, but so did everyone else in the club; slushies, spitballs and name-calling were all in the order of the day for all twelve of them. By no means had he ever been deemed particularly popular but he had managed to avoid the brunt of the abuse flung in their direction simply by keeping his head down and blending into the hallways, smiling politely whenever addressed and never letting his expression flicker. There had been rumours, of course, and whispers; two full years of high school and not once being spotted in the corridors stealing a kiss from a girl saw to that. Not everyone at McKinley was stupid, and some people managed to put two and two together. But the peace had not been definitely shattered until Jacob Ben Israel somehow found out that he had turned down Santana and Brittany's repeated offers of a threesome and decided his monastic lack of a sex life was a hot enough topic to lead his return to the blogosphere, three days before classes resumed at the end of the summer. When classes began anew his old strategies for avoiding harassment no longer worked, because he was no longer just one of the irritating kids in Glee - now he was also, officially, a homo. It was only out of deference to people like Finn, and Puck, who had known him as Blaine before he became 'the gay kid,' that he was initially spared the worst of indignities, but there was only so much they could, or would, do for him.

When Blaine got home that night, still smelling faintly of artificial cherry and yesterday's meatloaf despite the fact that he had changed into his stale gym clothes to hide the stains, and placed his third consecutive A+ English essay on the kitchen counter his mother pulled him into a wordless hug and went to find his father.

His parents had always ensured that Blaine's future remain open wide with possibility, and their lifelong ideological commitment to public education found itself faltering in the face of its increasingly obvious failings. McKinley's AP offerings were slim, unsatisfactory and under-funded and if they waited until senior year it would be too late to remedy any of that, his father said, refusing to meet Blaine's eyes as his mother reached over the table and squeezed the hands of the two most important men in her life, linking the three of them together as had not happened in a long time. He would be challenged at Dalton, and it would be hard at first, sure, and they understood his reluctance, and that he would miss his friends, but it would be worth it in the long run, he would see.

Blaine, who was thinking about the drops of water trickling down his neck from his wet hair, and blinking too fast, nodded his reluctant assent.

No one spoke of the other reason he was transferring.

---

At Dalton, Blaine was shunted into some subjects he would not have chosen for himself had he been given the option, but he had to reconcile his public school transcript with his new school's far stricter graduation requirements, and he had less than two full years to do it in. Yet that was only part of trying to find his place in the school; settling entailed not only getting up to speed academically but also making friends, blending in and finding ways to fill the hours between the last class of the day and dinner, and then curfew, and that meant extracurricular activities, and mandatory participation in sports. He knew Dalton also had a glee club because in one of their last practices together Mr Schuester had told them they would be competing against New Directions later at sectionals, but he never imagined they would be so well regarded that they would be bold enough to give informal performances outside the safety of their rehearsal room. When, after one of their little concerts he approached them, they were friendly and welcoming, and agreed to let him audition for membership. The next week he was admitted on the strength of his version of Collide, with the promise of a further audition for a solo later in the semester, after sectionals.

He told Rachel over Skype, and she found it in herself to be excited for him, and congratulate him before declaring that now he was the enemy they could never sing together again. He coaxed a few bars out of her immediately after, however; Rachel had been lenient with him ever since he had quietly shown something beyond prurient interest in her atypical family, early after joining New Directions as a sophomore. He missed the intensity and closeness they shared when they were in the same place, but when he went to dinner some of the other boys in the Warblers waved him over and the ache dulled. It was taking him by surprise, the ease with which he was fitting in, how simple it all was; at Dalton no one asked him difficult questions. It was soothing, to not have to wear his heart on his sleeve all the time, to be able to answer things with little beyond a smile and let queries brush off him like he had done for his first two years in McKinley, conversation flowing easy around him once again.

That night after dinner he went back to his dorm room and worked quietly on some pre-calc problems, until his mother popped up online to ask why he was not answering his phone. "It's not ringing," he told her, but she insisted that she had called him five times and was definitely getting through, and his phone was most definitely ringing. "Fine, wait a second, let me check," he said to placate her, "but signal's really bad here, honest." Since she had gone through the trouble of login onto Skype they spoke on the computer instead, and when they eventually disconnected he checked the pockets of his blazer and rifled through his bag, but his phone was in neither place. After a more thorough check of the bedroom he replayed his day inside his head, attempting to work out at what point it could have tumbled out of his bag. He had not had it with him at dinner, that much he knew - maybe it had happened in class, in which case he would not be able to find it until morning. And then he remembered his audition for the Warblers and how in his nervousness and excitement he had probably left it behind in the practice room.

It was not yet curfew; some students were milling in the common room and music and conversation spilled out of dorm doors propped open with all manner of unusual stoppers. Some students were clearly returning from the library, books and laptops in hand and under arms. Blaine nodded at familiar faces and was acknowledged in return, and the soft courtesy of each exchange was balm on a wound he was starting to forget had until very recently been raw and open.

There was singing coming from the practice room; a girl with a very beautiful voice, which was strange, he thought, because visitors were not allowed on school grounds after five on weekdays. For a few seconds he waited, listening; he did not know what he would be interrupting by knocking on the door and it made him uneasy. What he found when he hesitantly pushed the door open, after his soft raps went unanswered, was certainly not what he had been expecting. A small group of students, calmly scattered throughout, alongside sheet music and what he guessed must have been scripts for some play or another. Most blazers had been shucked, the occasional tie loosened. It took Blaine a few seconds to realise that one of them must have been the singer, because there was no one else in the room, and no boom box either, but from their positions Blaine could not immediately guess who. They had all stopped whatever they were doing to look at him.

"Sorry," he said, growing uncomfortable under their combined gazes. "I'm just... looking for my phone? I think I may have left it here earlier."

"Oh, yeah, wasn't there some ringing from the couch earlier, hold on," one of them said, and with that, everyone else's attention shifted off him. The singing resumed without warning, and Blaine, still hovering by the door and breathing easier now, could not help but stare in rapt fascination at the pale boy responsible. He was the only one still in full uniform, the knot of his tie expertly shaped, and in the panelled room he looked like he had just stepped out of the Dalton catalogue Blaine's father had given him to leaf through, only two weeks before.

"This it?" the boy searching for Blaine's phone asked, holding it up after rummaging behind the sofa cushions.

Blaine smiled gratefully. "Yeah, that's it. Thanks! And sorry again."

He crossed the room with quick strides and dropped the phone into Blaine's extended hand. "It's alright, man. We were just messing around," and like that, it was over. On the way back to his room Blaine texted his mother a quick apology, even as the boy's voice echoed in his memory.

That weekend, glee sectionals came and went. Rachel was in full performance mode and refused to make eye contact for fear of revealing details of their set list; Blaine had known her for long enough understand how she functioned and not take too much offence, but he nevertheless missed the heady build-up of excitement that had preceded all of his performances with his old club. When New Directions rushed off the stage after their final number Brittany broke away from the group hug they had all fallen into, offered to hold his pinkie for good luck and told him that she was sorry her perfect record had forced him to dress as a blue penguin. He barely had time to smile at her and tell her not to worry before Andrew Stock, the Warblers' lead soloist, pulled him into the green room to do some warm ups. Even as they ran through their numbers one more time, choreographed turns and key shifts perfectly in synch, part of Blaine was thinking about the boy from the other night, wondering how his singing would meld with the rest of them. He would rise higher than anyone else, that stunningly clear sound.

To general astonishment and Blaine's private delight the Warblers and New Directions tied for first place. On the bus back to Dalton the conversation circled exclusively around that topic, but no matter how much his group mates coaxed him he refused to be drawn into making comparisons. His last weeks at New Directions had been bittersweet, but he was a Dalton boy now, he would rise above that and not cast aspersions upon anyone. He owed most of his old friends that much.

Yes, he was a Dalton boy now, and every night he let the hushed sounds of the school lull him to sleep and soothe the pangs of homesickness that sometimes enveloped him, just like every morning he rose light, that part of him that still could not believe he was safe acquiescing to his senses, and his new reality. And if some mornings he woke up to fading echoes of the word 'coward' instead and a bitter taste in his mouth, no one needed to know.

---

He lingered in the Warblers' practice room after practice two days later to, in a fit of boldness, venture a suggestion to the council. He was not courageous enough to do it when everyone else was around, at least not yet, but when it was just him and the other three boys he was relieved to find he was once again perfectly capable of speaking. "So I heard this kid singing the other night. And he has the most amazing voice."

"Does he sound like a girl?" Wes asked.

"That's him," he confirmed. "I thought we could try to recruit him, now that we've made it through sectionals..."

Wes heaved a long-suffering sigh while David's lips pressed into a wan smile. "Yeah, that's Kurt Hummel, he's in your year. Not quite our style."

"Oh," was all that Blaine could think to say, aware of something he did not have enough pieces to understand rushing at him like an undertow in David's words. He left the room in a bemused daze, and his steps led him straight to the school refectory, rather than taking the customary route past his dorm room to splash his face with cold water and shrug off his tie. There was hardly a line when he arrived; it was remarkable, how much of a difference ten minutes could make, especially when he found himself standing right behind the boy from that night - Kurt Hummel, he now knew.

"Hey, it's you," he said before he could think twice about it. "You were singing the other night, you're in the... drama club?"

"That's us," the boy answered absently. He picked up a knife and a fork, reconsidered the fork and swapped it for a different one.

Blaine gathered his own cutlery a lot less thoughtfully. "You have an amazing voice."

Kurt raised his gaze at that, staring at Blaine with something he could not quite decipher. "Thank you." Blaine chose to read his expression as a smile. He was starting to return to instinctively thinking the best of people until given reason to think otherwise; only three weeks at Dalton and he already felt more like himself than he had in months.

"Blaine Anderson," he introduced himself. "I'm new here, I've only just transferred, I'm a junior."

"Kurt," the other boy said, picking up an apple. "Kurt Hummel."

He was glad he had been holding his tray, because he was fairly confident Kurt Hummel would not have returned the handshake he instinctively wanted to offer. He did, however, join the ranks of people Blaine exchanged polite greetings with in the hallway (sometimes, as he travelled from history to pre-calc, he would remember instead the consequences of accidentally making eye contact with half the people swarming down the corridor between classes, right before the end at McKinley). They did not progress beyond that until they walked into each other - Kurt coming, Blaine going - by the library doors two Saturdays later.

"Hey," Kurt nodded with that strange half-smile of his.

"Hey," repeated Blaine. "You always here on weekends?"

Kurt shrugged. He could have been rehoisting his bag, trying to work out a kink on his shoulder or neither, it was hard to tell. "It's a long drive."

"Where do you live?"

"Lima. Northwest of here."

"Seriously? I know where it is, I'm from Lima too - it's only two hours, no, or is there another Lima?"

"That one," confirmed Kurt.

Courtesy and offers had used to come almost effortlessly to Blaine, but that was because he did not often have to follow through on them. It was the action that had counted, that solicitousness that, until the beginning of the year, had kept him from sliding all the way down the social pyramid of McKinley despite his association with the glee club. When he was pleasant and conformist, he was just another face in the corridor, worthy of neither scorn nor attention, and that had rendered him harmless, which was the best he could have hoped for. Now he said, "I know it was just Thanksgiving, but I'm driving down next weekend, so, if you want a ride..."

"I really don't go home that often," Kurt replied. "Thank you, however." But Friday at lunch Kurt approached him, and asked if his offer still stood, and Blaine, taken aback, told him that of course it did.

Maybe in the first weeks after meeting him Blaine would have thought that perhaps Kurt was straight and possessed a very striking voice and some peculiar mannerisms, before that first drive down. Blaine had had little doubt that he would be met with a cold rebuttal if he insinuated being interested in most of his new classmates, but the knowledge that it would not be allowed to escalate beyond that was so comforting that already it felt like immeasurable progress, compared to his old school. But Kurt was something different. Because there was no way Kurt was not gay; Kurt who for the weekend had paired skin-tight black jeans with a bow tie and dark knee-high boots, and who had spent most of the drive from Westerville to Lima flipping through an imported issue of Vogue, occasionally letting his fingers linger over models, or softly tracing the outlines of some pieces, throwing casual comments in Blaine's direction interspersed with small noises of distaste.

"Thanks for the ride," was all he said when Blaine dropped him off outside his home.

"No problem. I'll pick you up here, Sunday at three thirty? We'll be in time for dinner."

"Sure," Kurt said. "I'll see you then."

And that was that.

---

They got to know each other in Blaine's car, and much later, in Kurt's car. A two hour drive from Westerville to Lima and back, first that one time, and then, after ringing in the new year, somewhat more frequently, as Kurt stopped spending all his weekends at Dalton, gave them ample opportunity to speak once they overcame Kurt's initial resistance to conversation, especially because at school Kurt was hard to pin down; Blaine had been studying him. They had only one class together, and that was English, where both of them were occasional contributors to the discussion. The difference was that when Kurt spoke he was confident and occasionally acerbic, while Blaine's offerings were still punctuated by hms and ahs and uhs and the worry that his years in public school would betray him at any moment, the one fear he had not yet managed to shake off after so many weeks at Dalton. Although Kurt would never come close to winning any of the popularity contests that were the annual prefect elections, or walk to breakfast on his birthday only for an entire table to burst into song for him, neither was he untouchable, shunned in the hallways, avoided in the cafeteria like Blaine had been his last few weeks at McKinley. People knew his name, called out to him sometimes in the corridor and he always had someone to sit with in class, and at lunch, and underneath his superficial aloofness Blaine uncovered far more warmth and friendliness than he expected. Kurt moved through the school at ease, but if Blaine had known the word, he would have called him liminal.

When Kurt drove they listened to his music. Although his tastes were rather more theatrical than Blaine's, Kurt would sing along to songs he liked, and being able to hear him made it worthwhile. Blaine would close his eyes and listen, and sometimes join in on the harmonies, like he did every other day at Warbler practice; Kurt would sometimes smile and sometimes frown at him when he did that. But this was one of their earlier drives, when Blaine still went home alone more often than not, and they were in his car. The radio was set to a top 40 station, not loud enough to prevent talking; whenever a song the Warblers had performed came up Blaine would hum his part, and Kurt would roll his eyes, but without disdain. "What are you doing this weekend?" he asked over the radio host's inane chatter.

"Seeing my friends. From my old school," Blaine clarified. "My old glee club, it feels like I haven't seen them in forever."

"I don't imagine your new friends will appreciate you mingling with the competition."

"The Warblers have nothing on Rachel Berry. It's all very tame at Dalton," Blaine said.

"Is it?"

"The stories I could tell you," laughed Blaine ("Dude," Finn had shouted at him from the safety of the far end of the choir room the first day, "I had P.E. with you!" and if Blaine were any braver he would have replied with "yes, and did I ever look like I was enjoying myself more than I should?" and stormed out of rehearsal, but instead he remained seated and silent, and flinched every time he remembered the look of betrayal on Finn's face). "Anyhow, why aren't you a member? Of the Warblers, I mean, you've so clearly got the voice for it."

"I prefer doing theatre. It was tough at first but now I'm on track to take over the drama club by next year. You know, what there is of it. At least it gets me out of the uniform..."

"You could've taken over the Warblers too," Blaine pointed out.

"Oh goodness, no," Kurt smirked, flipping a page on the magazine on his lap. "All that committee nonsense. I'm very much looking forward to being a benevolent dictator. Anyhow, eyes on the road."

They left I-75 long after the last rays of watery January sun disappeared into the west. When they reached Kurt's home Blaine said, "Listen, you should meet some of my friends from McKinley. I think you'd like them, and they'd definitely like you. We're going out tomorrow, just to the mall, catching a movie..."

"I wouldn't want to intrude," demurred Kurt.

"You wouldn't be intruding! Seriously, come, it'll be great. I'll pick you up?"

"Ok," Kurt said. His smile reached his eyes, and Blaine discovered that it was something he wanted to remember.

---

The next afternoon Kurt had dressed for the occasion. He was waiting outside his house when Blaine arrived, pacing up and down the cleared driveway, wrapped up in a blue coat and a knit scarf far more substantial and plain than those he usually wore, but cut in a way that somehow left no doubt of its pedigree. His face was pale, but his cheeks were reddish; by the way he flexed and rubbed his fingers when he climbed inside the car Blaine guessed he had been standing outside for a good five minutes at the very least, waiting for him. Given the cold, it made little sense that he has not decided to wait inside, but he did not have a chance to comment on it, as Kurt started telling him with uncensored joy about how Jimmy Choo would be launching a men's range in time for spring/summer.

The girls were there when they arrived, drinking from mismatched cups clearly purchased from different vendors at the food court. "I brought a friend," he said by way of introduction. "This is Kurt, he goes to Dalton."

They all exchanged brief pleasantries. Mercedes and Tina both gave what Blaine was certain were small nods of appreciation at Kurt's attire, the blue coat having been opened to reveal an impeccable grey knit, while Quinn limited herself to a half-hearted hello and made excuses for Brittany and Santana, caught in a last minute Cheerios practice. Artie's dad couldn't drive him this week, and no one had really thought to invite the rest of the guys. Rachel eyed Kurt warily. "Is he competition?"

Kurt huffed, brittle and harsh like sometimes in the car, when Blaine sang two songs in a row. Again he realised that there was something there, between Kurt and the Warblers, but he still could not quite understand what it was. However, he knew enough to realise that it would be the wrong question to ask. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Blaine. Is he competition?" Rachel repeated.

Blaine laughed, trying to defuse the tension. "No he's not, Rachel. But he does sing. And quite well, at that."

She sniffed haughtily and studied Kurt again, who was in turn now looking at Blaine with a curious expression on his face. "Hm, fine. I guess you can stay, but... What are you, anyhow?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your range. What are you? You have an unusual voice, I could tell very quickly, and I am wondering what it sounds like when you sing."

"I'm a soprano."

Rachel let out another indignant puff of air. "No, you're not. If anything you're a countertenor and I have my doubts. You do know they are very rare, at least real ones. Everyone thinks a decent falsetto gives them a pass these days."

"Rachel!" Blaine interjected. Mercedes, Tina and Quinn were rolling their eyes at one another; Blaine would have joined them if Rachel had been questioning anyone other than Kurt, who had stiffened at Rachel's words, and looked paler than usual in the fluorescent light of the mall. Blaine wanted to let his hand rest on Kurt's shoulder, to say, 'that's just Rachel, don't mind her,' without words and squeeze his shoulder briefly to offer comfort. Instead he asked, "Why would Kurt lie to you about this?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. Need I remind you--"

"Oh good lord, Berry. Get over Jesse already." Mercedes interrupted, and without a care grabbed at Kurt's arm and started pulling him along, to his evident surprise. "Now, let's go. We're gonna miss the trailers, and according to the internet they're totally the best part of this movie."

They set off. He overheard snatches of Kurt and Mercedes talking, the way one did when walking with a big group of people who wove in and out of multiple conversations as positions shifted. Mercedes was next to Kurt; Blaine walked behind them and watched Kurt as he moved. "You know, I thought you were going to challenge Rachel to a singing duel when she started doubting you. It's what we do, when she gets too much," Mercedes was telling him.

Kurt snorted lightly at the suggestion, mixing derision and surprise into a single sound. "That wouldn't work at Dalton, I can assure you."

"I thought you weren't in the Warblers."

"Oh, I'm not. I'm all about the drama," he reassured her with one of his indecipherable grins, falling back to allow Blaine to join them, forestalling any more discussion and letting Mercedes and Blaine catch up instead. Under his breath Blaine could hear him humming his way through scales, pitch falling and rising, as he looked around with a curious expression on his face. When he got to the higher notes his gaze would fix on Rachel's oblivious back, and Blaine made a note to reassure her of Kurt's loyalties and tell her to tone it down, if there all went out together another time.

After the movie, which had been as bad as Mercedes had heralded, they negotiated a complicated consensus concerning everyone's dinner preferences. Kurt begged off by saying that he had already made plans to eat with his father, pulling out his phone and calling him for a ride. As the rest of them headed to the parking lot Rachel fell into step with Blaine. "Puck was asking about you the other day. Finn too," she said, apropos nothing.

"And what did you tell them?"

She smiled softly at him, in that way she seldom did, when she managed to stop seeing the world as something that revolved around her and it dawned on her that other people, other objects and beings, could have full lives, just like Rachel Berry did, could experience that same heady mix of emotions and conflicts. "I told them you were happy. I hope it's true."

Blaine returned her smile. "It is," he reassured her, and it was, for the most part.

---

On the drive back to Dalton the following afternoon Blaine and Kurt chatted over the radio, although it was not until they were almost back at their school that the conversation turned to their outing on Saturday.

"It's so strange, meeting your friends," Kurt began.

"How come?"

"I was supposed to go to McKinley. So I guess they would've been my friends."

Blaine thought about the kind of treatment that would have been extended to Kurt from the moment he crossed the threshold of McKinley High as a well-dressed, wary-faced freshman. "Yeah," he shrugged, "I guess they would've been."

"I liked them," Kurt said. "They're nice girls, especially Mercedes. Although Rachel is... intense."

He had to smile at that. "She's crazily driven, yes, but she's a good friend. Say, why did you come to Dalton?" he asked. He had noticed that Kurt never mentioned his life back in Lima, but he had not yet managed to work out if it was a purposeful avoidance, or just a lack of things to say.

"I don't really know. I must have read too much Enyd Blyton before my-- when I was younger, and decided that the only way to meet prince charming was an all-boys boarding school. My dad somehow agreed that I would thrive better away from public school, then Dalton offered me partial tuition and..." he trailed off, and there it was, a casual mention that was all the confirmation Blaine needed and had not had to be prefaced with a disclaimer, or torn out of him unwilling. All of a sudden he was filled with envy for Kurt's ease, for the comfort within which he existed. Kurt, in his skinny black jeans and long angora sweaters, clearly knew who he was, while Blaine was still struggling to put most of his own pieces back together. It was not fair. "What about you?"

"Academically it's much better than McKinley."

Kurt hummed his agreement, and eyed him shrewdly. "And you waited until the eighth week of junior year to realise that? Maybe you shouldn't be at Dalton," he joked.

Blaine hesitated. "I think that's when my mother got tired of washing food dye out of my clothes." When Kurt stared at him quizzically, he explained, "Glee club is not the most popular activity there. There's a lot of bullying, and it goes pretty much unchecked; no one seems to care. It sucked, to be honest. Anyhow my parents figured this was a better way of getting into an Ivy League school."

"Oh."

"There were people who had it much worse than me, thought" Blaine immediately said, for reasons he could never have articulated to anyone, but had a lot to do with his carefully perfected survival strategies, and also because it was true. "Rachel's been slushied far more than me, and then there's Artie - you'll have to meet him next time - who's in a wheelchair, or Quinn, she was a cheerleader until she got pregnant; now she's at the bottom right with the rest of us in Glee. But somehow it wasn't that bad, really. We were sort of a family in Glee club, you know, watching out for one another." Unspoken went Rachel's reflexive slapping of Finn that first day back in the choir room, and Artie's continued invitations to visit and play videogames, the way they used to, and Quinn's complete and flummoxing calm in the face of it all. "It wasn't that bad," he said again, and he was not sure who he was speaking to, "until I was outed last summer."

"Ah," Kurt breathed, and Blaine saw him filling in the silences in his previous sentences with images gleaned from newspaper articles and after-school specials. "Middle America. How quaint." Again he resented Kurt, for not needing to hear anything else, because he needed to tell, to speak it out loud and hear it in his own voice and for once have someone look at him afterwards with something other than pity and bemused tolerance.

But Kurt did not speak, and Blaine, who did not want to be disappointed by the expression on his face, resolutely looked straight ahead. They remained silent as Blaine pulled into the student parking lot and eventually killed the engine. He turned to unbuckle his seatbelt and found Kurt's gaze directed at him, not with the paper-thin sympathy he had been expecting, but rather with unprecedented intensity. "I'm sorry that happened to you. You didn't deserve it," he murmured, and then he leaned over and tentatively traced the line of Blaine's jaw with his thumb, before abruptly pulling away. "Sorry," he said again, blushing in the fading light.

Blaine absently asked, "Kurt?" and Kurt leaned forward again and kissed him. He did not kiss like Blaine had expected him to, not that first time. Later Blaine would discover that Kurt was more than capable of conveying any number of emotions without ever recoursing to his voice, but Blaine had been somehow expecting passion and eagerness and instead found hesitance and a tender, unexpected clumsiness. It was brief, but enough to make Blaine feel like he was finally allowed to touch, and to hold and to have, not only watch. By tacit agreement they slid out of the car and even though it was miserably cold and the ground was covered in snow, took the longest route through the quads back to the dorms. Every time Blaine looked at their entwined hands he squeezed, and received the ghost of a smile in return.

---

Kurt, Blaine swiftly learned, was equally happy to touch and be touched, but all of his gestures were underlain by sensual, if not downright sexual, intent. He would curl up graciously against Blaine, push him against his bedroom door and kiss him unhesitatingly, or trace the shape of Blaine's lips with his fingertips, always with a quiet intensity that maybe made every moment memorable for him. But Blaine had had years of casual arms slung around his shoulder, high fives on the corridor and fist bumping after a particularly well executed dance routine, and then he had had nothing, and for all that he had found a place at Dalton, and for all that oftentimes he did not want to, he still missed it all, the levity that came with long-standing friendships. He made a point of brushing his fingers against Kurt's when they walked together to class, of reaching for the water jug at the same time as Kurt, for the simple thrill of knowing it was permitted. Kurt never recoiled from these touches, or gave Blaine any reason to think that they were unwelcome; he had no qualms making it evident to the rest of the students that the two of them had found a kindred spirit in one another, although he was always careful not to cross the line into public impropriety, and like that the days passed them by.

They fell into an effortless routine. They had classes, and separate distractions - Kurt his meetings with the drama club, who as far as Blaine could tell never actually staged anything, simply performed snippets from plays in the privacy of the choir room and Blaine the Warblers, who, despite it being two months away were already gearing up for Regionals, and track practice - but there was always time to spend together, talking or working in silent company. One afternoon Blaine found Kurt rushing down the corridor in pristine tennis whites, badminton racquet snug against his back. "It's an all-boys boarding school," he explained later, voice slightly condescending as if he were talking to a child. "Of course I play a sport. Everyone has to play a sport, I just chose the one least likely to add unwanted bulk to my frame."

After their tie at sectionals Rachel had instituted a new rule in their friendship - they were not allowed to talk to each other about their extracurriculars, under pain of excommunication. Although her eyes would widen in shock and outrage whenever Blaine so much as mentioned the Warblers, she was perfectly content to set it aside when it suited her, but those moments became fewer and fewer as the second encounter between their Glee clubs neared. She made one final exception a couple of weeks before the competition, however, opening their Skype conversation with, "did you ever get that solo?" and not even trying to disguise that she was blatantly fishing for information.

"Not yet, no. No one gets a solo in the Warblers until they've auditioned like, five times."

Oh his screen, she frowned briefly. "Their loss," she said, and Blaine was flattered that she allowed their friendship to trump her competitive instincts, so close to their meet. "Speaking of, when do I get to hear Kurt singing? You keep on talking about it, but it never happens."

"You'll have to ask him, not me," he shrugged. "Anyhow, fair is fair, so, tell me, have you guys got a set list, yet?"

"Blaine!" she shrieked in outrage. At Blaine's laughter, Kurt looked up from his spot on Blaine's bed, where he was curled up with his own laptop, surrounded by the beginnings of a lab report and what promised to be a long night of half-hearted whining and pleading at Blaine to explain the transfer of momentum in words and touches he could understand. Kurt wanted to like science, but it was not something he was innately good at, and the more Greek letters that crept into his work, the more he struggled. "Besides, you know we don't. Mr Schuester keeps on trying to get us to sing some more Journey but even Lauren is against it, and she wasn't even there the first time around. We'll come up with something."

Their conversation veered into other topics after that, and Blaine was glad he had his headset on; he was unsure how much of Rachel Berry's ceaseless drama Kurt really wanted to know. In spite of the fact that Rachel was one of his closest friends, he was unsure of much of it he wanted to know.

"So," he asked when they were done speaking, shifting onto the bed and draping his arm around Kurt's shoulders, "do you want to go up to Lima this weekend? I think the stress of regionals is getting to Rachel, and the stress of Rachel seems to be getting to everyone else."

"Sure thing. Mercedes keeps on telling me she has to take me to this thrift store she knows, anyhow. But before that, Newton, please?" his boyfriend replied, turning into him in that curiously measured way he had.

---

"Turn left here," Kurt said. He had fallen unusually taciturn during the second half of the drive, devoting most of his attention to the Japanese fashion magazine on his lap, and swiftly evading most Blaine's attempts to draw him into a conversation, or his search for Lady Gaga on the radio. "My dad called when we stopped for gas. He's working late and he wants to go out to dinner, so he said I should just meet him at the garage."

"You guide me," shrugged Blaine, and Kurt did. Part of Blaine was excited; he had never met Kurt's father, and the man did not come up often in conversation. Once he had figured out that Kurt's mother had died when he was still a kid Blaine had stopped asking questions about his family, for all that he wanted to know where someone like Kurt Hummel could come from, in the middle of Ohio - in the middle of the same town Blaine had spent all his life in.

Outside the Hummel's auto shop, car engine softly thrumming beneath them, Blaine leaned in to twine their hands together only for Kurt to pull out of his grip immediately. "Don't, not here. My father... I haven't told him."

"About us? That's ok, neither have I."

"No." Kurt said without looking at him.

It took Blaine a few seconds to work through what Kurt meant, and in the end it was only the way he was shifting uncomfortably that really made him understand. "Oh," was all he said, then. He wondered if he was overstepping their boundaries by asking, but he also wanted to know. Kurt was always so brave and so confident that Blaine could not, at least without giving it some thought, reconcile him with the apprehensive boy suddenly curling into himself in the passenger seat. "Why not?"

"Because." The silence between them lengthened. "I mean, I think he knows. Or suspects it. Sometimes I wonder if that's why he sent me to Dalton, you know? So I wouldn't be around the house as much, and he wouldn't have to look at... well, me," Kurt said, suddenly sardonic. "Anyhow, thanks for the ride, as always," he added, unfolding before Blaine could say anything, "I'll text you tomorrow, maybe we can do something?"

Blaine watched as Kurt shouldered his messenger bag and stepped out of the car. The windows were rolled up against the cold winter air, so he could not hear what Kurt called out, but a large man in grease-stained coveralls rushed out and hugged him; not quite close nor long enough for Blaine's liking, for what he thought Kurt deserved. He watched as Kurt returned the embrace and then reflexively straightened his clothes, brushing lint off those black jeans of his he wore so often, and then Blaine brought his two hands together, threading the fingers. He gave the left a soft squeeze with the right, imagining he was doing it to Kurt instead, soothing his fears, but the angles and the textures were all wrong, and all he felt was pathetic, for being neither able nor allowed to offer comfort.

He was loitering, he suddenly realised; sitting in his idling car outside an auto repair shop. As the two Hummels moved back inside, seeking refuge from the cold, Kurt's father turned around and briefly caught Blaine's gaze, a troubled expression on his face.

---

A fortnight after that the Warblers lost to New Directions at Regionals. In hindsight it should always have been obvious, Blaine supposed, considering that last time around they had tied and neither Rachel nor Mercedes or Puck hadn't sung a single solo line. But for Regionals they did, each of them taking lead on a different song, and it was a foregone conclusion from the moment the first note soared out of Rachel's mouth.

Dotted amongst the parents in the auditorium were the occasional friends, classmates with permission slips and girlfriends. At sectionals Blaine had been taken aback by the overt outpouring of support for the Warblers, so unimaginable to him, coming from McKinley; now when he stood up on the stage singing with the rest of the group, his eyes sought Kurt, and when they returned to the audience after their performance he traded seats with Fred Baker's girlfriend, under Wes' mildly disapproving gaze, and watched his old glee club perform seating next to his boyfriend. They let their arms hang in the space between their seats and occasionally brought their fingers together briefly, secretly. Blaine could not decide whether it felt special and thrilling simply because it was, or because it was a transgression. Their contact was interrupted only when Kurt clapped loudly and honestly after every song, especially energetic after Mercedes' ballad. Afterwards, as the competing teams mingled awkwardly in the parking lot waiting for their respective buses, Kurt broke free from the Dalton group and rushed over to Mercedes, enveloping her in a tight, warm hug, which she very happily returned. "I knew you'd kill it," he overheard him say before he vanished into the crowd to find his car and drive back to school, with only a brief smile in Blaine's direction.

Blaine knew the two of them had become close and would spend time together without him some weekends. He begrudged neither of them their friendship, not when he saw how happy it made Kurt to have someone to talk endlessly with about next season's trends; as far as Blaine could tell Kurt had no friends in Lima, or at least none that he spoke about. He had known that Kurt and Mercedes would inevitably become friends when, after that first outing to the movies Mercedes had pulled him aside and asked, "Your friend, is he... you know, on your team?" Blaine had shaken his head, replying that "I mean, he hasn't actually told me, but..." and she had sighed wistfully. "Yeah, I thought so. Still. Amazing fashion sense. He should totally come out again," she had said.

Tensions rose stratospherically amongst New Directions whenever they performed at a competition, Blaine remembered, and it was one of the things keeping him from approaching his old friends, most of whom were too caught up to notice him staring. He would hear all about the drama and the break-ups and break-downs that had doubtlessly occurred in the green room later, when Rachel calmed down enough to speak to him on Skype without having to lord her - and she would see it as a personal triumph, given the reception her singing had had - victory over him unremittingly. Until then, he watched them move around each other - Finn and Rachel had doubtlessly broken up again, and maybe Tina and Mike too; Puck was eyeing Mercedes with surprising candour... - not realising he was being watched in turn until Santana defied the invisible lines that kept each competing team apart and, with a nod in the direction Kurt had vanished in, asked, "Who was the twink?"

"Why are you asking me?"

She shrugged. "You were looking at him like you wanted to eat him." Santana narrowed her eyes at him. He could not control the softness that seized him still whenever he thought of Kurt, clearly, and the word boyfriend. Long warm fingers wrapped against his and unexpected kisses, and Santana was staring at his blushing face with growing rapture. "Well," she drawled, lengthening the 'e' lasciviously. "Isn't this interesting. Now, how about you introduce me to the rest of your unconvincingly heterosexual choir?" but then the Dalton coach arrived, gleaming and clean and air conditioned, and a bit uncomfortable in front of the yellow Lima public school bus.

---

As they days lengthened into spring the entire school shook off the last remnants of its wintry lethargy. Classwork, the sports teams, even the Warblers refused to let their defeat at Regionals curb their traditionally intense rehearsal schedule. The drama club began to organise its big annual production, when they came together with Dalton's sister school and put together a full-length play without resorting to cross-dressing and falsetto, or to radical re-editing of the book. Blaine got to hear all about how, from his position as a rising senior Kurt was pushing the boundaries of his power, having managed to sway both clubs into staging High Society and been appointed co-director, as a taster of what he would do next year, when his seniority would be undisputable. Uninterrupted weekends became rare, as read-throughs and rehearsals replaced their drives north and south on 33, or their leisured afternoons in one another's bedroom, and to fill the suddenly empty hours Blaine threw himself into early revision for his finals, and practicing for his own forthcoming audition as a Warbler soloist, finally netting himself one of those coveted solo spots.

Over the past few months Blaine had formed the impression that the Dalton drama club was not very highly regarded within the school, and this was true, and had been confirmed by Kurt without hesitation when he asked; while extracurricular participation was a given for all students, drama was not particularly renowned for its excellence or dedication. The latter was unfair, Blaine argued once at dinner because there was not an overabundance of plays out there that could be performed by an all-male cast, to general bemusement and faint half-hearted acquiescence from the other boys at the table, and it had hurt him more than he expected to hear of Kurt's interests disparaged so lightly. But the general mood shifted radically the first time Kurt was spotted waiting by the school entrance to sign in a group of giggling girls, which bemused Blaine until he remember he was attending an all-boys boarding school. Their study sessions, where Kurt would absently hum Tracy's songs under his breath, rather than those of his own character, were frequently interrupted by everyone's need to know when the next joint rehearsal was, to which Kurt would always reply "Saturday," expect for the week when he didn't.

"Are we doing something this weekend?" Blaine asked that Thursday evening. "You know, since we're both free."

"I'm driving up, didn't I tell you?" Kurt looked up from his board of fabric swatches, for the play. There was surprise in his tone, and it made Blaine slightly uncomfortable to hear it. "I promised Mercedes a make-over before they all head out to New York. I can give you a ride if you want."

"Oh," he said.

"You didn't have any plans for us, did you?"

"No, I just... no, of course not."

"Good," smiled Kurt, "because this it's the only time we can both do. You have no idea how hard it was to convince the girls that they could rehearse on their own this weekend. I better find some good props at home." He reached over and brought their hands together with far more ease and comfort than he would have a month ago; squeezing briefly before returning his attention to the board. Kurt had never once asked for his opinion on sartorial matters, and Blaine watched him, abandoning all pretence of doing his own work. His movements were efficient, precise and controlled; the sleeves of his uniform button-up shifted, revealing pale skin underneath, whenever he leaned forward to grab a pin, or reached for one of the magazines he was using not so much for inspiration, but for confirmation of his own vision. After a while Blaine could not help himself any longer, overwhelmed by the shirtsleeves riding up and down with every movement. The next time Kurt reached for one of the issues of Vogue, Blaine reached out a hand of his own, grabbing Kurt's arm and bringing it to his lips. It started out as a quick chaste kiss to his knuckles, and Kurt hummed his appreciation but didn't go still until Blaine shifted his attention to the inside of Kurt's wrist, feeling suddenly taut tendons underneath soft skin, seeking Kurt's pulse, and leaving in his wake a reddening mark.

"What was that for?" Kurt said, a bit breathless, rubbing at his wrist when Blaine relinquished his hold.

Blaine smiled, bolder than he felt. "Nothing. I wanted to."

"Well," he replied, "you know I don't mind, but next time do it somewhere easier to hide."

---

Saturday morning Blaine had no plans. Kurt had dropped him off at his home the previous evening with a promise to get in touch if Mercedes and he finished at a sensible hour, but until then the day stretched long and empty. So he called his best friend. She greeted him at her front door with an enthusiastic hug; he said his hellos to her fathers as they made their way upstairs and the next two hours were spent discussing the last two months. "And of course you know Mr Schuester still refuses to commit to a set list for Nationals, with barely over a month to go," Rachel complained. "Impromptu performances may have got us this far, but we need to try harder now. Even Santana grudgingly agreed with me the last time I mentioned it," and Blaine was overcome by a fond longing for the antics of his former club. With Nationals out of the question the Warbler's practices had become, although no less intense, undeniably different. Wes and David were both graduating this year, and their disappointment at being unable to lead the team to the next level of competition had been apparent, for all that they had tried to disguise it. Their discipline had not faltered, but there was no denying that without an immediate goal it was somewhat harder to remain focused.

Eventually, with the April sun high in the sky, they went downstairs to find some snacks. While Rachel chopped carrots to make crudités for the hummus, Blaine, perching on the kitchen island, pulled out his cell phone and checked for text messages, but he had received none. Rachel caught sight of him, and stopped her dicing, fixing Blaine with a hard stare. "So, Kurt. He is your boyfriend, isn't he?"

"You know he is."

"Just checking," she said. "And he is a good boyfriend?"

Blaine smiled fondly. "He is."

"Good," she said, but then her brow knitted and her gaze narrowed; the resulting batch of carrot sticks was far from perfect, and with a disgusted sigh she started peeling a cucumber. "But then why isn't he here with you right now?"

Blaine sighed. He had know Rachel for almost two years now; he had walked right into that one, especially after the infinitude of conversations they had had on Finn's disappointing shortcomings as boyfriend. Hours alone with a different person were tantamount to imminent break-ups, incompatible sexual preferences notwithstanding. "He's with Mercedes. They're shopping for New York. For Nationals," he clarified, but it did nothing to ease Rachel's unimpressed look. "We do see each other at school every day. And it's not like here. We can just... be, there. No one cares," he said, thinking of last Thursday. It was a good thing Kurt always wore long sleeves, because the following morning, after breakfast, he had tugged Blaine aside with an expression that was half incredulous grin, half disbelieving horror, said "look what you've done to me!" and after rolling back his shirt, waved his wrist in front of Blaine's face. Blaine's only answer had been to kiss him quickly, just as the first period bell rang, before they rushed off to their respective classes.

"I want to meet him properly," Rachel finally said.

"Over the summer," Blaine promised. "We can hang out, the three of us. You'll like him, I promise."

"Blaine," she said softly, "you should talk to Finn. They're all quite upset you won't accept their apologies, after what they did, and while I understand your hesitation, it has been eight months now..."

Blaine, stubborn, refused to acknowledge her suggestion. He reached over and started slowly chewing on a carrot stick, pretending not to notice the way she was worrying her hands on her lap. It hadn't even been that bad, or lasted that long, and Finn and Puck had come to their senses early enough. But it still hurt, more than he thought it would.

---

That evening, Kurt called him tears. All his false starts and shuddery breaths gave Blaine plenty of time to imagine all manner of horrible things; for all that he repeatedly crooned "what's wrong, tell me, are you ok?" into his phone, it was a while until Kurt managed to heave out, "I told him. I told my dad."

"Oh god, Kurt! Are you ok? Do you need me to come over? I can pick you up, you can stay here if you need to, I can get my dad's car and be there in ten minutes," he said immediately. His only impression of Kurt's father remained that of a lumbering figure holding a tire wrench, wiping grease-stained hands on a dirty rag and standing next to his fine-boned son. After that encounter Blaine thought he had somewhat of an answer as to why Kurt was always waiting for him outside his house, whenever they did things together at the weekend.

"No, no," Kurt said between breaths that to Blaine sounded terrifyingly hysterical, frantic and shallow and too fast, punctuated by little hitching gasps and whines. "He said he already knew, and that he loved me just as much, and nothing would change that. And then I started crying. And I can't stop, but I had to tell someone, I had to tell you." It occurred to Blaine then that Kurt laughed so infrequently that he had no firm idea of what it sounded like, but that perhaps some of the noises he was making had their origins in his relief, and his release, and not in panic.

"Kurt, breathe," he urged again. "Do you want me to come over?"

"I... I think that would be too much for a single night." Kurt eventually said.

"But tomorrow..."

That time, Kurt's reply was instantaneous. "Yes. Please."

"Ok."

"Blaine?"

"Yes?"

His voice was small and pitiful. "Don't hang up?"

"Ok. I'm here, Kurt. I'm here." They remained on the phone, Kurt just breathing and occasionally making more of those breathy sounds, but now clearly calmer. Blaine pictured him, maybe sitting on his bed, back against a bedroom wall Blaine had not yet seen, immaculate posture sagging, red-eyed and blotchy-faced, and thought about how this was a part of Kurt no one ever saw, and how much he wanted to keep it this way, not only because he hated the thought of Kurt suffering, but because of what it was: private, secret, and above all, his.

---

"I'm so sorry," Kurt apologised late the next morning, tumbling out of his car and into Blaine's arms. "I wanted to see you, so much, but I also didn't want to leave, somehow."

Blaine wanted to card his fingers through Kurt's hair, but previous attempts had taught him that it was akin to running his fingers through a spider web, strange and slightly sticky, and likely to lead to trouble. He settled instead for kissing his chastely and pulling the two of them closer, drawing soothing nonsense on Kurt's back with his fingertips. "Hey, I understand. It's ok."

"It is," Kurt agreed quietly, lingering in his embrace for a few more seconds. When he pulled away Blaine studied his face; he looked exhausted, but there was also a certain intangible lightness to him that had not been there the last time they had seen one another. They did not stay in Lima much longer, just enough for Blaine to return inside, throw his iPod and his phone charger into his bag while Kurt made stilted talk with his parents. They had less privacy at Dalton than in Blaine's bedroom, but at school they had more ease, so attuned were they both by now to its subtle moods.

And besides, Blaine knew that the conversation they needed to have was best saved for those unbroken empty stretches of road where no one could hear them, or judge them. All important things were said in the car.

---

Kurt was a far better singer than he was an actor, although he very skilled at both, Blaine discovered when the drama club performance finally took place. It happened in late April, after midterms but before the rush of studying for finals and finishing syllabi truly began. All performances sold out, Kurt informed him, inordinately proud of himself and his co-director, and the students they had cast as Dexter and Tracy put in very decent turns; the rest of the cast was equally good. Blaine attended both the opening and closing performances; on the last night, when the cast was taking its final bows, the girls from Dalton's sister school presented Kurt with a pocket square of sorts, fashioned from the cast t-shirt he stubbornly refused to wear, while the boys brought forth a bouquet of roses for Gemma, their other director.

Their calm weekends resumed, blustery afternoons spent in a corner of the common room, unseasonably temperate ones spent under the trees dotting the quads, alternating between class readings and idle conversation, bodies always touching somewhere. A couple of times Kurt travelled to Lima without Blaine, who chose instead to remain behind and catch up on the steadily mounting piles of work cluttering his desk. He would set off as soon as classes finished on Friday, barely time for a hurried goodbye, and reach Lima just in time for dinner with his father. Blaine knew things were still somewhat strange between the two of them, because part of Kurt had spent the last three years certain that his father wanted as little to do with him as possible, and this was their way of getting to know one another again, and rectifying all those long silences. One day Kurt told Blaine that he no longer dreaded the coming of summer like he had before.

Another day they were working in companionable silence in Blaine's room, Kurt writing a French composition while Blaine solved trigonometric identities. Occasionally one of them would sigh, groan, or raise a hand to rub at tired eyes, or a sore neck. They had long ago finished all the grapes that Kurt had picked up at lunch for afternoon snacking, and an empty bowl sat between them.

"I need a break," Blaine said, "and some coffee. Do you want me to get you anything?"

Kurt did not look up. "Uh huh," he nodded.

"Usual?"

"Oui. Depeche-toi, s'il te plait, j'aime pas les boissons froides."

So off Blaine went, through now-familiar corridors; dark wooden panelling instead of pastel washable acrylic paint, polished hardwood and marble floors instead of linoleum. How grand it all was here, and how nurturing, education at long last paid the dues it deserved.

On his return he paused at his doorway to watch Kurt, who was now standing by Montserrat's cage, silhouetted against the setting sun. "Hello," he was saying to the bird ("It's a warbler - a warbler for a Warbler. It's a tradition, I think it's quite neat," Blaine had explained the first time he had noticed Kurt's gaze alighting on his bird, what felt like years ago but was only December, and Kurt had asked, "Did he come complete with gilded cage, or was that a personal touch?" without fully keeping the scorn out of his tone, to which Blaine had replied, "That's a bit harsh," and then the conversation had moved onto lighter topics). "Remember me?"

Blaine set the two paper cups on his desk. "Why did you quit the Warblers?" he asked, faced with incontrovertible proof at long last.

Kurt turned around, slowly. "It's a long story," he answered, still evasive, but more honest than the outright denial Blaine had been expecting.

"Tell me," he said. He sat down on his bed, leaving enough space for Kurt to sit down next to him if he wanted to. "I want to hear it."

Montserrat began to trill, and Kurt turned again, murmuring something about how all canaries looked alike. Blaine supposed he must have sighed, from the way his shoulders sagged, before he spoke again. "This school, it's a very good place, but... it doesn't really let you be."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that," Kurt replied, and Blaine's understanding faltered, because this was not his experience. So far Dalton had denied him nothing; sometimes the hardest part of attending seemed to be the knowledge that eventually he would have to leave it behind. Here at Dalton he could have a boyfriend and nobody was bothered by it, nobody was upset. Those aspects of his previous life that he still yearned for, he was beginning to suspect that they too would come again, given sufficient time. Kurt's objection made no sense to him, but he did not want to acknowledge his incomprehension, or his bafflement; he felt it would only serve to heighten this strange new difference between them. Something must have shown in his expression, however. "It's fine if you want to have things, Blaine," Kurt said, voice weary. "I want to feel them." He would not be drawn out further, and Blaine had to let the subject drop. They drank their lattes in strained silence.

A week later, after Friday practice, he managed to coax Wes' version of the story out of him. "He just got up and left," the upperclassman recounted, his disbelief still audible. "Stopped halfway through his solo in I-don't-even-remember-what, it was this amazing high tenor piece, and said 'sorry, but I don't think this is for me,' just like that, three weeks before the fall invitational." For all that Blaine turned the story over and over inside his head he could make no sense of it.

---
Part 2