With conflict swirling around him daily, it seemed, Blaine was constantly reminded how much he preferred harmony. As for the others, nothing had changed drastically in the last few days: Edwards had a steady stream of students who had broken minor rules, while Blaine's interactions with the Warblers continued to be unpredictable at best. Blaine had even brought Trent up to the lab—docile, sweet Trent, who'd become so irritable at times—to see if he could troubleshoot the problem. In Blaine's view, the changes he'd seen weren't noticeable malfunctions. Instead the students seemed to be testing boundaries, as kids sometimes did with their parents.

In the meantime, to Blaine's embarrassment, the Warblers continued to argue over the precise extent of his talent. Blaine was still able to motivate them to sing together, though, and with Sebastian's help (because yes, they still wanted to win even if they were a bit tense, and Sebastian could conceptualize patterns of movement in ways that continually surprised Blaine), the choreography of their regionals numbers was improving.

Still, they were going to need all the help they could get, especially after hearing from Vocal Adrenaline's coach (who was also, somehow, a teacher at Kurt's old school) that the New Directions were planning sexy competition songs. The news had excited Blaine, who was grateful Kurt had coaxed him off campus to the Lima Bean, where they'd luckily run in to Coach Sylvester. She'd kept referring to Blaine as Quid Pro Quo, which was odd, but having some information he could use was a welcome change. It gave him something fun to think about.

Except, Blaine had thought, how does one sexify a group of machines?

That very question led them to Kurt's house immediately after, where both boys sat on the bed in Kurt's room facing a mirror, trying their best to look sexy. Blaine had suggested to Kurt that since the Warblers had hardly performed in public, they would really need to work on their sex appeal. Remembering his conversation with Wes a while back, Blaine fixated on facial expressions—and hoped secretly that he and Kurt, as the only humans in the group, could provide the authenticity they'd need to bring home a trophy.

"All right," Blaine began. "So give me . . . 'sensual.' But don't make fun of it—really try." Blaine looked into the mirror and did his best "sensual" face. Honestly, he thought he did all right, considering. As for Kurt, his version seemed a little more pained than what they were going for.

"Okay, now give me 'sultry,'" Blaine prompted next, before making a face, altering it slightly to fit the term. Then he glanced at Kurt, who was grimacing again. "Uh, Kurt—those all sort of look the same."

"Great," fumed Kurt, jumping to his feet in frustration. "How are we supposed to get up on the stage at regionals and sell "sexy" to the judges when I have as much sexual appeal and knowledge as a . . . baby penguin!"

"We'll figure something out," said Blaine, who couldn't help but find Kurt's exasperation charming. Blaine smiled, thinking he'd happily take on a "problem" like this over the troubles at Dalton any day.

"You don't get it, Blaine. I don't know how to be sexy because I don't know the first thing about sex."

Kurt blushed as he spoke, and Blaine had to remind himself that this was serious business and that Kurt needed him. So he said, more authoritatively than he meant, "Maybe we should have a conversation about it—I'll tell you what I know." But what did Blaine know, anyway? Probably as much as any teen boy, he thought, before adding to himself, any teen boy who more or less lived by himself and had nothing but the Internet to guide him.

"I don't want to know the graphic details," was Kurt's nervous reply. He went on to explain his love for romance and musicals, where, he added, "a touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets."

Now Kurt was just being stubborn, Blaine thought as he listened on. Why wouldn't he want to know how sex worked? How bodies moved and changed, the different ways they fit together? The ways they could love and feel? "Kurt," he said, more seriously now, "you're going to have to learn about it someday."

Kurt's response was serious, too. "I think I've learned quite enough for today, thank you. I think you should leave," he said, before showing a surprised Blaine the door.

That evening Blaine paced all about the laboratory and tried to focus on modifications he could make to the students, or on brainstorming tweaks to their regionals numbers so they could show the judges something new. But time and time again, his thoughts drifted to Kurt. It seemed ironic to Blaine that he was the one who knew more about something like sex, given all the times Kurt had praised his father's supportive nature. Mr. Hummel seemed like a dream dad, from the way Kurt described him—between his having to raise Kurt on his own and his efforts to both accept Kurt for who he was and ensure that others did the same.

Blaine stopped at the windows, which ran along one wall of the lab to reveal a clear night sky. A border of tall pines on the edge of the grounds obscured the view of the horizon. Blaine's thoughts drifted to his own family, especially his father, whose road to accepting Blaine was slightly bumpy. It had taken seeing Blaine in the hospital for him to get there completely. Blaine remembered how shaken his father had looked once he'd come to consciousness, and the way his mother glanced between the two of them all day, full of concern, as they sat in the tiny white room while monitors beeped and periodically clicked and whirred.

But there was something about the way Kurt spoke of his dad that made it seem they understood one another, that they kept nothing from one another, and Blaine knew, especially as he gazed out at the night all alone, in this place that was home and yet not home, that his family operated differently. There were plenty of times where his family functioned well. He remembered, as a kid, how he and Cooper would put on performances for neighbors, his mother looking on proudly while his father affectionately shook his head at their silliness. When they didn't function everything seemed off somehow, as if they'd all arrived somewhere with different parts of a machine, but with pieces that didn't exactly fit—some crucial piece that would bring clarity was missing. They'd keep fiddling with the parts anyway, not knowing what else to do. At least that's the way it had seemed since the dance.

Maybe, Blaine thought, if he couldn't fix his own family, he could help fix Kurt's. He strode to the computer, keyed in "Burt Hummel," "tire shop" and "Lima" and quickly found the address for Hummel Tires & Lube. He went to bed feeling more at ease—but a bit nervous about meeting Kurt's dad.

The next day Edwards arranged for Blaine's transportation to Mr. Hummel's shop. "Anything I need to know about?" he inquired, accosting Blaine before he got into the cab.

"Oh," Blaine responded not really wanting to talk about his latest secret mission with the headmaster. "No, I'm just . . . helping Kurt with something. It's no big deal," he added.

Edwards paused, then asked quietly, "Have you had any luck with the Warblers?" He glanced at the cab driver, then back at Blaine.

Blaine opened the door and stepped in, lowering the window so he could respond. "I haven't—but I'm not quite ready to, um, ask for more help. Regionals is so close," he added. "I think we'll be okay?"

Edwards regarded Blaine with concern, which shifted to something like resignation before he smiled and nodded. "If you say so, Sir." And then he stepped back to let the driver take Blaine to his destination.

The smell of oil hit Blaine the second he stepped inside Hummel Tires & Lube, and just like that he was fourteen again, standing in the driveway in the summer sun with his father, attempting to put a very expensive puzzle together. Everything had been awkward then—he'd just come out, and every word or gesture from his father seemed tinged with disappointment. What Blaine remembered most about that summer was sweat . . . and tension, as they worked to build something neither of them cared about. He took a breath and reoriented himself. Then he walked toward the man he knew was Mr. Hummel, after noticing the photographs in Kurt's room the day before.

"Need a hand?" Blaine offered.

Mr. Hummel was bent over the hood of a car, his hands full of grease. He eyed Blaine suspiciously, then probably noticing his Dalton scarf said, "Yeah, why don't you hand me that carburetor?"

When Blaine walked up to the work table and quickly found the part, Kurt's father was taken aback. "You knew which one it was."

"My dad and I built a '59 Chevy in our driveway two summers ago," Blaine supplied, then smiled as he added, "One of his many attempts at bonding." How weird, Blaine thought, that the best attempt, the project they were enmeshed in now, was also sort of the worst. Focusing again on his current project, Blaine said, "I wanted to talk to you about Kurt."

Mr. Hummel stopped his work and wiped his hands with a towel. Nodding at Blaine's scarf he asked, "You . . . know my son? Is he okay?"

It occurred to Blaine that while he already felt comfortable with Mr. Hummel (Kurt really did talk about his dad a lot), that the opposite wouldn't necessarily be true. Did Kurt ever talk about me? he immediately wondered, his heart leaping at the thought. "I'm Blaine Anderson," he said, offering his hand. "Kurt and I are good friends." Mr. Hummel's grip was very firm, and Blaine fought the urge to check for grease stains once his hand was let go.

Mr. Hummel's expression softened. "Yeah," he said. "I know who you are. What's going on with Kurt that you needed to come talk to me about it?"

Now that Blaine was actually here, standing in front of Kurt's dad, he realized he hadn't completely thought this through. There didn't seem to be any segue to get him to the topic he wanted to broach. Thinking back to yesterday, the image of Kurt's face as he asked Blaine to leave was enough to push him to ask, "Have you ever . . . talked to him about sex?"

Blaine noted the change in Mr. Hummel's stance at his question: how protective he seemed to become. "Are you gay? Or straight? Or what?" he asked, eyeing him with some hesitation.

"I'm definitely gay," Blaine said, surprised at how safe he felt in the company of this man, noting the contrast between feeling safe in this father's company versus feeling safe in the elaborate machinery his own father had created.

"Good," Mr. Hummel replied, drawing Blaine back to focusing on Kurt. Gesturing vaguely he added, "I'm glad he has someone to talk to about . . . that kind of stuff."

Mr. Hummel's discomfort reminded Blaine of his own father's, not that the topic of sex had ever come up between them. It was rather a familiar feeling, of two people dancing around one another. Or perhaps—and more accurately—it was like carefully traversing a minefield, where one false step could expose, hurt, even destroy.

It seemed as if Mr. Hummel wanted to avoid the minefield altogether.

Given what he knew about Kurt's father, Blaine felt like he could, perhaps, push back a little. So he blinked, then launched into how he'd been on his own when it came to learning about sex, and what could happen if Kurt never sought out the details. For Blaine, knowing would always be preferable to not knowing, thinking again to that summer when he'd found his father so hard to read. "I'm blown away by your guys' relationship," said Blaine, the admission of which gave him just enough courage to utter, "You think my dad built a car with me because he loves cars? I think he did it because he thought getting my hands dirty might make me straight." That was the past, he reminded himself, even if the memory of how he felt back then still stung.

Mr. Hummel regarded him sympathetically. "Sorry if I'm overstepping," Blaine offered lamely, realizing that probably, he had.

"You are," was Mr. Hummel's frank reply, before he went back to work.

On the way back to Dalton, Blaine was doubtful about whether he'd accomplished anything. He felt good that he'd at least tried. There were so many things he needed at the moment: to let the truth out, to feel connected and understood. And all this talk about sex left him wanting. Because sex wasn't about the mechanics of it, it wasn't only about being prepared and safe. It wasn't even about looking sexy, he acknowledged, feeling a bit silly about yesterday's "practice" in Kurt's room. Because sex was, most importantly, about love.

And love, Blaine soon learned, was something no amount of research or planning could ever prepare you for.

One morning after Blaine's visit to the tire shop, in fact, he was feeling anxious after receiving a cryptic text from Kurt. It read simply, Skip first period, pls. When Kurt finally burst through the double doors of the music room, Blaine knew immediately that something was very wrong. Kurt was dressed all in black, and tears streamed down Kurt's cheek as he held Pavarotti's cage in his hand.

"Pavarotti!" Blaine cried out, as he leapt up from the piano bench. The little yellow bird lay still at the bottom of the cage. At the sight of the bird Blaine's memory leapt to the day Cooper handed him over as a gift, and how Blaine had sat up with him the entire day, trying to coax out a song. Now he was just gone.

"I'm so sorry," said Kurt, reacting to Blaine's shocked expression. "I feel terrible about it, I—"

"It's okay, Kurt," Blaine said softly, clearing his voice. "It's, um. Happened before," he lied, trying to cover for why he was reacting so intensely. In another flash of memory, he recalled how his mother had once hung a tiny strand of seeds for Pavarotti to snack on from the cage's upper bars.

"Wait. What about the line of birds dating back to the 1880's?"

"What?" Blaine asked, blinking.

"You know, what Wes said, when Pavarotti was first placed . . . in my care," he trailed off.

"Oh." Blaine brushed his lapels with his hands (which were clammy, suddenly) and sat down again at the piano. "I—"

"I was going to sing for him," Kurt said, placing the cage on the coffee table. "At practice today."

"Sing?" Blaine felt himself struggling to stay in the conversation, as his eyes were drawn to poor Pavarotti.

"Yeah—I sort of had something prepared," said Kurt, pulling a cassette tape from his pocket. Then he looked at Blaine mournfully. "Do you mind if I just . . . sing it for you?" He popped the tape into the cassette player that sat atop the side table.

"Not at all," Blaine said, still in shock at his reaction, at how upset he was about Pavarotti—he felt silly about it, actually. At how special that little bird had been to him.

"Damn," Kurt said. "This thing doesn't work. That's what I get for using an old cassette like this."

Blaine asked, "What's the song? I might know it."

"'Blackbird.'"

Blaine nodded. Straightening his posture and facing the keys, he started the first notes of the song, finding some solace in its rhythm.

And then Kurt began to sing.

Blaine, for his part, stuck to merely playing the melancholy tune at first (Kurt's barb from the other day about his default status as the Warblers' soloist pricked his memory). But then he felt pulled to accompany Kurt more fully, and so added his voice to his friend's only as background texture—simple bum bum's that made the piece a mournful march. As Blaine played and sang, he found his rhythmic, vaguely mechanical role in the performance to be soothing, like a lullaby.

Suddenly, inexplicably, everything seemed to fall away.

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arrive

It was stupid, Blaine knew as he played, but for a moment it was as if Pavarotti were singing to him. Where did he want him to go? What did he want him to see? There was only Kurt. His Kurt.

Oh.

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

At some point Blaine lost all focus on what he was doing, his own part in the song abandoned. Now he simply watched and listened to Kurt perform, letting his fingers fall to rest on the piano keys.

When Kurt finished, he looked at Blaine and commented, "You stopped playing."

"Yeah," said Blaine, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "I think I must have forgotten what comes next," he lied.

Kurt nodded. "Don't worry about it." He sat next to Blaine on the bench and placed his hands on the keys. "You play beautifully," he said.

And then it was there again, that feeling of everything falling away, leaving just Kurt. Just Kurt.

"Huh," he said, mostly to himself.

"Huh?" asked Kurt.

Blaine felt as if the temperature of the room had suddenly increased—by about twenty degrees. At the same time his heart was beating so rapidly he thought it would leap right out of his ribcage.

"Are you okay?" asked Kurt. "It's Pavarotti, isn't it? We'll have a ceremony, okay? I've already got a design in mind for a tiny, bedazzled casket—"

"No, no, it's not that," interrupted Blaine. "Can you just . . . give me a minute? I think I need some air." He got up from the piano, feeling flustered and silly, and—

"Tower?" Kurt suggested, interrupting Blaine's thoughts.

He sighed, then nodded. "Yeah."

They walked silently across the grounds, which were soggy since the last round of snow had melted. The quiet between them contrasted with the discordant thoughts and emotions warring in Blaine's head and heart.

There was a fair amount of terror, because Blaine realized now he had feelings for Kurt.

Solace, too, because he recognized that he'd probably always had them.

Terror, again, because he didn't want to mess up what he had. It was one thing to lose Kurt due to things he couldn't control. Quite another to lose him because of things he could.

Also guilt. Lots of guilt, because Kurt didn't know all should about Blaine.

And then there was . . . an overwhelming yearning.

Yes, there was certainly that.

They found themselves at the top of the tower.

Blaine watched as Kurt, still quiet, surveyed the grounds and forest beyond, seemingly waiting for his friend to collect his thoughts. When Kurt finally turned toward him, his smile offered encouragement. "You going to tell me what happened back there, if it's not about Pavarotti?" he asked.

Gazing into Kurt's eyes with new perspective, it dawned on Blaine that there was something he could be utterly honest about. He stepped forward—then, more hesitantly, stepped into Kurt's space. He noted the way Kurt's breathing seemed to change. He noted the tiny flecks of color in Kurt's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he began. "About before. I just. There's a moment, you know? Where you sort of say to yourself, 'I've been looking for you forever.' And it's true," Blaine stammered. "I have. Been looking. For someone. For you, Kurt. I think I just . . . didn't understand it until just now, hearing you sing 'Blackbird' like that."

Impulsively, he took Kurt's hand, and feeling its warmth and somehow finding confidence there and in Kurt's eyes, Blaine felt like he himself was flying as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Kurt's.

As he felt Kurt kiss him back just as passionately, it felt like something inside of him was unlocked.

It turned out that having an actual, verifiable boyfriend was the perfect antidote to all the Warbler in-fighting and stress. For a couple of meetings, at least, Blaine and Kurt were noticeably absent—instead they'd spent time together up in the clock tower, practicing in their own way. To call Kurt intoxicating would be an understatement, in Blaine's opinion. The warmth of his boyfriend's lips and breath in the chilly air of the tower, the feeling of his arms holding him tight—in those stolen moments it felt as if nothing else existed in the world.

How easy it was for Sebastian to remind him that the world, in fact, was still there.

At the end of a tough regionals rehearsal, for instance, Sebastian strode over to Kurt and Blaine, and without any preamble whatsoever said, "So nice of you to show up today." Then he leveled a glance at Kurt. "You know, rather than you two sucking each other's 'faces' off in the clock tower," he air-quoted, "you should just go up to Blaine's secret room. There's a lot more space up there, and if I recall correctly, some interesting toys."

Kurt schooled the horrified expression on his face into an angry one and said, "One: Sebastian—you're gross." Then Kurt turned to Blaine, his eyes glinting with something more like scandal. "Two: what secret room are we talking about exactly? I love intrigue. Unless it's a door to some other world where animals wax philosophically before going to battle . . ."

Blaine scowled at Sebastian, who merely pivoted and strolled away, leaving Blaine to fumble his way through his response to Kurt about the laboratory and what it was used for. Thankfully, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and once he learned it was his father on the line, he looked at Kurt apologetically. "I have to take this," he said.

With practice over, Kurt needed to go anyway. "Talk to your mystery dad," Kurt said, leaning to plant a kiss on Blaine's nose, which tickled. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Nodding, Blaine smiled, then put the phone to his ear. "Hi, Dad," he said, making his way down the corridor and up the stairs to the lab, so he could have some privacy.

Blaine's father cleared his throat. "You're chipper today," he said curiously. "What's going on over there?"

Blaine's heart clenched with how badly he wanted to tell his father about Kurt. "It's been a good day," he replied. "The Warblers are, uh, doing some really cool things. You know," he added. "Just for fun." He unlocked the lab door and sat down at the desk inside. "By the way," he said, "I haven't been able to figure out what's going on with the students. I–"

"Students? As in plural? I thought it was just the one," his father interrupted. "Blaine," he said, his voice full of concern. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

Blaine hesitated, and wiped his hand across his forehead. If they could just make it to regionals. If he could just have Kurt a little longer, before everything got stripped away.

"Blaine? Look, when you told me about Sebastian's behavior, especially about how he was insulting—even if it was behind your back—it just didn't seem right. Sebastian may have been created by us, but I've been starting to wonder . . . if he's been tampered with. But if you're telling me that there are others—"

"It's not . . . a lot of them," he sighed. "Just the Warblers. Edwards and I have it under control. Can you just trust me?" he asked.

"Blaine, this isn't about trust, okay? I need to make sure that you're safe. If something's gone wrong, I need to fix it. I'm going to pack and come down to the school tomorrow. I need to see for myself what's going on."

Something seemed to loosen in Blaine at his father's words, or maybe it was a combination of things at work: meeting Kurt's dad, remembering a time when his relationship with his father was much more shaky, the excitement (and stress) of all the changes in his life. Love.

"You okay?" his father asked.

"I dunno, I guess I was just thinking recently? About how you weren't always, um, willing to accept me for who I was."

There was a long pause on the phone, and then his father sighed before saying, "Is this about the car again, Blaine? Look, son. Can you give me the benefit of the doubt here? I changed a lot of my life to make this project, for you. I—it's a way for me to show my love. Maybe in the past I was unsure of how I felt—you and I both know I was wrong. It's not something I'm proud of. But this place, these things we do together now, that's what I want you to have faith in, okay? When you see the extremes others will go to hurt someone you love, that changes you. It changes everything."

Blaine drew in a sharp breath, his eyes stinging. But he was smiling when he said, trying to lighten the mood, "So be honest. Is that why this is an all boys school? For me?"

"Is that weird?" his father chuckled.

"Kind of?"

"Uh. I didn't actually mean it to be. It was easier, to populate the place in that way . . . given the models we used."

"Cooper used to tease me about the students being my boyfriends."

"That sounds just like him," his father said fondly. "I'll be down in the morning, okay, Buddy?"

"Sure," said Blaine, who looked at the clock, realizing how late it was. He ended the call and got up to leave—except a familiar face was peeking at him through the door.

"Sebastian," Blaine sighed. "Up late again I see."

"I heard voices," the taller boy said smoothly. "But I was looking for you anyway. I've got a song for you for regionals," he said.

"A song for me?" said Blaine. "Who decided that?"

Sebastian ignored his question and replied instead, "I'll even sing you a bit of it," he added, grinning mischievously. "Here," he said, shoving a few pages of sheet music into Blaine's hands.

Blaine crossed his arms in front of him and waited. He recognized the Hey Monday song, but felt a chill up his spine as Sebastian crooned,

All the games you played

The promises you made

Couldn't finish what you started

Only darkness still remains.

"Don't you think it would be perfect to sing this with Kurt?" Sebastian asked innocently, after he'd finished. "I think he would . . . appreciate the emotion of this song, don't you?"

"What are you doing, Sebastian?" Blaine asked nervously.

"You know, you and I spend a lot of time in History class—oh, wait a minute. You actually don't spend a lot of time there, do you? You're above all that. You have more important things to do."

"Look, Sebastian, I don't know what this is about, but when you first came to see me . . . you said you wanted to help. What you're doing with the Warblers lately? It's actually been really great. But this, right now, and some of the other things you've done to the Warblers? Not helpful."

"Oh, but you're wrong, Blaine. What makes you think I've done anything to the Warblers?" he asked.

Confused, Blaine began, "But you . . ."

"I what, Blaine? Here," said Sebastian. "I'll just leave the music with you—so you can practice." Sebastian propped up the sheet music on the piano, then strode from the room. Blaine walked toward the music, which had something written on it, presumably in Sebastian's hand:

Anyone who doesn't take truth seriously in small matters cannot be trusted in large ones either.

Blaine gulped at reading the quote, then gathered up his things to head to the laboratory. Harmless, he kept saying to himself. He's harmless.