We lost the scavenger hunt this morning. And the Rubik's Cube game last night. It seems Team Blue is on a losing streak, fueled by our very own, uncharacteristically melancholy leader. And, of course, Eli had to be the first to weigh in on that.
“Hey shout out to cabin leader of the summer for grouping me up last night with someone I hate and two girls who hate each other.” He jokes, while we all are changing from our team colors, post scavenger hunt. At least he had the decency to wait until Blaine had gone, swinging his guitar over his back and silently slipping out. “Also for making his girlfriend cry and leading us to lose two games in a row. He is my hero.”
“It isn't all Blaine's fault.” Owen is right. It is my understanding that last night Eli and Jeff exchanged a total of one clothing item because they were at each other's throats the whole time, instead of being a team. And just this morning, Blaine was added into the quarrel. Eli had insisted on questioning every decision we made as a group, poking Jeff's buttons. Then, when Blaine told him, with more bitterness in his voice than any of us had ever heard, to shut up, Eli decided to have some fun. Before he had even finished the word ‘controlling' Blaine and Jeff were already tearing into him. Verbally, of course. They're all smart enough to not hit each other. No one else knew what to do. We all just stood by and watched until Wes and David, who had overheard-- I'm pretty sure Mercedes could hear from the other end of the camp-- came around to break it up. This conversation has been the first sound uttered since the silence they brought to our group.
“Isn't everyone someone you hate, man?” Asher asks. And might I add, preach.
When Eli realizes he has no rebuttal, we all lapse back into silence. I look for Jeff to go console Blaine. But, he disappeared first, still seething, to probably find Nick. So, mustering up my own inner concerned counselor persona, I set out in the direction he had gone.

Since the dock and the sports court, the only two places I could think to check, did not yield a Blaine, I have been meandering around the grounds in hopes of finding him. I had toyed with the idea of hiking to the girls' camp, or maybe even to the lookout at the end of the nature walk, but I wasn't sure if that was allowed and the reputation of team blue has suffered enough this week.
Luckily, I never had to resort to that. As I venture across the field where most of our games are held, my ears prick up at the sound of a few chords being strummed. Then, a voice:
‘I feel like a shortstop' I recognize it immediately as Blaine's voice. ‘Along third base.'
I source the sound to a throng of trees. Its the same heavily wooded area we had trekked through on our first night of camp. Preparing myself for the potential of mosquitos, I allow myself to disappear into the ring of trees. And, sure enough, there is Blaine sitting in the clearing and strumming away on his guitar. I make to approach him, but then he continues to play.
‘But believe me
Im not hostile
I just want to hear you laugh
When Im sarcastic like that'
From the rigid slump of his back to the straining bite in his voice, every inch of Blaine reads as pissed off despite the lyrics, which seem to plead for understanding. Instead of calling out, I stay as silent as I can. And I just listen to him.
‘And that just makes me a dumb human
Like you.'
I watch him bearing down on the guitar with every strum. The tension held in his shoulders appear only to increase, not that I thought that to be possible. If I knew how to give massages, I'd be over there in seconds, rubbing and squeezing and soothing away all of the spite he has poured into this performance. Still, I don't dare to move from my spot, where I stand fixed to the ground. Captivated. For all that can be said about Blaine over the last couple of days, no one can claim he lacks talent. Or passion. There is an assured dedication behind every chord, every syllable his warm voice floats over, the tune wafting to my ears in a perfect harmony with the stillness of the woods around us and the distant chorus of campers. And again, Blaine Anderson, just as he was becoming ever so slightly transparent and maybe a little bit more human, this gets thrown into the mix and he becomes, once more, untouchable.
‘I feel like an artist
Whos'
Until something within the inner workings of his playing leads to a sour note in the sound. Blaine hears it, too. “Shit.” He mutters. Then adds, with a bitter chuckle, “fitting, my art is shit. Good work, Blaine.” I want to run over there and hold his hands and look into his eyes and remind him how unbearably far from the truth that is. And then scold him for ever thinking that could be true. Every inch of him and his surrounding world is a masterpiece.
Picking up the strumming again, he continues, ‘Who's lost his touch
He likes himself in his art
But not his art too much'
He chuckles again. Of course not in his usual galavant tone, but a more deprecating one. Then he sighs, throwing his head back and allowing his face to be basked in the high, midday sun. Rolling his head around until it is propped up right on his shoulders, I think he is going to continue with the song. But, instead of moving to strum, he speaks. “You don't have to hide. I won't yell at you.” I look past him to see who he could be addressing. Then he turns to face me, putting an almost immediate sweat to my palms.
Oh. I hadn't realized I was noticed. “I wasn't..uhm…” I stammer, gesturing to the trees. How do I tell him that I just wanted to hear him play without sounding like a stalker? “Who wrote that?” I ask instead, moving towards him.
“A fucking idiot. You know the one: short fuse, soon to be ex-cabin leader. That one.”
I shake my head at the idea of Blaine leaving us. Currently, with the occasional exception of Jeff, Blaine is the only one in that cabin who looks out for me. Sometimes, I feel like he's the only person in the whole of Michigan who gives a shit about whether I live or die of absolute self-inflicted humiliation. Or, I don't know, a paddle-induced concussion. “Don't say that.” I reprimand him, taking a seat beside him on a log. It is one left in the circle of many logs from our last campfire.
He shrugs, helplessly. “It's true. Probably.”
“Wes isn't going to fire you.” I reassure Blaine. I'm confident of the fact, too. Blaine is responsible, most of the time. And he's kind, to those who aren't dicks. And patient and funny and engaging, when he isn't totally down on himself. So, like, I'm mostly confident that he's irreplaceable.
“Why shouldn't he?” Blaine rubs the tip of his tennis shoes into the dry dirt. “That was an absolute shit display of brotherhood.”
“You had a bad day.” That reminder comes with a grumble from Blaine. “Wes is your bestfriend. He trusts you.” Again, I am granted an incoherent mutter. This sounds maybe a little more in agreement. “But you know that already. So, what's this really about?”
Beside me, Blaine visibly tenses and suddenly it feels like he's a million miles away. Without looking at him, the only proof I have that he exists is his breathing, deep but choppy. This feeling, where he's isolated himself and, in turn, alienated me, lasts just long enough for me to worry. Then he steels himself and speaks. “I fucked up last night. What I said to Quinn was just… I mean, she's never going to forgive me.”
“I'm sure she will.” Despite that fact that my evil alter ego is wishing and hoping and praying she won't. “And if not, then that's her loss. You, Blaine Anderson, are a catch.” I bump his shoulder with my own, which earns me just the slightest twitch in his lips before it dips back into a pout. I can see him thinking, every little gear under that mop of curls grinding over time to find his own faults.
“A catch that called her controlling.”
“Sometimes you gotta call a spade a spade.” Blaine turns to me, mouth open to defend Quinn? Himself? I don't know. Instead there's just a beat in time as he takes me in with his sunken eyes as the gears spin. But, when they churn up nothing, he presses his lips into a hard line and lowers his gaze to the frets of his guitar. Sometimes I gotta think before I speak, I remind myself as he fiddles out a lazy melody with his strings.
“And sometimes,” I effectively silence his plucking with a hand over his, “you have to put down your guitar, as wonderful as that song was, and stop wallowing. You're Mr., whats your ice cream flavor, dreamsicle? Swoon-worthy Blaine Anderson.”
“Pfft, no one is swooning over me.” Even though he is trying to laugh off this idea of being an item of affection, this is still the most self-deprecating and vulnerable I have ever seen Blaine Anderson be. It makes me want to roll him up in a warm blanket and stroke his hair until he is happy again.
“I am.” I blurt out.
Blaine turns to me, slowly. His eyes roam my face, lingering marginally longer on my lips, for some clarification. He blinks once, seeming to not find what he had hoped to.
It takes a moment for my words to circle back to my ears. But, when they do, a bright red heat floods to my face and I retract my hand from his as if I'd been pricked by something sharp. I fake a cough that I'm sure he can see right through. “Um, I am, uhm pretty sure Rachel is in love with you.” Great, good cover, Kurt. He won't suspect a thing.
Blaine holds my gaze for a moment longer, then he looks out, squinting over the tops of the maple trees. “She might have a bit of a crush.”
“Just a bit?” At that we both chuckle, knowing Ms. Berry has been far from subtle. Blaine strums a few distracted chords to fill the silence that follows. “Just talk to her.” I offer, after his chord progression falls flat. “To Quinn. Youll only regret it if you dont do it. And she might be far more understanding than youre giving her credit for.”
He had stopped playing when I began speaking. Now, he just nods, realizing that I'm probably right. “Why are you so smart?” I smile and shrug, trying not to let it go to my head. “Are you dating anyone?”
The question catches me so off guard that this time my cough-stutter routine is genuine. “No, uhm no. I-I'm not.”
“Hmm, well, thats the rest of the world's loss.” Blaine announces, rising from his log. For a moment he's almost normal again. Close to being animated and maybe chipper adjacent. Although the soft and sincere tone remains in his voice. I think this is almost what it must be like to be one of his real friends. “Ill see you later, okay? I have a meeting with Wes and David.” He hitches his guitar over one shoulder, where it hangs by it's strap. “Fingers crossed they dont send me packing.” Lamely, I cross my fingers. Because apparently I don't understand a bloody figure of speech. But at least it gets Blaine to chuckle again. One of his cute, endeared chuckles. “And really, thank you for this. Ill think about what you said.”
I stay on the log, despite it being rough against the exposed bits of my leg, until Blaine has vanished through to the other side of the trees.

With dread in the pit of my stomach, I make the dusty trek up to the dining hall alone. I take good care to get there early, being one of the first people seated. This way the ball is in Sebastian's court. He and Cal arrive first of his gang, although the rest don't come too much later. I attempt to subtly split my time between watching them, gauging my fate, and poking around at today's less than appetizing macaroni.
After mulling around the limited vegetarian options, Cal scoops up a pb and j making him the first to finish in the meal line. He weaves his way through the tables, slowly meandering into my vicinity. I catch him glancing back to Bas for some affirmation. Given an encouraging grin from my friend, which I am attempting to emulate, Cal closes the volumes between us, slipping into a seat at my table.
“Oh, thank god.” I sigh out in relief. Cal doesn't say anything in return. But, the smile he gives me, one that is unreserved and much unlike the pitying ones he spared me behind the disapproving backs of Alfie and the others.
Sebastian is quick to join us, beaming at me as he proclaims “I told you they'd come around.” Although, the happy days don't last when Alfie actually does come around. He saunters up behind Cal, takes one look at me then send a pointed look to Bas as if to say there's no way he's okay with this, then promptly leaves to find a new table. My friend sighs but also doesn't hesitate to get up to follow. “He's coming around, I promise.”
Cal gets up, too. “Sorry, Kurt.” And then, once more I'm alone.
Was I really ever not alone, though? If Sebastian were truly my friend once more, he wouldn't have cared what Alfie and them did. He would've sat with me. And stayed with me. I honestly just think the lot of them are addicted to the idea of having drama. They get bored without it. But, they aren't the ones being left out. I'm bored. I'm alone left to stare down at my macaroni, picking at it with disinterest. The idea of lunch has become marginally less appealing. As I'm about to go dispose of it, my vision is seized by two warm palms hovering above my eyelids.
“Guess who didn't get kicked out of camp today.” Came a voice, mellifluous as ever. It sends my stomach a flutter with a certain kind of thrill that rings all the way into my toes to hear that it so closely. The words are spoken almost directly into my ear, the warm breath raising goosebumps on my AC chilled skin.
With giddiness overtaking my previous disposition, I peel back the hands to reveal the grinning man with a mess of curly black hair, tamed only mildly by his blue bandana. “I take it the meeting went well?”
“It did, actually. Yeah.” Blaine pulls out the chair beside me, seating himself. “Turns out you were right. Wes is my friend and I was overreacting. I mean, he knows me. He knows Eli. We all know Eli.” I hum in accordance with his exasperated eye roll. “He said I have nothing to worry about. And that, it's one thing to be friends with my cabin. But, I shouldn't let my personal drama muddle my work as a leader. So, ya know, whatever that means,” he shrugs. “But I get to stay!” The joy written on his face right now, coupled with the laughter he is suppressing into the heel of his hand, makes me realize just how scared he actually was. Blaine genuinely thought he'd be sent home today. I wonder if it's happened to others before him, but I don't ask.
Instead, I just take in his euphoria and tell him “I would have been devastated had it gone any other way.” He looks up at me, his mouth still ensconced in his hand. But, I can tell from the crinkles in the corner of his eyes that he's smiling.
“Well,” He curls his fingers back enough to speak without muddling his words. “I just wanted to reassure you that your favorite cabin leader will remain. I am now going to go get some lunch.”
I nod, allowing him to rise from his seat. But, before he can turn towards the lunch line, I reach out to stop him. “Sit with me after you get your food?”
“Uh, duh. Why wouldn't I sit with my favorite cabin member?” And it had been so long since he last winked at me, I almost forgot how much it can fluster a person. So, of course he had to go and remind me.