Glee 1. Prologue

General A/N: The boys aren't mine to play with. I'm just borrowing them. I hope everyone enjoys reading this as much as I did writing it. It's slow moving at first, but it will pick up pace once the backstory is set. Rating is currently for language, but that will change.

~Prologue~

His bag made a soft thud on the carpet as he slipped it off his shoulder and lowered himself to the floor slightly more gracefully, ignoring the couch and opting to lean against its side. He pulled his laptop onto his lap, checking his email for the umpteenth time that day. Casting and crew assignments were supposed to have been emailed at 4 pm that day and it was now 6 pm. He knew he wouldn't get play crew. He never did, instead always assigned to "help out" one of the tech crews or costume design. He _knew_ he wouldn't get it, but that didn't stop that last grain of hope jump up and down in his throat and hands. He opened his email.

And sighed. And tried not to cry. Or throw things.

Again.

Sound crew, with the possibility of having to assist costuming.

_Pull yourself together. This isn't even a _real_ show._

But he could afford one moment of weakness, of feeling sorry for himself because his dreams were not ever going to come true at this rate, not if he couldn't even land a part for a showcase. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the soft fabric of the cushion behind him.

_Deep breaths_.

Deep breaths turned into soft, nearly silent cries as the pessimistic part of his brain took over, snaking tendrils of despair through his thoughts and pulling out memories of every rejection in recent history, taunting him with what could have been.

_We thank you for your application but regret to inform you that we cannot offer you a place at this time. We invite you to resubmit you application for next fall…_

_We thank you for your interest but cannot…_

_Your application has been rejected…_

His dream schools, gone. A state school would be better than nothing.

Yeah.

Then came the auditions.

_Crowd #1_

_Chorus_

_3__rd__ understudy for actor who has never been sick_

_Sound crew (don't worry, we'll teach you everything you need to know)._

This was not how college was supposed to go.

He had been expecting to get minor parts his freshman year. He had not expected to be forced out of the picture altogether.

No one tells you being successful in theater can be so difficult. When you come from a small-town high school (especially if you are one of their strongest, if not the strongest, singers) you think you have a chance. You think "yes, I'm talented enough. No one has told me otherwise. Talent is what really matters, not pedigree or training.

Well, those people telling you that you are great and talented and amazing, where are they teaching? What did they do with their lives? He knows it's unfair of him to think this. Life is hard and the adults around him told him those things because they didn't know any better.

The reality of the world outside the safety of high school is a stark contrast. Sure, sometimes the stars align and things happen for small-town stars. Unfortunately for him, most of those small-town dreamers don't get the magical alignment. The powers that be don't interfere and let the cruel world run its course. It's only when you are picking your dreams and your heart off the ground, dusting yourself off, and preparing to be broken by yet another rejection that you realize raw talent can only get you so far.

The real key to success, to seeing your name in lights on Broadway is raw talent trained to be the best. There was no denying his raw talent, even with his unique voice. He lacked the training.

He lacked a name, a name that people would remember.

Of course they wouldn't remember him. No one had seen him yet.

His applications had been summarily rejected from all his dream schools. So he got into a decent state school with a respected, though not famous, program.

Then came the downward spiral—even in this school you need a name. He still didn't have one. And you can't make one unless you have one or have the money to make the friends you need to get one.

So he had done what he could to make himself a part of the department. A part they needed and relied on.

_Excuse me, ma'am, but _

He knew, one day soon, the rejections might break him. When they wouldn't give him a practice room, he begged and pleaded until the secretary felt bad for him and gave him a key but no official time slot. When that wasn't enough he audited courses for the carillon on campus, his secret escape. When they wouldn't give him run crew he threw himself into what he did get: he was now the best at sound and could hold his own on choreography. And yet, he wasn't doing what he loved. It was close, but it _still_ wasn't enough. And they knew it. They knew being denied his love might break him—that one final rejection that would forever bury his dreams. What they didn't know was that when and if they did, he would go out with a bang. Each senior at the school could do a thesis project with nearly free-reign. All he would need is a faculty advisor. And he had one. And he had a plan.

_I have a plan. I have a plan. It has been approved, and nothing can go wrong. I have plenty of time to organize and finish preparations, and when I'm ready they won't know what hit them._

Moment of weakness over, he closed his laptop, reaching above his head onto the couch to place it on the cushion. Glancing at the clock on the wall (he was old-fashioned and was one of the seemingly few who could still read an analogue clock without an aneurism) he decided his favorite practice room would probably be free.

* * *

><p>He stood in front of the old music building, parts of which had been taken over by the theater department. It currently housed the musical theater section of the department. Staring in awe of the red brick, hard concrete, and soft grass surrounding it, he still couldn't believe he was here. That this was not an off-limits enigma any more, wasn't a completely guilty pleasure.<p>

In high school he had led his glee club for four years, occasionally acted when he had the time and was needed. He _loved_ performance in a way he didn't know loving anything was possible. Being onstage, sharing his love for his work, brightening the audience's day (or at least making them forget the banality of day to day life), _that_ was what he loved. And his work could _always_ be perfected—choreography cleaned, notes hit on the first try, verses and lines learned. There was always something to become better at—you could never get bored, and he would never tire of it.

"_Performance is admirable, but there is no money in it, there is no stability."_

"_Yes, sir. I know."_

"_Your mother and I would be happier if you were to choose something more stable. Perhaps you could indulge by going to performances in the future."_

"_Yes, sir. That would acceptable."_

_That earned a quiet chuckle, "And your mother thought that you wouldn't see reason."_

But he would always see reason. He would do nearly anything to make his parents proud.

The summer before his freshman year, his parents found him a small apartment a short walk from campus. It was nicely furnished, and combined with the allowance for pets and the location, _way_ outside the normal college student's budget.

He spent the weekend before classes organizing his life and ensuring he had all the books he would need this semester, including the optional texts (if the professors had taken the time to point out the extra readings he should take the time to read them). The walls, a bland beige he was too lazy to paint, were quickly covered by posters. The beige, he decided, contrasted nicely with the dark wood of his desk and coffee table. The springs in the couch had a penchant for stabbing the rear unlucky enough to sit in the wrong place, but it was otherwise stylish (if one could have a 'stylish' couch. But, most of all, it was his (just because he wanted to please his parents didn't mean he wasn't reveling at the freedom).

He was to be a lawyer. International law, to be precise. He needed to be fluent in French, proficient in Latin, and perfect at written and oral communication. Naturally, then, he was doing his undergrad work in History and French. This drew stares from the History majors intent on graduate school and professorship—a "true" History major. If a professor required them to share their plans for the future, his were met with scoffs and eye rolls. If he showed his face at a study group, he would be scorned.

He was doing this for his parents, yes. But he _liked_ History. He enjoyed his classes. French gave him little bits of trouble (sometimes he got confused with Spanish, the language he took in high school). For the most part, it wasn't as bad as he thought it could have been.

Freshman year was as fine as could be expected. He made Dean's list (although that was distinctly _not_ President's list). He started making friends—Wes didn't mind that he was copping out and going to law school; David didn't care he rolled his r's with his tongue and not in his throat.

Turns out, Dean's list was good, but not good enough. President's list was better. His father, never saying anything outright over their family dinners, made it clear he believed his son could do better.

His freshman year he had picked up his guitar on Sunday mornings, blowing a few hours playing. He had gone out twice a week with his new friends.

He could do better.

He knew he could.

So he did.

He sat and scheduled out his weeks, leaving room for unexpected things. Wake up at 5, run until 6:30, shower, eat, skim notes and tweak homework from the night before. Class from 8 until 3, quick coffee break, then study in the library until dinner. After dinner, back to library or the student union for meetings with various study groups or his French conversation group. Cup of tea while unwinding, perhaps with a dog-eared paperback, then bed. Repeat.

Every once in a while, on his way out for class or a study group, he would glance at the guitar leaning against the wall, fingers itching to pick it up and let his mind rest. Occasionally he would finger the pick he kept in his wallet—he couldn't bear to take it out. That would be too final. Once a month he would cave to David's and Wes's pleas to go out—they would end up at a bar for amateur night (hands stamped to show they were underage). But his father wanted President's list, so these outings were kept to a minimum.

At the end of the fall semester of his sophomore year, his father was proud—his youngest son had gotten President's list. He preened under the attention. His father was proud of _him_. He had done enough.

Then the gavel fell. He had proven he could do it. Now he had to maintain it.

"_Of course I can keep it up, sir."_

"_Your mother and I only want to go to the best law school. We only want the best for you."_

"_Yes, sir. I won't let you down."_

And so began his third semester. Same tune, different day. And re-settled into his apartment and classes began.

Until one boy turned up in two of his classes, French Grammar and his History Research Seminar. Until they were in the same French conversation groups, and shared a study group, and needed caffeine at the same time in the afternoon.

He wondered, if it hadn't been for that boy, would he be standing here, in front of this particular building the Saturday before classes start?

No. He wouldn't.

* * *

><p>He met the boy in the normal way—class. It wasn't unheard of to have someone in multiple classes. Normally, however, they did not span departments. They had the same French and History Research classes. If that wasn't enough, they unknowingly signed up for the same conversation block. And then the same study group.<p>

And then, a month into the semester, running a little late for his daily caffeine pick-me-up, he noticed who he was standing behind. This was getting ridiculous. Obviously whatever powers that be wanted them to know each other. So when the other boy got his coffee, he noted his order (medium drip, no room, three sugars) and after procuring his own (small double non-fat cappuccino with 2 pumps of sugar-free mocha) he introduced himself sharing the other's classes and asked if he could sit with him.

The coffee shop was small, attached to the library, so there was always a crowd: his classmate had, by a miracle, secured a corner table. His chair was uneven, the coffee beans had been burnt (that's what you get for convenience) and the music was a touch too loud.

The boy blushed lightly and closed his book, indicating the chair opposite him. They introduced themselves and started talking about the homework for that week and the next week's topics in conversation group.

This quickly became a weekly thing. He would intentionally get there at the same time the boy would appear, they would share a table and talk. Their friendship grew, until neither jerked his knee back when they brushed and the first one in line would buy the other's coffee that day.

Everything was fine, approaching great, even, until midterms started. Then he would get a text saying his coffee date couldn't make it that day, and if they could reschedule. And then he saw the boy—bright, caramel eyes tired, dark circles, four day scruff. He told the exhausted boy to take a break. He got a nod of ascent paired with a noncommittal shrug.

_I will when midterms are over_.

But things only improved a little.

_I didn't do as well as I should have. _

He rubbed his friend's shoulder sympathetically, offering any help he could.

Three weeks before finals (where had the semester gone?) he confronted his friend. They were sitting in their normal spot, the corner table with that hellish uneven chair. The boy across from him was staring blankly at his cup of (burnt, oversweet, too bitter) coffee rapidly cooling on the slightly (and revoltingly) sticky table between them. He looked like he had pulled everything inside himself, curling up even smaller inside his already small form.

He sighed, picked up his things, and stood up, holding out his hand.

"Come on, let me walk you home."

"What? No. I'm fine. I…I have things to do here anyway. Studying that needs to be done."

"No. You haven't touched your coffee. You look like you've been bitten by a zombie. You need sleep. Let me walk you home."

The boy just blinked at him. He touched his friend's shoulder, then moved his hand to lightly grip his forearm, pulling up gently.

"Come on."

He watched the other boy drop his head for a moment and, giving in, lean to pick up his bag before sliding out of his seat, grabbing his coffee with his free hand as the other hiked the bag up onto his shoulder. He led the way out of the shop, sneering slightly while weaving between heavily caffeinated sorority girls, then dropped into step with his friend, following the shorter boy through the nearly silent campus (it was during a class period). It wasn't the first time he had gone to his friend's apartment before, so he was only leading to make it seem like his friend had some choice in this (he would have dragged him into the apartment, kicking and screaming if it was necessary). But he knew his friend was too tired to fight right now, and the sense of control might be beneficial.

They finally arrived at the apartment, his friend digging his keys out and barely managing to get them into the lock, turning the wrong way and withering slightly as he realized his mistake.

He stayed until his friend, now swaying on his feet, made it into bed without killing himself, said he'd call later and let himself out, closing the door softly.

He called the next day (Friday) after his friend didn't appear for classes. He made up an excuse to the professor of the research seminar, saying that he hadn't been feeling well and had looked like he was coming down with something when he had seen him yesterday, and that yes, he knew that without a doctor's note the absence would count against his 3 allowed classes. He said he would relay the message.

He slid his phone out of his pocket, dialing with one hand as he strode across campus towards the nearest place for caffeine.

_I'm sorry about yesterday_.

I'm stopping for coffee and I want to see you. Want me to bring you some?

_No, I have here. You…come over whenever, if you want._

I'll be there in 15.

He slid the phone back into his pocket, turning the corner sharply and nearly ran into a boy dressed nearly as well as he was. Brown hair styled up and away from his face, well-fitting black oxford with hairline threads of glimmering silver, sleeves neatly rolled up to show strong, thin forearms and the first few buttons undone to reveal a tease of pale skin and the slight dip of his collarbone. All of this was over perfectly-fitting jeans. His black bag cut a line across his chest, making it seem broader. The pale boy cocked an eyebrow, giving him a once over, then stepped around him, making his way out as he muttered to himself. He gave the pale boy's rear an appreciative glance, then stepped in line for coffee. He purchased his normal and a brownie for his friend (he was a sucker for anything chocolate).

He finished his coffee on the way over to the apartment. He knocked twice, then leaned against the doorjamb as his friend opened the door. He was less haggard today—he still sported several days of scruff and hadn't gelled his hair down, the short curls springing up in an oddly pleasing mess, but his eyes looked less sunken and the circles less black against the olive of his skin. Not his normally dapper self in an old t-shirt and sweats, but not the zombie from the day before.

"I'm sorry to say this, but you look dead." He held out the bag with the brownie as a peace offering.

"Thanks. I know." He opened the door wider and gestured, closing the door behind the taller boy.

"So. You want to tell me what's going on? You're not sleeping, you probably aren't eating."

"I'm not doing well enough and I'm working on fixing that."

"By working yourself to death?"

"My father wants President's list again. I didn't do well enough on midterms. So now I am working harder to get my grades back up."

"You have grades most students would probably kill for, and they would definitely fuck a few teachers to get them. You need a break."

"I _need_ to get my grades up."

He watched his friend collapse on the couch, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees and bend his head down. He sits next to him, rubbing his friend's back.

"Want to tell me about it?"

He gets what is probably an abbreviated version. Demanding parents, forced choices, pushing and giving until nothing is left. And worse, his friend doesn't see the problem. Like a beaten puppy he just goes back, seeking attention and getting beaten again for his problems.

"You said you were considering music of some sort. Why don't pick it back up? It would be a way to de-stress."

And that was how he found himself talking his friend through a conversation with his father.

Who, with conditions, agreed.

Starting in the fall, as a means of relieving stress, he had paternal approval to audit music and/or theater classes, as long as he kept up Dean's list (his father had been comforted by the reminder that law school would be impressed with his grades—consistent Dean's list was better than sporadic President's list, and a little variety looked good on transcripts).

Who ever said he wasn't a good person? It didn't _really_ matter the things he _might_ get out of it. His friend was happy, grateful to have music and performing back in his life with, albeit grudging, parental approval.

No. His friend's happiness was _certainly_ the most important part.

Definitely.

* * *

><p><em>Again<em>.

He was _still here_.

Maybe he would learn his place this semester.

He wasn't cut out for this. He needed to accept that. Only certain people got the spotlight.

He would get the message, this time.

He was close enough to breaking. He had to be. Just a little longer, one more push into the obscurity and he was sure to crumble and pull his remains into the background.

* * *

><p>She tidied up her personal practice room (someone of her caliber shouldn't be expected to have to <em>share <em>her space for perfecting her performance). Everyone would, and _must_ love her.

This would be a good year, she was sure of it. She waved goodbye to the poster of Barbara on the wall and headed out for the evening. The weekend before her sophomore year of classes—a day in her studio (as she fondly referred to it), and a date with the equally talented love of her life at the vegan restaurant downtown. Then a day of relaxing her voice before wowing her professors (more than she had during auditions the week before). There was a returning-students mini-show each year to welcome in all of the freshmen. And then there would be lots of these mini-shows (a scene here and there from assorted musicals, to test everyone's ranges and accustom them to the audition process and all the emotions and stresses involved).

* * *

><p>"<em>Now, are you sure about this?"<em>

"_Of course I am. It's brilliant. Even you have to admit it."_

"_It is certainly a statement…"_

"_That's the point. Isn't the point of what we do to make people think?"_

"_Yes. But this…"_

"_Will be the slap in the face they need to realize what they have been doing."_

"_It could get you in trouble."_

"_How? I am not doing anything wrong, as long as you sign off and no one gets hurt."_

_He pulls the paper towards him, scribbling his name on the line._

"_Thank you."_

"_Just…be prepared to deal with the backlash. There will be. You know it as well as I do."_

"_Which is _why_ no one will know about it."_

"_You are going to keep this—he gestures vaguely at the space over the paper—a secret."_

"_For an entire semester, yes."_

"_Good luck. If you can pull this off, you'll certainly get someone to listen. And if anyone can pull this off, it would be you."_


	2. Chapter 1: Overture

He pushed himself off the floor, needlessly dusting off the back of his jeans as he softly padded toward the bathroom. His apartment room was an odd combination of modern and comfortable—the living room walls were a smooth grey; accents in white, black, and blue dotted the room. The black couch was low and modern, severe lines that fooled you into thinking it would be uncomfortable, more artwork than place to sit, until you sat down (it rivaled Kurt's bed in terms of comfort and the armrests the perfect width for a mug of tea). The rest of the apartment (except for the hideous kitchen and standard in every student-budget apartment) followed the same idea—sleek and modern until you actually _used_ it, then it was as comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans (not the ones you wear to impress, the ones to wear for yourself when no one else can see you, there was a distinct difference in Kurt's mind).

Bare feet cold against the hideous tile in the bathroom, Kurt looked into the mirror and sighed. Blue eyes looked bluer when outlined with pink. Most days he didn't mind being pale. Most days he liked his skin, and he should, the amount of time he devotes to its maintenance. But today was _obviously_ not most days. The tell-tale blotchiness had blossomed around his nose, his lips were too pink, his eyes rimmed in red and glassy.

_Pull yourself together. Just another day. Just like every other day. Go to the practice room. Practice. Go play the carillon. Come back and work on the plan._

There was still plenty of time, of course, but some idle sketching out of ideas couldn't hurt. And he should probably go to the grocery store, his supply of coffee filters was running dangerously low.

He splashed cold water on his face, rinsing away the salty track of tears, then switched the water to warm and began the methodical cleansing and moisturizing process. Toweling his face dry he straightened, sighing again as he fixed his hair into some semblance of order. Finally decently presentable (still better put-together than most on a Saturday on a college campus), he moved into the kitchen, grabbing a water from the counter and an apple from the fridge. He grabbed his bag from the floor and put the apple in a side pocket and the water in its pouch before checking his music to make sure he had what he would needed. Missing the carillon book. He went to the bookshelf, returning with the book and sliding it into his bag next to the music for the part he didn't get. But he would still practice it.

He put his shoes back on before slinging the bag across his torso and grabbing his keys, stepping into the brisk air and locking the door behind him.

The music building was a short walk (a short walk for a college student, about 10 minutes) and nearly deserted. There was an unfamiliar someone talking with Mrs. Pillsbury at the desk, but Kurt didn't stop to talk. He nodded his head in greeting, meeting Mrs. Pillsbury eyes over the shorter man's shoulder before making his way up the stairs to his practice room.

Most people hated the practice rooms in this building. It was an old building and came with its own…personality. Kurt enjoyed it sometimes. The sound traveled oddly between practice rooms—you would never hear or be heard by the people on either side of you, but each had its pair in the building. For some reason, the others thought it was better to have someone you could keep track of knowing your mistakes. Kurt took comfort in the anonymity (although his voice was fairly recognizable)—unless the person was determined to confront you, you were safe from any comments in rehearsal or class the next day. It was possible to find each room's spin pair—Kurt was confident he had found his room's pair (he had brought in speakers and set them up in his practice room loud enough to hear slightly from the hall, then walked around until he found the room from which he could hear the ghost of music from. It was on the opposite side on the row of practice rooms, in one of the rooms that was rarely used at the same time he was there).

He unlocked his practice room, the jingle of keys echoing in the deserted hall and mingling with the murmur of conversation from the lobby below.. He threw his bag on the chair before shaking his head at his own insanity and moved back to it to pull his music and water bottle out. Put the music down on the piano and cracked the top of the water bottle, taking a few small sips as he reveled in the silence only a silence room could bring.

And then he heard it.

A soft playing, drifting down from the ceiling. His breath caught in his throat. And then the playing started in earnest. The musician obviously knew what he or she was doing. Kurt could imagine fingers stroking the keys as they moved quickly and calmly up and down the octaves, an undefined form rocking with the beat, occasionally lifting up when a particularly emotional beat came. And then, amidst the chords and embellishments, a familiar song began to emerge.

Kurt couldn't help himself, he hummed along with the melody, trying to keep quiet, hoping the performer wouldn't hear him, or take notice. He just wanted to sit and listen to this forever.

And then the singing started. He, for it was obviously a tenor rising quietly behind the piano's melody. Kurt could tell he hadn't warmed up completely, but it was his practice session. This could have been a warm up. And even without the warm up, his voice was warm and full with emotion. All Kurt wanted to do was listen to him forever, listen to him pour his heart into the music.

The end of the song did come at last. Kurt capped his water bottle and placed in on top of his music folder before applauding quietly. Too quietly for the resident of the other room to hear. He didn't want to scare the owner of the angelic voice away.

The angel started playing again, this time warming up fingers and voice as he ran through scales. Kurt realized that he wouldn't get any work done at this rate and quietly grabbed his things. He could just practice in the carillon—there was a little upright in the little side room (Gods know why, though. Everyone knew that you couldn't practice carillon on a piano. Well, you could. But it would be pointless). And he could always sing along to whatever he ended up playing.

As he was walking out of the building, he stopped midstep—halfway out the door, pivoted on his heel, and sauntered over to Mrs. Pillsbury's desk.

"Good morning, Mrs. Pillsbury."

"Oh. Good morning, Mr. Hummel, I was just tidying up. Do you need anything?"

"No, just curious as to when my practice room will be free."

"You should go out, Kurt. And socialize. Isn't that what young people your age do? Don't work all of the time."

"I go out plenty, Mrs. Pillsbury. And you know I don't practice nearly that much."

She hands him the schedule, which he is careful to touch only in the designated areas (carefully and clearly indicated), scanning for the new name…there. Room 229, Blaine Anderson, newly written in Mrs. Pillsbury's neat print.

"Oh, good. Free after four."

"The incoming students have not yet signed up for their slots, remember?"

"Shit."

"Language, Kurt."

"Sorry, Mrs. Pillsbury. I guess I will be back later to check."

"Of course you will, Kurt."

Kurt nodded absently, pivoting again and walking towards the door.

"Oh, and Kurt?"

He turned back to Mrs. Pillsbury, hands straightening the stacks of notices already perfectly arranged on the desk. "Yes?"

"You could have just asked to see the schedule, or asked his name. I know you knew that slots haven't been finalized yet."

Kurt kept his face as blank as he could, only the hint of a smile curling a corner of his mouth. "Of course. But next time I really will need to look at the schedule."

"Have a nice day, Kurt."

"You too, Mrs. Pillsbury."

* * *

><p>In the other practice room, a short man with curly hair cut short to make taming with gel easier nearly fell off the piano bench as he heard a door close, the sound appearing without a discernible source. A moment later, a tall figure strode by his door. Blaine caught a glimpse of him as he went by, head tilted back as he took a draw from a water bottle, light-blue button down with sleeves rolled up, pressed against his torso by the strap of a black messenger bag.<p>

He shrugged internally as he returned to his practicing, wondering if the door closing he heard had carried through his supposedly sound proof door, or was part of the "charming habit" the woman downstairs, Mrs. Pillsbury, had warned him about. Sound travels weird in these buildings, especially the practice rooms, she had warned as he wrote his name on the schedule for his room and received his key.

"You never have to worry about coming out of the practice room at the same time as the person next to you, knowing that they know all of the mistakes you made."

He had thanked her for coming in on a Saturday. She had replied she was more than

Ha. No. Instead it was some person he didn't know and would probably never know who would hear the cracked notes, the poorly formed vowels, and judge him for it. Mentally shrugging, he guessed this was a comfort—those mistakes could never be tracked to him, unless someone was familiar enough with the building, could track which sounds went to which room, and (most importantly) _want_ to find him. Or have the time. He couldn't believe that music students generally have that much time to spend tracking some voice through the walls of the weird old buildings that housed the practice rooms.

Scales up and down, the patterns and movements of his fingers coming back to him faster than he had thought they would. He hadn't played in nearly a year, but it felt like it was yesterday, his fingers gliding across the keys, stroking lovingly as major scale after major scale filled the room. Then came the minor scales, before he doubled back and did thirds and chords, every warm up exercise he could remember ever being tortured with. They didn't feel like torture, though, not now. It was like he was on his way home. Not quite there yet, but he was on the right path.

Extensive warm up complete, he stood up and stretched, back and shoulders popping loudly in the now-silent room before digging out the music he had been given at the desk. Seb had gotten all sorts of strings pulled-not only was he auditing a class, it was the class that was _never_ audited _and_ he had been given the music and lines for the welcome back showcase. Whatever that was. Seb had warned him that he wouldn't be able to perform in the showcase, but the music would be something new to practice. He pulled the music out and put it on the stand, cracking his knuckles as he sat down to skim over it before reading through it. Sitting up straight, Blaine brought his right hand up to rest lightly on the keys before plunking out the melody slowly, engraining the notes into his mind before learning the accompanying words.

_.._.._

And then it was Monday. Up at 5, run until 6:30, class at 8 (what? Blaine was a morning person, even if he was a college student), and then, at 4:30, Musical Theater. It was the required seminar—every student thinking about Musical Theater as a specialization was _always_ registered for this class. It would be the only class he would audit, but it would be enough. It was essentially homeroom for the Musical Theater students. The grade was based on mini-shows, showcasing things they had been working on in other classes and the smattering of different scenes to help everyone get their feet wet in all the areas of the theater (lighting, sound, set design, choreography, costuming…etc).

And it was in this class, the water cooler/support group/tank of vicious piranhas that Blaine found himself in at 4:30 Monday afternoon, sitting in a small but well-equipped auditorium with ten or so other students new to the course sitting together and a handful of returning students sitting in the back, disenchanted faces looking bored.

As first days of classes go, he couldn't really complain. He might not love his history class for this semester but it wouldn't be impossible. He was finishing the last of his math credits, but Calc 2 couldn't be as hard as everyone said it was. And it would look good, better than taking a class he had technically already done in high school. And then there was French Composition with the same adorable (little-old-lady adorable) as last semester. And Seb, who had worked his magic and secured them seats in the same section.

Seb…Blaine was grateful for his presence, certainly. Seb had given him the courage to talk to his father. Seb was the reason he might skirt the edge of insanity instead of diving headlong into those waters. Blaine wasn't sure about anything involving Seb. The unanswered "why" nagged and gnawed at the back of his mind. Why would Seb bother himself with this? He had obviously gone through a considerable amount of personal trouble to do this for Blaine: coaching him through the call to his father, getting him into the class that is _never_ audited, getting them into the same French class even when there had been no seats when Blaine had checked. Why on earth would anyone do that much for someone he had just met? Why would anyone do that much for him?

Blaine jumped off that particular train of thought quickly. No need to head that deeply into his mind in the middle of an auditorium.

He was roused completely from his thoughts when the house lights began dimming so slowly Blaine thought that he was imagining it, gradually lowering the auditorium and its contents into pitch. Excited whispers sprang up around him, the conversations hushed with excitement before a spotlight clicked on audibly, illuminating a short, brunette girl standing on stage, head down, the microphone next to her chin nearly invisible but for a small shadow. She stood, frozen, for a moment before giving an almost imperceptible movement of her hand. The music began then, falling from the speakers in the ceiling, surrounding the audience with a snow-like blanket of soft piano.

She breathed deeply and then started singing, face contorting with emotion, pacing to and fro across the otherwise deserted stage, footfalls oddly silent (Blaine guessed it was a combination of practice and a skilled sound crew. Her talent and confidence were undeniable: she owned the stage and captivated Blaine and the other new students.

As the closing cadence rose and she hit her last note, soaring with a power Blaine hadn't thought a girl of her stature could produce. The final chord rang out, quickly consumed in applause as she took her bow, the spotlight fading as she straightened. The stage remained dark for a long moment.

When the lights rose, the same girl was standing next to a taller boy with light brown hair, the hint of curl waving through the tamed tresses. Even standing still, unspeaking on the stage they carried themselves with an air of superiority—it was _their_ stage. They owned it completely. Blaine thought they would look odd off of the stage, and anyone standing next to them would look completely foolish.

"Welcome to another year in our university's fine musical theater department." The boy's voice was clear and confident.

"Welcome to the new students, and welcome back to the old ones." Her voice had a demanding edge to it, as if convinced that if someone wasn't listening they would be after she opened her mouth.

"And please enjoy"

"Our welcome back showcase."

With that and some queue invisible to Blaine, the opening chords of "Getting to know you" started, the two onstage dancing and singing with each other. Blaine was watching them so closely he didn't noticed that they weren't alone on stage before they broke apart and joined their respective partners.

Blaine sat in his uncomfortable seat and watched, enraptured. He had gone without this for too long, the emotional part of his brain knew (the one that wanted more than being a lawyer). The King And I song ended, and the ensemble dispersed. Stage crew moved in and added a few pieces of a set, and two new students took the stage. They were less confident than the previous two—they didn't seem to own the stage in quiet the same way.

Blaine shifted slightly as the second group finished and another group came on.

This continued four more times, the scenes showing a wide variety of talent.

Finally (although it hadn't really been that long), a man (obviously the professor) took the stage.

"Kurt, could you bring the house lights up?" He directed his voice to the tech booth in the back of the auditorium and the room brightened.

"As Rachel and Jesse have already said, welcome to a new semester in the department of Musical Theater. I'm Dr. Schuester, but you all will end up calling me Will, so just go with that. The goal of this class is to show and get commentary on things you are working on in other classes. This is a place to grow and perfect your work. Periodically we will do things like this—he gestured at the stage around himself—to help you get accustomed to the audition and performance aspect of what we do. If you have nerves about auditioning, this is where you can learn to cope without it becoming a major problem. You can also explore stagecraft, directing, and anything else you desire." There was a loud cough from the back, which sounded suspiciously like a snort from one of the older students before quickly being covered up.

"Because this _is_ a performing arts class—his tone was disapproving for a moment, before returning to the joviality of before the cough—you will have a jury at the end of term. It needs to be approved of before you prepare. I'll have more information for you Wednesday. Come by my office hours or stay after today if you have questions.

"The class, as you know, meets Mondays and Wednesdays, here. Mondays are the time for you to rehearse whatever it is you need to and get comments, Wednesdays are performance days, where you can show off what you have been working on.

"So, that's it for today, everyone. All of the crews who were involved in the showcase and I will be hanging around for a while if you have any questions or would just like to talk to us." Conversation picked up throughout the auditorium as everyone reached to grab their bags, talking about the performances and goading each other into talking to the male soloist (Jesse, was it?)

"Blaine…Anderson? If you're still here, could you come see me?" Dr. Schuester was sitting on the edge of the stage, flipping through pages on a clipboard. Blaine pushed himself out of his seat and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder as he cleared the edge of the aisle of seats, weaving through the clumps of conversing students.

He cleared his throat lightly as he approached Dr. Schuester's perch on the stage.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm Blaine. You wanted to see me?"

Dr. Schuester looked up. "Ah, yes. Blaine. You must have some powerful friends if you got to audit this course."

"Sir?"

"We don't grant requests for audits frequently, but Mr. Smythe and his father vouched for you. Because you won't be officially graded for this course, you will have more lee-way."

"Dr. Schuester"

"Will, Blaine. Call me Will."

"Oookay." Blaine decided to skirt around _that_ particular awkwardness, since when did professors give students the right to use their first names? "I would really be happy doing whatever you need me to. Background, moving things, chorus. I'll be happy to accompany anyone who needs a piano player and there is no one else."

"Tell me about yourself, Blaine."

"I…I'm a sophomore History and French major, pre-law track."

"And why are you taking this class?"

"I…I did glee club and a bit of acting in high school. I…It was decided that I might do better this semester if I had an additional creative outlet."

"Do you want to be here, Blaine?"

"Yes. I do. I…I've missed performing."

"How about you prepare something for Wednesday? So we know where we're at."

"Of course, sir." He couldn't call his professor Will, even with permission.

"Do you play any instruments?"

"I'm fair at piano and guitar. I'm not amazing at either, but I can hold my own."

"Okay. Good. Maybe we'll have you do accompaniments for auditions in the upcoming weeks."

"That would be wonderful, sir. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Blaine. It's what we do here. Your jury will be different as well, but we'll get there later, after I speak with the rest of the department. Now…who would have an extra copy of the music…Kurt!"

"What?" It was a clear, staccato note called from the wings of the auditorium.

"Do you have an extra copy of the music for next week with you?"

"Of course I do." Blaine could _hear_ the eye-roll in his voice from across the room. His eyes glazed over when an angel appeared, walking towards them with sheet music in hand. This angel—Kurt, Blaine mentally shook himself—was pale, chestnut hair perfectly coiffed, black shirt open at the collar, gray jeans faded perfectly and tucked neatly into calf-high boots.

"Th-thank you." Blaine took the proffered music and busied himself with putting it in his bag, not noticing the once over Kurt was giving him. When Blaine looked up Kurt nodded once before turning on his heel and walking out the door.

"Well, that's it for today, Blaine. Unless you have any questions…?"

"No sir."

Dr…_Will_ nodded his farewell as Blaine ducked his head as he turned, walking out of the door towards the library and his coffee date (not a date…just a time to talk over coffee) with Seb. And thank him, again, for what he'd done. He glanced down at his watch. Then maybe he would run over to _his_ practice room to look at the music before dinner and homework.

* * *

><p>Kurt <em>might<em> have glanced at room 229 as he passed and listened very closely, but no. Nothing. Blaine Anderson must not be there yet. He was new, sounded like an angel, had powerful friends, and was an audit student.

He was going to be broken.

Or become the best the school had seen in a while.

But Kurt couldn't see Jesse stepping aside from his beloved limelight to let anyone else have a choice.

Maybe Blaine's friends in high places could be his protection.

Maybe.

Kurt shook his head. He didn't know why he cared. He got by intentionally _not_ caring. There was no point getting overly attached to people who only wanted to use you or would stand by and let you be used. There were some exceptions, of course. Brittany couldn't hurt anyone if she tried, Mercedes was good at listening, and Tina was stable. But…there was…something missing in each of their friendships. Kurt felt himself holding back each time, just a little bit. He knew it hadn't been their fault that he had been pushed to the background. Nevertheless, he had and they _had_ stood by.

No caring. Not now. Not yet.

His weekend had been filled with prepping for the show—rehearsals all day Sunday. Even though he was working lights crew, Will could always use him for something (and did). Or Jesse would need to point something out, and he would _have_ to be there to fix whatever it was for the self-important, condescending _fucker_.

His two classes Monday (the academic day) were Calc 1, even though no one in musical theater needs to be able to do solids of revolution, and French Language Lab, pour ameliorer son pronunciation et varier son vocabulaire.

And then there had been the showcase.

Lovely.

As always.

_Yeah_.

There were only minor problems, and none involving the tech that Kurt was supervising (sound and lights). And _of course, Will, I always have extra copies because I might leave one in my practice room, but that's fine take my spare and do you want my arm as well?_

That wasn't completely fair.

He was fairly well known for being well-prepared. And it wasn't Blaine's fault that Will had asked him.

Just a month. He had to wait a month. Let everything settle down, and then he could start talking to people and put the final preparations into motion. And then sit back and watch everything unfold.

He wondered if, by some miracle, things were to change, if he were to suddenly land speaking and singing roles, if he would change his plans.

No.

He had a point he needed to prove.

This was bigger than him.

_Who's there?_ [this part when Kurt finally breaks his silence]


	3. Chapter 2: Think of Me

The walk to the library and the coffee date waiting was pleasant, the sun warm on Blaine's fabric-clad back. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts (the normal now included , but Blaine couldn't be happier that worrying about that was an option in his life again) that he didn't notice a tall, slim boy falling into step next to him.

"You're going to get hit by a bike one day if you don't start paying more attention to your surroundings."

It was only when the boy's tenor, light and teasing spoke next to him that he snapped out of his thoughts.

"SEB!" He lunged at the boy, before catching himself. Blaine knew could be overly touchy if he didn't check himself.

"Oh, stop that. You can hug me."

Blaine flushed slightly and gave him a more appropriate-for-friends hug around the shoulders as they continued walking towards the library.

"You idiot." Sebastian stopped, drawing a "fuck you" from the cyclist they had just cut off. He tugged Blaine's elbow and pulled him in for a full-body hug.

"How was the end of your summer?" Blaine flicked his eyes along Sebastian's lithe form, dark jeans hugging slim thighs and hips, steel-blue Henley pushed up to his elbows and the first few buttons of the collar undone, revealing a slip of a white undershirt that made his already tan skin seem even darker.

"Good. Relaxed by the pool, mainly. How about you?"

"Same."

"Blaine…"

"No. Really, Seb. It was fine. My parents left me alone, mainly. I kept to myself and my job. And work was boring."

"I doubt that."

"Seb, I worked in a small bookstore. A busy day was five customers."

"You worked in a small used bookstore known for dealing in first-editions. Most people wouldn't dream about going in."

"It was still boring. At least I got out of the house."

"It was only boring because you couldn't molest the pretty books."

"That sounds about right."

Blaine felt Seb looking at him as they walked into the library, he tilted his head to the side in question. "What?"

"Nothing." Seb held the door for him, following him around the turns of the section indicated for forming a line. It was in the middle of a class, so there wasn't a line for the register or the pickup counter.

"What'll you have?"

"Grande drip. That's it." Blaine cut off Seb's protest—"We're here at the same time. We'll go back to normal next time. Deal?"

"Whatever makes you happy."

Blaine stepped to the side, allowing Seb to order and taking his coffee from the barista before moving over to the milk and sugar counter. He fixed his coffee and took up residence in his normal seat at their normal table, trusting that Seb could find him.

The café area of the library was essentially empty, but from their table they could look into the other half of the entrance room/foyer of the library, where more tables were set up.

Seb scanned the other half of the entrance hall and Blaine took the opportunity to gaze at his friend's profile. Seb took a sip, adam's apple bobbing under the covering of day old scruff and tanned skin. Blaine wasn't expecting Seb's face to twist into a sneer.

"Fucking disgusting."

"What? Is something wrong with your coffee? I'm sure they'd remake it."

Seb turned in his seat towards Blaine, setting his coffee down and covering Blaine's hand, which had come to rest on the table, with his free one.

"No. _Her_. She's cheating on her boyfriend." He inclined his head in the direction of a couple being far too couple-y. "If you're in a monogamous relationship, you should damn well act like it."

Blaine just stared.

"Close your mouth, Blaine, or someone's going to get ideas."

Blaine snapped his mouth shut. "It's just…surprising."

"Really?"

Blaine's gaze could have bored a hold in his cup, the hand that wasn't under Seb's moving to rub against the paper sleeve. "You just strike me as a 20-minute, fuck'em and leave'em guy."

"My dear Blaine, I might not do relationships often, but when I am in one, I am damn near the best boyfriend."

"Huh." A frown creased Blaine's forehead, eyebrows drawing together. Seb leaned back, eyebrow cocked and waiting for Blaine to puzzle it out. Ten seconds later, brow unfurrowed, Blaine turned to Seb. "One day, you'll stop surprising me."

Seb finished his sip, half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, blue eyes softer than usual. "I'd like to have that day."

Blaine flushed, staring dumbstruck at Seb. He _thought_ he understood what Seb was saying. But he wasn't good at these things. He could be wrong of course. And then again, he could be right.

Seb's nudge against his shoulder jarred him from his thoughts. "So, tell me how your first day went."

-/-/-/-

"Have you decided what you're going to sing?"

Their cups of coffee sat empty and forgotten between them, the remaining dregs (cinnamon for Blaine, chocolate syrup for Seb) cooling at the bottom.

"Not yet. I have a few ideas. I haven't decided yet. I have a little bit of time."

"Tell me your ideas? Before you say it, I do care. I asked, didn't I?"

" 'What I Know' by Parachute, 'Go the Distance' from Prince of Egypt, or…" he ran through his music collection in his head, " 'Iris', maybe. But I'm not sure."

"By the Goo Goo Dolls, right?"

Blaine's face lit up a smile. "Yeah."

"From what I've heard you sing.."

"Singing at the top of my lungs in a car or on a roof while drinking does not count."

"From what I've heard you sing," Seb continued, over Blaine's interjection, "I'd go with 'Iris'. It fits your voice better without having to change keys."

"And the sheet music shouldn't be too difficult to find."

"Probably online. Guitar, piano, or a capella?"

"Piano, probably. It doesn't seem like a guitar or a capella song."

"And you can show off your piano-playing abilities."

"I doubt I play any better than anyone else does."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. You can't know yet. When do you have to have this ready by?"

"Wednesday."

"Well then, what on Earth are you doing here talking with me? Go practice."

"I'm heading back to my apartment. Walk with me?" Blaine didn't know why he was asking. That was the routine. They met after Blaine's classes. They would walk towards Blaine's apartment and Seb would peel off whenever he needed to.

"Of course. Tradition."

Blaine hummed 'Tradition' and earned a playful smack on the arm before that hand curled around his bicep and pulled him up, toe to toe with the taller boy. Well. This was unexpected. And very, very close. It would seem that Blaine had been correct in his guess about Sebastian's intentions with that comment. Seb looked down at him, blue eyes searching Blaine's, the difference in their heights pronounced when they stood this close.

Seb took a small step back and then bent down slowly, somehow managing to both hold Blaine's eyes and pick up both of their bags at the same time. A smile broke out on his face when he saw Blaine swallow at the closeness and the innuendo behind the move.

Sliding his and Blaine's bags onto his shoulder, Seb spun on his heel and walked out of the café, Blaine following quickly to make up for the second he had stood dumb on the spot. Free of the library, Blaine removed his bag from Seb's shoulder, pulling it over his head so the strap rested comfortably across his chest.

They walked in a comfortable silence, hands not quite brushing but they came close a few times.

The pair reached the corner Seb usually headed down, towards his own apartment. Blaine paused out of habit, the hitch in his step nearly causing him to fall over. "You aren't going here?"

"I can if you want me to. I have nothing to do and I thought I'd walk you home." The teasing tone and self-confident smirk was back.

"You don't need to."

"No, but I want to. You look like a puppy, Blaine."

"Yes. You've told me before. And will doubtless tell me again."

"Doubtless." Blaine threw the punch this time. Seb rubbed his arm and pouted at Blaine as they walked.

"Mine is better."

"Of course it is. We've established you were a puppy in a former life."

Blaine stuck his tongue out at Seb.

"You're also five."

"Isn't college about unleashing your inner child?"

"No. College is when you eat sugary cereals and stay up later because your parents aren't there to tell you otherwise."

They had made it to Blaine's apartment.

"I'll let you practice."

"And do homework. And look over the syllabi for tomorrow. And copy dates into my calendar."

"And sleep."

"Sure."

"Sleep, Blaine. It's only the first day. No need to start this the first day."

Blaine shrugged. Sebastian sighed.

"I'm leaving now." Seb opened his arms for a hug. Blaine stepped into his arms and hugged, trying to thank the boy who had helped so much and at least partly understood. He was going to pull away when Seb's fingers ghosted over his side and up his shoulder. Seb's voice was breathy, the normal tint of arrogance different. Less off-putting, but scarier. "And that whole innocent thing? Super hot."

Blaine would have sworn he felt Seb's lips ghost over his jaw just under his ear before he spun around and walked off, whistling to himself.

But he was probably just fooling himself.

Seb had seen far too much of him to want what was there.

_Stop. _

_Don't spiral. _

_Do better. Work harder._

_Unlock your door. _

_Go inside._

_Check syllabi for tomorrow. _

_Double check when the Music building closes. _

_Find sheet music. _

_Grab pretzels, water, and apple. _

_Check time. _

_Repack bag in case there is time for homework before dinner and there is a spot at the library. _

_Head back to Music building to practice. _

_Practice. _

_Library for homework._

He followed the simple directions he planned out for himself. He managed to open the door, setting his bag on the chair and turning on the laptop sitting on his desk. As it booted up he went into the kitchen and took out a bag for the pretzels and filled it, tossing it across the room to land next to his bag before digging out an apple, washing it and biting into it as he crossed back to his laptop. Logged in, he flipped open his bag, adding the pretzels to a side pouch and pulling out the syllabi he had printed earlier and the black leather-bound planner. He checked the syllabi for the classes that would meet on Tuesdays—introduction day only, only the syllabus needed—then the ones that meet on Wednesday—French written work and History reading. Quickly locating the necessary textbooks and notebooks, he slid those into his bag.

Blaine rolled his shoulders, getting a few satisfying pops down his back and shoulders as he sat down in the computer chair and opened up a browser, reaching over to grab the remote for the stereo while the internet loaded. Generic pop radio filled the room. Blaine prided himself on listening to just about anything and having a respectable collection of music, but top-40 was his guilty pleasure.

Internet loaded, Blaine opened up what he had always used to find sheet music as well as the Music library's website (on the off-chance they had the song he needed). Bored with the commercials on every radio station, Blaine pulled up iTunes and hit shuffle.

And the perfect song hit him.

Sometimes, he wondered if his iTunes shuffle was magic. He remembered it doing this when he was in high school and looking for ideas for his Glee club. He'd spend hours thinking of songs, all good but none perfect. And then he'd take a break and let iTunes decide what to play. The next song it would pick was always what he would bring to the Warbler's council. What they would insist he sing lead on.

Knowing he had the song, the once-familiar determination washed over him. He essentially knew the words. It was just perfecting them and getting the piano part down. He wondered if he could memorize it before Wednesday.

Searching quickly and efficiently for sheet music was something he didn't think he would have remembered how to do. Blaine was wrong. He found the music, scanned the range and changed the key down a bit. Professor Schuester hadn't said that wasn't specifically forbidden, so he hoped it would be okay. Because that song. In that key, landing the notes in (what he had been told to be) the most emotionally powerful part of his range, this song might be enough to make him worthy of what the department had allowed him to do.

Indicating he was a university student in a music program (with a quick confirmation email to his school email) and the sheet music was free and printing. Waiting for the printer to stop noisily clacking away, Blaine checked the Music school's website—classes ended at 10:10 pm, the building was locked for the night at 10:30 pm.

Blaine closed his laptop and turned off the stereo, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. He paused before opening the door. _Water. You forgot the water, dumbass._ He walked back to the fridge and took out a water bottle. It slid into the pouch on the side as the keys clinked together when he picked them up off the counter where he had dropped them.

With his mind full of music the walk to the Music building passed quickly. Blaine nodded to Ms. Pillsbury sitting at the desk and organizing her forms.

"Your room should be open, Mr. Anderson." He froze briefly, wondering if he had done something wrong and ignored some unknown protocol.

"I'm sorry. I know it's not my time slot and I shouldn't have just assumed that it would be free."

"No worries, Mr. Anderson. The schedule will not be confirmed until after drop/add week. I was simply letting you know you weren't in for a surprise."

Oh. "Umm. Thank you, ma'am. I'll let you get back to work."

Blaine vaulted up the stairs as fast as he could. Not because Ms. Pillsbury wasn't nice. She was. He didn't even bother to figure out why he had run out of the room, lock clicking as he opened his door. He couldn't hear anything from the supposedly 'paired' room. It was probably just a superstition. Or a joke played on new students. Or a way to push the new students to push themselves more?

The sound of his bag unzipping was harsh in the otherwise silent room. Blaine pulled out the sheet music and the water bottle. The water went by his foot on the ground, the music in its place on the piano. He stretched his arms over his head and then brought his hands down to the keys, automatically sitting up straighter.

His warm up re-centered him. Then he pulled the music so he could see it. First the accompaniment. It didn't seem too complicated. Soon enough, Blaine had it decently down—not performance ready, but within range. Vocals came next, fingers plunking the melody until he knew it. Then together, section by section. A quick break, a drink of water and a walk around the room. He checked his phone, on silent out of respect for anyone who might be in a practice room around him, no calls, only a text from Cooper saying he wouldn't be able to talk that night and he was free on Tuesday if Blaine was. Blaine responded, slid the phone back into his pocket, and resumed his seat on the piano bench.

He ran through the piece a few more times, listening hard during the sections he wasn't as confident on. Feeling slightly more confident, he pulled out his phone again and praying that no one else was still in the building to be bothered. An honest opinion would never hurt, and Wes knew music, so Blaine thought this was worth the risk.

"Blaine! I didn't expect to hear from you this week. I thought you'd be buried in some books planning your semester and putting the rest of us to shame."

"Umm. No. I…I want your opinion on something." He struggled through the words. Asking was the hardest part. The moments before the performance, the moments after. The worrying about the judging. He was probably interrupting Wes' day. He might have class soon, after all it wasn't that late. The concern that it isn't ready, it hadn't been enough yet.

"Sure. I'm done with class for the day. What do you need?"

"."

"Could you say that again in English?"

"I..uhh..I'm taking a music class and I have to perform on Wednesday and I'd like for you to listen to what I have so far."

There was a whoop of joy from Wes. "You're in music again! Thank goodness. I had a hard time watching you without it last year. Of course I'll listen. I only listened to you multiple rehearsals a week for four years."

"Uhh. Okay. So, I'm going to put you on speaker?"

"Of course."

Blaine pressed the appropriate button before setting the phone down on the piano. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. Ready when you are."

Blaine closed his eyes. Counted to ten slowly. He re-opened them slowly and then started the introduction. He sang, pouring his heart into the words, trying to conjure emotion from the keys. He stumbled a little in places. Nearly had a mishap as a sheet tried to decide it didn't want to stay in its proper place.

And then it was over. He reached down and picked up his water, taking a few shallow sips.

Wes remained silent.

10 seconds.

15.

"Wes?"

"I'm here. Just speechless. Don't ever stop singing again, okay?"

"What did you think?"

"Shaky on the second verse and end of the bridge. What you were confident on you were very confident on. The rest was still better than it has every right to be."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Any time. I miss hearing you sing. Want to catch up over dinner sometime this week? Friday, maybe? And do some I-survived-the-first-week celebrating?"

"I'll get back to you on that."

"I'll take it. Have a good rest of the week and break a leg on the audition, Blaine."

"Thank you. You too, Wes."

The call ended. Blaine stood up to get a pencil from his bag. He saw a figure walk past his door, possibly the same one from Saturday, a back covered in a black shirt, sliver of pale skin at the collar, jean-clad legs ending in calf-high boots.

Blaine stretched again, oddly stiff. He glanced down at his watch. Well then. That would be why. He had been practicing for hours. If he flexed his fingers and lightly clearing his throat he could feel it—a tiredness found only in the wake of a long rehearsal. Blaine marked the sections Wes had indicated and a few notes of his own. Deciding that he should probably stop for the day and start on the rest of his homework, Blaine cleared the music and water bottle back into his bag, leaving the room and locking it behind him.

Ms. Pillsbury wasn't at her usual post as he left the building, the hour being far later than normal business hours. But, thankfully, not later than the library (and the attached coffee shop) would be open.

The library was nearly empty at this hour on the first day of classes. A quick stop to get a cup of coffee and a biscotti, then he was settled at a desk in the back (currently deserted) corner of the library. He pulled out his planner, the history book, and his notebook and set to reading.

* * *

><p>Kurt heard Blaine come in an hour or two after he did. At least, he <em>hoped<em> it was Blaine moving around in the other room. If it was Blaine he would get to listen. If it wasn't he might have to endure some other newbie fumbling their way through next week's audition piece. Or leave.

Kurt had mastered the audition piece. It wasn't particularly difficult. In the free time not being in the spotlight had given him he had time to work on his musicianship and his range. Although he loved being different and wouldn't have it any other way (being different made him who he was), his range had been a bit of a problem. Not quite low enough to hit the lower tenor notes, not always quite high enough to be a noticeable countertenor in a soprano section, awkward transition in the middle between chest voice and falsetto that didn't always sound the best. But he had worked on it. And he was better. His vocal instructors for the various classes he had to take and clinics he had gone to had commented positively and told him to keep doing what he was doing.

He stopped singing as soon as he heard a lock in a door that was not his, hoping. He waited with baited breath, not even sure why the thought of a poor newbie singing was something he wanted to hear. But he did.

If Saturday hadn't been a fluke, then Kurt could listen to the boy perform any time. Or listen to him sing the phone book. Either way.

At last, about when Kurt had raised his own hands back to the keys, the person in the other room began his warm up. It was Blaine. Definitely Blaine. A bit creepy that Kurt knew his voice already and they hadn't really talked? Perhaps.

Continuing that line of general creepiness, Kurt settled into the chair in the corner to start his French homework, start brainstorming ideas for the ongoing project, and listen to Blaine go through his scales.

After a warm up of impressive length Kurt heard Blaine walk around before stilling and begin working on a piece that sounded familiar but…not. Okay. It was just the accompaniement. Probably his "audition" piece for Wednesday. Too quickly for someone who was an auditing student that part was near-perfect. And then he started singing. That song. Not one Kurt would have ever considered for an audition. Ever. But it suited Blaine's voice more than any of Kurt's standbys would have.

It was obviously a piece Blaine already knew by ear—there were a few missteps with the words, but he quickly fixed them.

And then he played the accompaniment and sang at the same time, hesitant as his brain worked to get his mouth and his hands to line up. A few missed keys, a few pitches held too long or a little flat.

Even not having spoken to Blaine, Kurt had learned one thing about Blaine. He was determined to be perfect. Kurt had heard auditions more poorly prepared than Blaine had been after only a few hours of practice.

Kurt wasn't sure how long after, but Blaine had stopped and Kurt was going to get up to leave. That was until Blaine was speaking to someone, probably on the phone.

Kurt listened, wondering what was going to happen.

Blaine started playing. And then he started singing. And if Kurt had thought Blaine had been putting emotion into the song before, Blaine must be ripping his own heart out and using his lifeblood to paint a masterpiece. It wasn't even a particularly sad piece. The emotions behind Blaine's voice assaulted Kurt's ears in the most pleasurable melancholy he had ever felt.

Too soon the song was over and Blaine was speaking to the other person who could hear him.

A knock on Kurt's door nearly made him fall out of his seat. He got up to open it, revealing a dainty blonde, hair cut in a stylish bob and perfectly made up despite the later hour on the first day of classes.

"You almost done in here, Kurt? You've been hogging it for _hours_."

"Yes, Quinn. Almost done. Let me just grab my bag and music," Kurt did this quickly, slipping the bag over his head and walking through the doorway. A throat clearing behind him had him turning around and leaning down to kiss Quinn's upturned cheek before heading back down the hall.

Kurt didn't glance into Blaine's room. It took a surprising amount of self control to just walk by without throwing himself through the door to introduce himself. That was something a Rachel Berry would do.

No one likes a Rachel Berry.

So Kurt kept going. A quick glance at his watch told him he had missed the opportunity to have dinner with Tina and Mercedes. There was always Wednesday.

Speaking of those two…checking his phone would probably be a good thing.

Five missed calls, 20 texts, two voicemails.

Kurt ignored the voicemails and skimmed through the texts: they escalated from "why aren't you answering" to "who is he and call me now because he might mind if I remove your balls".

"I'm not sure you want to castrate me. If you do I would be able to challenge your vocal range. Either of yours, actually. And I don't think the practice room would really miss them."

"That was Mercedes's text, by the way. And practice room? It's the first day of classes. What on earth could need to be practicing instead of hanging out with us?"

"Audition prep for next week."

"Doesn't take you five hours. What else were you doing?"

"Homework. I had the time and a place to do my French homework in peace."

"Uh-huh. So, why did you decide a practice room would be the best place for doing your homework?"

"It was quiet?"

"What aren't you telling me?"

There was a time when Kurt wouldn't have said anything to Tina, would have replied in the negative and countered with snark.

But Kurt had dropped those walls.

"Mercedes…might not have been so wrong about it involving a boy."

"Spill."

"Nothing to spill. Just a newbie in my room's pair."

"Which one, do you know?"

"Blaine Anderson. He's auditing Schue's."

"How did he get in?" Tina's voice rose—that class was _never_ audited. It was considered the sanctuary for the musical theater majors.

"A few fucks? Friends in high places? Money? Maybe all three? I haven't spoken to him."

"So you were just listening to him practice, alone in your room without telling him you were listening? No. That's not bad form at _all_."

"Just wait until you hear him sing. I'd like to see you leave once he opens his mouth. It's like…listening to a fallen angel begging for re-entrance to heaven. I'm not sure about the song itself…but as a delivery method for his voice? I'll give him credit. He knows his stuff."

"High praise for a boy you have never met. And don't you not like special treatment? He's getting it if he's auditing Schue's."

"I know, Tina. I'm just listening. And maybe he got lucky. What if his luck runs out like ours did? A voice like that needs to be shared. Not saying that you or I can't sing, but…"

"Kurt."

"Yes, Tina?"

"Shut up and get some dinner. Then sleep. And I mean eat something. None of this 'It's after 10 o'clock so I can't eat' shit."

"Yes, mom. I promise to eat."

"Good boy. Call me tomorrow, yes?"

"Of course."

" 'Ta, love."

"Love you too."

One friend down, one to go. Kurt dialed before tucking his cell between his shoulder and ear as he dug in his bag for his keys. Which were always at the bottom. Under a book.

"Where the fuck?"

"Language, Kurt." She _would_ answer at that moment.

"Says the one who threatened to rip my balls off because I was in a practice room and my phone was off. Before you say it, yes, I was there for a long time, yes, everything is okay, no, I haven't lost my mind."

"That's debatable. Any reason you had the opportunity to misplace it?"

Kurt retold the story as he heated up his dinner—half the remaining whole wheat pasta and fresh tomato sauce. The microwave beeped as he finished the story and nearly burnt himself as he checked to make sure the pasta was hot.

"Are you eating?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And going to sleep tonight?"

"That is the intention." There would have been a point that this would have bugged him. He didn't forget to eat intentionally most of the time. He just has a tendency to be sidetracked and forget he is hungry. The sleeping thing was a different matter entirely. Insomnia ran rampant through his family and he was just another Hummel blessed with the fun.

"Good boy."

"I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Yup. Dinner like normal?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Are you performing this week?"

"I'm up if we have time."

"Monologue or song?"

"Song. 'The Prettiest Thing' by Norah Jones."

"No Broadway?"

"I'm expanding my repertoire."

"I'm sure Schue will like it."

"Won't change anything. St. Berry won't like it."

Mercedes said her goodbyes in the same way Tina had—another reminder to eat, sleep, and that she would talk to him tomorrow and see him Wednesday for dinner.

True to his word, Kurt finished his dinner, washed the dishes, and prepped the coffee pot and thermos for tomorrow. Preparations for the next day continued in his bedroom, laying out his outfit and changing into sleep pants before beginning his exfoliating and moisturizing routine. Contacts came next—long fingers rinsed before peeling the little plastic disks off his eyes and dropping them into their case and squirting in saline. Glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, Kurt brushed his teeth as he wandered the apartment—door locked, lights off, double checking the coffee and thermos.

Back in the bathroom, teeth clean and ready for bed, Kurt hoped that just one night he'd be able to sleep through the night.

Ha.

He should be a comedian. Or go to the doctor to get some fancy drug that would help.

Or he could just suffer. Sleep was overrated and took up far too much time, anyway.

Kurt grabbed a book of the shelf next to his bed, flicking on the lamp with the corner as he flops onto the covers. Wiggling around until comfortable, Kurt flipped the book open to a random page and started reading: the well-known story gave his overactive brain something to focus on, but not something that he would stay awake to read.

He woke up with a start, the book resting on his chest and a crick in his neck.

The clock to his right read 4 am.

He estimated four hours of sleep. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Experience told him that he was best served getting out until 6, then going for his normal run once the sun was out and continuing his day as normal.

Slipping on shorts and a t-shirt worn only before the sun rose and during physical activity, Kurt put his contacts back in, laced up his sneakers, and grabbed a $5, his id, and his calc book (he'd drop it back off before his run). Door locked behind him, he trotted off to his usual haunt.

24 hour diners were a godsend. This one was close, had decent coffee, and wasn't overrun with creepy and annoying drunks. And the waitress on the graveyard shift was content with letting Kurt refill his own coffee at his leisure as long as she could relax and not wait on him (as the only customer) hand and foot.

"Back again, Porcelain?"

"Still in hell, Satan?"

Kurt took his normal seat at the bar and Santana filled up a coffee mug and set it in front of him.

"Why are you here? Classes just started and you shouldn't be stressed yet. And don't you dare tell me you choose to be awake at this ungodly hour because I will pour coffee on your head."

"Insomnia, Santana. Always insomnia. I don't particularly have a choice in the matter."

"There are ways. You just choose not to. Puck or I could always..."

"No. None of that. I don't want to know. What you want to do is fine, but leave me out of it."

"Untwist your panties Hummel, no one's forcing you."

Kurt glared at her over the rim of his coffee cup. "Isn't diner coffee supposed to suck?"

"You're the only customer since 1. I made this pot for myself. It's the good stuff."

"It's times like these I wonder if you really hate me or it's just for show."

"I like good coffee. I make it. I'm too lazy to make a new pot just for you."

"Sureee…"

"Shut up and do your.." she pulled the book closer, "calc. Ew. Aren't you theater? What are you doing with calc?"

"Boredom and I like to be challenged. And it's supposed to be easier than math for not math people."

"Whatever you say. Wake me up if someone else comes in." Santana walked over to a booth and stretched out, seeming to doze off quickly.

Kurt set an alarm on his phone—6:10 would give him enough time to run, shower, dress/primp, and get to a 10 am class—and opened his book, looking over what he might have forgotten over summer.

* * *

><p>Blaine's Wednesday morning dawned just like every other. Up before the sun, running (sometimes parkour, sometimes like a normal human), shower, dress, and class. Back from his run and freshly showered, Blaine spent extra time on his hair and outfit.<p>

Audition days were always tough: professional but not too much, hair slicked out of the way but not the helmet he had favored in his Warbler days. He settled for a royal purple shirt, dark wash slim fitting jeans, and a bowtie (because who could resist a bowtie?).

Last thing was his bag: Blaine triple checked everything (touching but not removing the music from its proper place), threw in a water bottle, granola bar, and an apple, slid his thermos of coffee into its pouch.

The morning passed smoothly. Academic classes went well enough, even if there were some idiots in his history class. He ran into Nick in line to get lunch and they ended up chatting until Blaine realized he would be late for his music class. He said his apologies and walked briskly to the auditorium.

Technically, he was still early. Class wouldn't start for another 10 minutes, but not being this early made him nervous. Especially when there was an audition involved.

The auditorium was still mostly empty when he arrived. He looked for Prof..no, Will, to ask if there was somewhere he could quickly warm up.

"Blaine! By the stage, if you please."

Blaine hurried to the stage. Will was sitting on the edge again, feet hanging off as he once again flipped through a clipboard.

"Yes, sir?"

"You set to perform today?"

"Yes, sir. Is there a place that I can warm up? If there isn't that's fine too."

"Of course there is. Doors that way," Schue points, "and to the left. There will be a door on your right that will be unlocked. You're up second, so you can miss the first performance and warm up or warm up now and watch and then perform, your call."

"I think I'll warm up now and watch."

"Okay. Do you need an accompanist? Or track played?"

"No, sir. If there's a piano I can use?"

We'll roll Brad's out into the middle for you. Off you go, then. Class starts in 7 minutes, first performance right after that."

Blaine left out the door Schue had indicated, finding the room easily. It was really more of a costume storage closet, but it had a little upright and that was all he needed. Closing the door behind him, Blaine slipped his messenger bag off, pulling out the water and music. He took a few shallow sips of the lukewarm water (an acquired taste he had never really acquired) and sat at the piano bench. He went through a much abbreviated warm up and then ran through the song, singing softly but no less passionately. Content for the moment, Blaine pulled the bag onto his shoulder and clutched his music tightly, closing the door as he returned to the auditorium.

Prof..no..Will was on stage calling roll and introducing the first performer. A polite smattering of applause greeted the girl as she stepped on stage.

But Blaine wasn't paying attention any longer. He hadn't performed in so long he had forgotten the occasional bouts of stage fright. He breathed deep, forcing himself to relax, running through the music and drawing small circles on his knee, the drag of skin on denim keeping him focused.

_You can do this. If there is anything you can do, it's performing. Wes doesn't lie to you. You led the Warblers as soon as they figured out you could sing. The Warblers had a waiting list. Not just any sophomore got to lead them to Nationals. Coop liked it when you sang it last night for him. _

_Just breathe._

Blaine heard the applause signaling the end of the first performance and let his bag fall to the ground. Walking up to the stage, climbing up the stairs, hearing his feet on a wooden floor, it was like stepping back in time. If he closed his eyes he could pretend it was just Dalton, just like normal. Even if it wasn't it _felt_ normal. He could feel the self-assured Blaine Warbler inside him.

He could do this.

The baby grand was before him. He looked at…Will…got a nod, and sat down. Keys uncovered, music in place, back straight and hands hovering, Blaine froze for a second, just breathing.

_You can do this_.

And then he started.

First chord.

_He stumbled into faith and thought  
>God, this is all there is?<em>

He refused to listen to his voice, to the quaver he could feel. He swallowed down the fear as the rush of performing took over. This had been his life for four years. It was just a long-delayed homecoming.

_The pictures in mind arose  
>And began to breathe<br>And all the gods in all the worlds  
>Began colliding on a back drop of blue<em>

Fingers picked up speed. Blaine let all the tension he had felt—the fear, the sadness, the anxiety—spill into the words. Everything he had ever told himself, every time his father ignored him. The feelings welled within him, a torrent channeled into the words.

_Blue lips  
>Blue veins<em>

His brain turned off and he went with the music, fingers grazing keys as his body moved with the beat.

_He took a step but then felt tired  
>He said, I'll rest a little while<br>But when he tried to walk again  
>He wasn't a child<em>  
><em>And all the people hurried past<br>Real fast and no one ever smiled_

The sadness came out, the fear of rejection but trying anyway. His voice rose with the words, tangling with the piano and echoing dimly in the auditorium.

_Blue lips  
>Blue veins<br>Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away_

_He stumbled into faith and thought,  
><em>_God this is all there is  
><em>_The pictures in his mind arose  
><em>_And began to breathe_

A tinge of anger rose, the voice that told him no, the father who ignored him. They might not be listening, but he could beat them.

_They just followed the lead  
>The pictures in his mind awoke<br>And began to breed  
>They started off beneath the knowledge tree<br>Then they chopped it down to make white picket fences  
>They marched along the railroad tracks<br>And smiled real wide for the camera lenses_

He spoke that line on pitch and in rhythm, voice dripping with sarcasm and hurt, diving back into the song again, fingers working ceaselessly across the piano.

_They made it past the enemy lines  
>Just to become enslaved in the assembly lines<em>

Almost done. Just to finish it up. Let out the last remaining emotion. Pour it into the song send it floating into the audience, wrapping them up in the ringing tenor, pained but clear and beautiful.

_Blue lips  
>Blue veins<br>Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away_

Quieter this time, softer, sweeter, lulling, pulling the audience forward in their seats to catch the sounds_._

_Blue lips  
>Blue veins<br>Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away._

Growing again, his voice confident, melancholy, washing over the audience.

_Blue, the most human color  
>Blue, the most human color<br>Blue, the most human color  
><em>

Voice slipped seamlessly up into falsetto, rocking of his body stilling, a jarring contrast as he ended.

_Blue lips  
>Blue veins<br>Blue, the color of our planet from far, far away._

Blaine stilled completely, breathing deeply as he relaxed. He had been right. He had done well.

The applause rang through the auditorium. Blaine thought he saw tears in some people's eyes. Including one boy, pale with tear-brightened blue eyes and perfectly coiffed hair standing and clapping at the back of the group.


End file.

Glee, Drama, Romance