The warmth of the dining hall at midday, the clink of utensils against Dalton tableware, the soft murmuring of students in conversation all fell away from Blaine for a moment, the way everything does for people—when properly moved.

Sitting across the table from Blaine, Wes and David, and fidgeting slightly as tears rolled down his cheek, was Kurt. When Blaine turned to his fellow Warblers and said, "Would you guys excuse us?" both students rose immediately, taking their coffees and smiling kindly at Kurt before leaving him to Blaine, who found himself thankful once again for his father's programming skills.

It turned out that the only reason Blaine was even in this situation—the only reason he had this chance to see Kurt again so quickly—was thanks to Wes and David deducing the boy had been sent from McKinley High School's glee club as a spy. And so Blaine had worked to get contact information for Kurt Hummel (he'd learned), who he'd invited back. Of course Blaine had made sure the gates were left open that morning, all the while wondering how Kurt had even gotten past them the other day. Someday he hoped to ask, assuming there would be a someday.

But when the three Warblers had seated themselves across from Kurt, and the boy had begun by wondering if he could ask them a question, Blaine had panicked, thinking that Kurt knew, that Kurt was on to Dalton's secret, that he was going to set in motion what Blaine feared. In a rush Blaine had imagined his father pulling the Warblers from the competition the moment he learned of it, leaving them with no opportunity to test themselves. Even more frightening, he'd imagined the consequences of outsiders learning the truth—surely, the entire Academy risked being dismantled. Because what did Blaine know about Kurt, anyway? Nothing. Asking him back here had been risky, possibly stupid.

So when Kurt asked, "Are you guys all gay?" Blaine couldn't have been more relieved.

That relief was soon followed by concern due to the expression on Kurt's face and the emotion he was barely able to contain as he spoke. And so Blaine had asked Wes and David to leave just after the two Warblers finished describing the conditions at Dalton to Kurt, Wes adding confidently that "everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are—pretty simple." Blaine wanted to tuck that comment in his memory for later, too, because really, it may have been the first time he'd ever heard the students, especially first students like Wes and David, talk explicitly about this place and what it was like for them to live (to exist?) here.

After Wes and David left, Blaine listened as Kurt told his story, and he realized how different this was, to not only have a living, breathing, boy to talk to—but one who was experiencing things he'd been through as well. In that moment, Blaine had never felt more like sharing—he could feel it right in his stomach, that flutter of nerves compelling him to reach out and connect. But what would he share? What could he? Should he? He blurted, "I ran, Kurt."

And then he kept going, as if someone had flipped a switch. "I got taunted at my old school and it really—pissed me off. I even complained about it to the faculty, and they're sympathetic and all but you could just tell: nobody really cared. It was like, 'Hey, if you're gay, you're life's just gonna be miserable. Sorry. Nothing we can do about it.'" As Blaine spoke he watched Kurt's reaction, the knowing look in his eye. He liked what that look did to him, the way he felt understood.

He could've elaborated at that point, could've told how bad things got, how his parents—especially his father—had said he probably would have to "man up" and ignore it, that the situation would resolve itself. He could've told Kurt about the dance and how it put him in the hospital with broken bones and a concussion, or about his mother's bewilderment as she tried to process what had happened. He could've reported the entire chain of events, because one piece linked cleanly to the next, and those pieces formed bonds that could never be broken or interchanged. Or replaced. And now those chains bound him and his father and Cooper up in ways he never would've imagined, left wounds that nobody dared even talk about. There was only occupation left. Staying occupied. Filling time.

Blaine added instead, ". . . So I left. I came here. Simple as that." Even though there was nothing simple about watching what had happened to his mother, or what had happened to any of them since.

"So you have two options," he continued, sounding a lot more authoritative than he felt, thanks to the way Kurt seemed to be looking up to him at the moment. "I'd love to tell you to just enroll at Dalton but tuition here is sort of steep (didn't he know it) and that's not an option for everyone (for anyone at all, come to think of it) . . . Or, you can refuse to be the victim."

Blaine felt stupid for saying that, for urging him to do the thing he hadn't been able to himself. He just wanted Kurt to understand. He was surprised to find himself admitting, "I ran, Kurt. I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away, and it is something I really, really regret." It felt good to let those words fall away from his lips; Blaine had never even said them out loud before.

"Well, thank you," Kurt replied, "for, you know, not hanging my underwear on the flagpole for being a spy or . . ." he stopped, suddenly looking embarrassed. He stood abruptly and collected his things. "I should really be going. I'm sure my fellow glee club members will want to know that I'm still alive."

Blaine chuckled. Every word that came out of Kurt's mouth was a gift because it was so unexpected. "Let me walk you around," Blaine offered, not quite ready to say goodbye. "I mean—unless you really have to get back to your school?"

In the fading warmth of the afternoon sun Blaine gave Kurt a tour of campus, suddenly cautious about where he walked the grounds, because while Blaine looked like a student at a prestigious boarding school, he didn't always act like one. Nor was he treated like one by the others—at least not consistently, the longer he lived here. So Blaine showed him a few classrooms, the dining hall, and outside, some of the playing fields. All the while they talked, and Blaine found it easy to share things with Kurt. In fact it was refreshing, to talk about being a student. It felt so utterly normal.

"Don't you have to be in class?" Kurt asked eventually, as they walked outside in the courtyard. "I mean, I guess technically I should be, too, but our glee club director wrote me a note to get me out—which clearly I'm more than willing to take advantage of. What's your story?"

"Oh, well, I have a note too, of course—you know," Blaine said, waving a hand in the air. "The Warblers are important around here, so it can be easy to get excused for, um, Warbler business." Kurt's raised eyebrow made Blaine blush, and he knew he sounded like a complete idiot. "Sorry," he said, tilting his head slightly. "I'm just not used to talking to anyone not from here," he offered lamely.

"It's fine," Kurt replied, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "And for what it's worth," he added, leaning in, "I'm not used to talking to anyone from an expensive boarding school." He looked at Blaine and said, "It's really beautiful here—not like McKinley at all. I mean, even if someone wanted to toss you in a dumpster, it would be too much trouble to find one." Kurt laughed, and Blaine found himself rather clumsily gawking at him, because that laugh was so musical. Kurt must have misinterpreted Blaine's expression because he quickly added, "Not that anyone would toss you in a dumpster—you're gorgeous!" Then shaking his head he added yet again, "I mean . . ."

"It's okay, Kurt," Blaine laughed back. "You're right about the dumpsters. They are hard to find." Blaine purposely didn't add that some of the dumpsters would probably be shocking to see, especially the ones filled with limbs and torsos and skin, the ones that were never taken away by ordinary garbage trucks because what they contained would be considered Highly Classified. Come to think of it, there was a lot that Blaine would have to purposely not add if he was going to keep on talking to Kurt.

That very thought—that he could only selectively let Kurt into his life—kept returning to Blaine for the remainder of the day, long after he and Kurt said their farewells. Out in the clock tower that evening, leaning up against the belfry walls, Blaine tried to put the idea out of his mind and instead did nothing but scroll through his phone's contacts again and again, which, in addition to his father and Cooper, now listed one Kurt Hummel.

The days that followed led Blaine to a singular conclusion about himself: he really was an idiot, for several reasons, all of which made his heart sink.

He'd told Kurt to stand up to that bully, for one, and that had completely backfired. Of all the things that could've happened, he'd never expected that the bully would actually kiss Kurt.

Blaine had been working at the piano late in the day, busily writing an a cappella arrangement he was thinking of for sectionals—a piece that made him smile because it captured some of what he could only describe as his affinity for Kurt, a boy he still barely knew—when his phone buzzed, startling him. Hearing Kurt barely contain himself as he talked was harrowing for Blaine, who tried to remain calm while his new friend reeled from what had happened in the locker room just a short while ago.

"I don't understand," Kurt cried. "I confronted him. I confronted him and now . . . What do I do now?"

Listening to Kurt relive his conversation with the bully—and that boy's subsequent assault on Kurt—made Blaine's stomach churn. Already, he'd failed his friend. He'd failed as a human being. All his talk about fighting back, about having courage . . . What did he know about those things anyway, as he sat here in what was essentially a fortress?

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," he offered humbly.

Now Kurt wanted Blaine to help him approach the boy, which was a logistical nightmare, because leaving Dalton—especially for this reason—would have to be done in secret. No, his father simply wouldn't understand. While it wasn't that hard to arrange (it involved Blaine calling for a cab to meet him just up the road from the Dalton gates, and Blaine having to account to the cab driver for his uniform while standing on an empty road, and of course deal with stares from Dalton students as he let himself back in through the gates much later), the whole affair made Blaine feel more and more guilty. He wasn't trying to take advantage of what his father had done for him, but he couldn't help his own disappointment in himself from bubbling up now and again, that nagging feeling that he was a bad person.

When the cab dropped him off at the curb just outside of Kurt's school, Blaine felt a little nervous. He had to admit he'd become used to a life with few surprises. At Dalton, routine ruled his world; he'd found comfort in the predictable. As he stood looking out at the school's own courtyard, he was sure the goosebumps covering his arms had nothing to do with the cool autumn air. It was the McKinley courtyard and students, which stood out in stark contrast to Dalton's. Between the wide range of clothing and color, the way people's voices sporadically rose well above the murmurs he was used to, and the movement everywhere, which was much more chaotic as people bumped into each other (even him) as they went about their day, Blaine tried to simply remember to breathe.

And his reaction to all of it embarrassed him. How could he not even handle being outside the confines of Dalton? It's not like he never left. But he had to admit that visits home had been more frequent when his mother was . . .

Well, now there was only Dalton.

Blaine laughed nervously at himself as he stood and waited for Kurt to find him. For some reason he thought of Pavarotti, and how he acted on the rare occasion he escaped his metal cage. How eagerly he'd leap from Blaine's finger back onto his perch, once Blaine recaptured him. The cage was comforting.

At least his was. Here at McKinley, though, especially after he and Kurt ended up on a fenced-in stairwell, Blaine found himself woefully out of practice at dealing with unpredictable people. When the boys finally confronted the bully together, Blaine reasoned, "It seems like you might be a little confused, and that's totally normal. This is a very hard thing to come to terms with, and you should just know that you're not alone."

"Do. Not. Mess. With. Me," was David Karofsky's growled response, just before the much-larger boy slammed Blaine's body against the chain-link fence.

The weave of metal—the bumps that formed when steel zig met zag—pressed into Blaine's back, reminding him only of his acute desire to be once again safely ensconced at Dalton.

Still, Kurt needed him.

Once the bully ran off after being reminded that he'd actually kissed the person he supposedly hated, Blaine did his best to cheer up his new friend at Breadstix, where they now sat for lunch. Because that's what they definitely were now, he thought: friends. He stared across the table at Kurt, who was looking down at his drink and stabbing at ice cubes with his straw. Blaine smiled at that—it was something he did too, just a nervous tic. Because he's nervous and not just pretending to be human, Blaine thought, thinking again of Wes's recent comments.

Kurt looked up at him then, a small smile forming on his lips. "So tell me something about your school. If there's zero tolerance bullying, what do people do all day if they're not slamming each other into fences?"

Blaine laughed. "Well—uh. I guess it's not all that exciting," he stalled, trying to figure out how exactly to phrase things. "No one ever really fights at my school. We just, you know, go about our business, I guess?" Kurt was just staring back at him, and Blaine could feel his heartbeat quicken. Did he say something wrong? He couldn't help it as more words spilled out of his mouth. "Everyone . . . just has their classes, you know? And um, other activities they do, and . . . But I'm kind of busy with the Warblers so I maybe don't see everything? It's kind of a big place," he finished clumsily.

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Kurt replied, "Let's just say there are plenty of things happening behind the bleachers and in empty classrooms at my school that I am thankful I've never seen, okay?"

Blaine chuckled at that, and let himself feel happy about how things had finally turned out.

By the time Blaine got dropped off by the cab outside the Dalton gates later, his body was thrumming. With joy. He marveled at the bond he'd formed with his new friend. Even though the situation with the bully greatly worried him, Blaine felt like he'd done some good.

As he approached the gates, he spotted his father's car through the metal bars.

And just like that, those warm feelings evaporated.

In his rush to get to Kurt, he'd failed utterly at preparing for every circumstance. His father was seated on a bench right inside the main hall, taking notes as usual in his Moleskine. Blaine closed the large entry door shut and noticed that his father wouldn't even look up at him.

"Dad, I know what this looks like—" he started.

His father closed his notebook and sighed. "I thought I did too, when I found you weren't here, Blaine. After talking to Edwards just now, though, it's clear to me that you have a lot more explaining to do."

Oh no, Blaine thought. His mind quickly cycled through several things that could be upsetting to his dad. There was Kurt, of course—a boy. A boy who was gay like him. He wasn't sure how his dad would feel about his son sneaking out to spend time alone with a boy, even if they were just friends. He knew his father accepted him now, but that didn't erase the memories of the bad advice Blaine had been given by him before he'd been beaten. Nor did it erase his father's awkward attempts at forging a connection after he'd come out, attempts that often seemed less-than-genuine. He supposed if his father really didn't accept he was gay at this point, that he'd find some other way of populating his son's safe haven than with good-looking teenaged boys.

There was also the competition, if he understood his dad's comment just now. There was leaving the confines of Dalton and heading out alone somewhere. And if he knew his father at all, it was the last one that would be the hardest for him to take.

His father began without him, running a hand through his hair before he spoke. "I know this isn't an ideal situation, Blaine. You're just a kid who's been given a lot of responsibility, who's had to . . . experience things kids shouldn't have to experience. But look. You can't just leave the campus like that. You can't just—" His father drew in sharp breath, and Blaine could feel his own throat constrict with emotion at seeing his father struggling.

"Dad," he said, thickly. "I didn't mean—"

"No one ever does," his father replied quietly. Then he looked up at Blaine and smiled faintly. "Let's grab some dinner, shall we?"

It turned out that Blaine's father really didn't know about the competition—inexplicably, Edwards had kept Blaine's secret. He'd told the senior Anderson that someone had gotten through the gates. That was true, and in fact Blaine wondered if Edwards knew anything about Kurt at all. But the gates. That would've caught Edwards' eye. Blaine simply took accountability for that, telling both his father and the headmaster at dinner that he was the one who'd messed with them, that he'd gone to spy on another glee club, just to get ideas for the Warblers' practices. That hadn't gone over too well, but it was better than any of the alternatives, and as Blaine explained to his father how it wasn't enough to just watch other clubs on their YouTube channels, he'd made eye contact with Edwards, whose face remained impassive. Blaine would have to talk to him later—it was curious to him that Edwards would . . . well what was it? Was he taking sides? It was odd.

But that planned conversation with the headmaster was quite easily forgotten, now that Blaine's father was placated (for the moment) and Blaine's days included so much more Kurt—which changed everything. It meant, for one, that he got a constant stream of texts, which was a new occurrence for him. He loved it, he loved the surprise of getting a text alert, he loved never knowing what Kurt was going to say.

I take issue with Finn's notion of what "layering" consists of.

Hint: it's not about picking the right plaid shirt to wear over a T.

I insult my classmates in French and they have no idea.

That's DURING French class, by the way.

Which makes me especially sad.

How's your day going?

Am I bothering you? You probably have actual homework to do, while my greatest challenge is trying not to die of boredom.

Another thing that changed for Blaine was that he had to leave Dalton a lot more, which he had mixed feelings about, especially after his recent conversation with his father. But whether he was seated next to Kurt and across from Mercedes at Breadstix, or spending time at the Lima Bean drinking far better coffee than what Dalton offered, Blaine was nevertheless pleased.

In many ways he felt so alive. He even sat in on his classes more regularly, even if his mind wandered constantly back to Kurt. Blaine knew Mr. Pembrooke, the biology instructor, wasn't going to bother him as he daydreamed and stared out the window.

"Survival is about adaptation," Mr. Pembrooke droned on. "In fact, Einstein himself once said, 'The measure of intelligence is the ability to change.' Being a repository of information doesn't help anyone survive," he said, leveling a glance at the students. "Being able to do things someone asks of you doesn't help you survive. It's your ability to do things differently, see things in a way no one else can. But those things you do differently have to be effective, too. That's what I mean when I say survival is about adaptation."

Around the room, most students scribbled in their notebooks, and as they did one student in particular—named Sebastian—looked up from his writing to glance at the work of a Warbler seated next to him. He chuckled softly, most likely because the student, Thad, only looked to be taking notes: the scrawled handwriting was a loopy mess, just for show. Looking down at his own notebook Sebastian wrote simply and clearly, Adaptation. Survival. Different.