Blaine Anderson and his girlfriend Quinn Fabray sat with Karofsky and Santana, a situation in which the irony was lost on both parties.

Trying and failing to keep up with the girls' sudden intensity of conversation regarding someone named Rachel dating a former member of the football team, Blaine gave in to the stare he could feel on the side of his face.

"Karofsky," he said, mustering up a grin that was so well practised it no longer hurt to force.

"Anderson," Karofsky began, his dark eyes glittering meanly. "Now that you're here, how 'bout a proposition?"

"I'm listening," Blaine said, leaning forward in what he hoped looked like interest, a wayward curl falling right between his eyes, making him look like a schoolboy passing notes under his desk at school. It had broken free of its styled prison, and the slightly rumpled curls made him look years younger. Quinn and Santana's conversation stopped as the dark-haired girl rifled through her purse. Quinn sat in quiet anticipation of what she knew was coming.

"I dare you to go over to the Mark—"

"Matt," Santana corrected lazily, now filing her nails.

"Whatever. I want you to go over the Matt loser and help him really taste that milkshake he's having," Karofsky said, sliding his wallet onto the tabletop and raising an eyebrow.

"Really?" Blaine said, laughing to hide the sudden, familiar nervous feeling bubbled up in his stomach. He felt Quinn tense next to him. "What did he do to you today?"

Karofsky grinned, an unfriendly smile that nearly had Blaine out the door and home, where he could be safe under the covers, similar to when he was five, and the monsters in his closet reflected the face across from him in an uncanny fashion.

"Little fag," Blaine flinched infinitesimally, and Quinn laid a hand on his lower back. Neither of the pair opposite noticed anything, both of them preoccupied; Santana still working on her nails and Karofsky glaring intently at Blaine's intended victim. "He was part of Berry's gay-off in the courtyard, trying to recruit into their fairy army," Karofsky laughed. Blaine tried to unstuck his throat enough to produce a similar noise, but it didn't matter that he couldn't because Quinn was already talking.

"Don't use language like that, Karofsky," she said harshly. "We don't want to be thrown out of here." Karofsky simply rolled his eyes and held his hands up in mock surrender in reply.

"So, you gonna do it?" he asked Blaine, who nearly bolted then, but this time it was Santana that cut in.

"Shut up, beefstack," she said, putting her nail file away. Karofsky glared at her. "And stop being so immature. Even I can do better than 'fairy army'."

"And anyway, Karofsky," Blaine interrupted, before Santana could aggravate David further, "if I do that, then we'd be kicked out anyway. Last time Azimio pulled a stunt like that, the owner threatened to call the cops on him. I like the food here," he commented lightly, returning to his regular cool, aloof manner. Quinn smiled.

"Okay, whatever. I just wanted to see if you actually wanted to have some fun for once. Call me when—if—you ever stop being such a pansy. Let's go, Lopez," Karofsky said, grabbing his backpack by one strap and getting out of his seat. A couple of freshman skittered away to waiting friends before he noticed them.

Santana snorted. "Bubble boy, I will leave when I'm good and ready. I needs to get some food in me before I go to—"she hesitated for a spilt second. "A friend's tonight," she finished. The only one that hadn't noticed her lapse in articulacy was Karofsky, who merely shot them all a dark look and sauntered out.

A hush fell over the table for a moment after the bell above the door rung in affirmation of Karofsky's exit.

"A friend, Santana?" Blaine teased, breaking the silence.

"Shut it, Anderson," Santana snapped back. "Just because I saved your sorry ass back there, doesn't mean I like you any more." Her smirk said otherwise as she waved a waitress over.

"I did not need you to save my 'sorry ass'," Blaine griped back, affronted. The Latina merely shot him a scathingly humiliating look in response. "I didn't. I would have gotten that Mark—"

"Matt," Santana corrected him in an offhand manner as she debated with the waitress as to which shake was better—the strawberry or the blueberry.

"Matt, whatever—if we hadn't been in here. You just wait until tomorrow morning. Be at school behind the student lot early for a show." Blaine snatched up his letterman jacket and bag and walked off, nearly colliding with a freshman and growling at her angrily. The girl looked like she was close to tears, but he didn't care.

Quinn sighed and gave Santana an almost apologetic glance as she stood up and put a bill on the table. Blaine could pay her back later. The other girl merely snapped her fingers at a boy walking back to his own table and he came to sit with her. Quinn sighed and left.

"Blaine!" Quinn called, her ponytail swinging as she ran to catch up to him. He kept walking, his head down and his hands in his pockets. "Blaine Anderson, you stop right now," she ordered, wheezing slightly. Blaine knew better than to disobey Quinn when she told him what to do—she was definitely getting mad.

"Good," Quinn panted, bracing her hands on her knees and catching her breath. Out of habit, and momentarily forgetting her anger with him, he flipped her ponytail back over her head affectionately.

"Don't you play that card with me, mister," she said crossly, straightening up and glaring at him, her clear green eyes flashing in the sun. She truly was a beautiful girl, soft and pale and blonde and fit. "Why in the world did you let Santana get to you like that? You know she says whatever goes through her messed up head," she demanded, crossing her arms in front of her.

Blaine sighed and grabbed at his hair, which Quinn had thankfully combed most of the gel out of. "I don't know, okay? Maybe it was for the same reason you tried to kick her ass a couple of weeks ago," he said, getting a slightly vindictive pleasure when he saw her confidence waver.

She put her mask straight back on, refusing to be beaten. "We're not talking about me. We're talking about the fact that you let the two of them get under your skin so easily," Quinn said, sounding exasperated.

"I'm sorry, all right? They just... bug me. And Karofsky just creeps me out. There's something strange about him."

"Well, we're not trying to figure out what's wrong with that idiot," Quinn said, her voice softening. "Let's get you home. You didn't eat anything."

"You sound like my mother," Blaine quipped as she led him back towards the parking lot of Limas. They tried to sneak past as quickly as possible, not wanting to be seen by the patrons, who would most likely misconstrue seeing the 'IT' couple of McKinley rushing towards his parked car. Once safely inside the cool leather interior that still smelled brand-new, Quinn turned to him.

"You place or mine?" she asked, smoothing her Cheerio's skirt out.

"Yours," Blaine said. "I've got some spare clothes in the back." Quinn smiled.

The drive back to the Fabray's was a short one, as long as Blaine avoided the regular haunts of the other members of the football team, who would stop at nothing to get Blaine out of his car and make him smoke a couple with them. He didn't mind too much, but he worried about Quinn. She was still a little bit delicate from the previous spring.

Blake Fabray was a rich, rich man. He was well known within the town of Lima, and the only reason he lived there was because of the image it projected into whatever company it was that he ran—a small family living in a small town. Image, image, image. It was always about image.

Blaine parked his car next to Quinn's. He made a mental note to take it to the mechanic's sometime that week. H liked to keep his car the way it was, but Quinn was constantly cleaning up and spraying her perfume everywhere. He was itching to get her out of his rebuilt BMW and back into her own rich-girl car.

"Shut up, Blaine. It's your fault it's broken in the first place," Quinn muttered, climbing out of the passenger side.

Blaine flushed. "I said that out loud?" he asked sheepishly. She nodded, smiling teasingly. "Oops."

Quinn laughed and shook her head. Blaine grinned back and pulled the duffel back he kept for days like this out from his back seat and followed her into the large house, up the stairs and dumped it on the floor in her immaculate bedroom.

"You can use the bathroom first," Blaine said, sitting carefully on her desk chair.

"You say that like I would have let you go first," she said, swatting him with a towel. He laughed again, pulling the towel from her hand and throwing it back at her.

He heard the water start to run and leaned back, rubbing his hands through his hair, which had dropped all pretences of being tame and dignified and had become slightly wild. Quinn would make him get a haircut soon, but secretly he liked the look. It was so unacceptable in Lima, having crazy hair. Everything else was prim and proper and in its place. He was no longer twelve years old, but he felt oddly thrilled to be out if the norm, even in this little way. Everyone saw him as the perfect kid; quarterback for the football team, straight- A student, dating the head cheerleader, son of one of Lima's claims to fame.

But that wasn't who Blaine was. Blaine loved football, but he would much rather watch than play. He worked day and night for his grades, and if they slipped even a small bit, he would suffer in more ways than academically. He didn't even know what his father did, and everyone assumed that he would one day take the family name and reach unattainable heights with it.

His father. Andrew Anderson was not a bad man, nor was a hateful one. He was simply a man that was set in his ways—a man who liked the norm. Play sports and get good grades in high school while dating the right girl. Get into a great college and study something respectable, like medicine or law or engineering. Then find a job, marry your high school sweetheart and raise children with her.

But Blaine didn't want a her. He wanted a him.

Blaine was queer as a three-dollar bill, and no one— save for one of Blaine's confidants— knew. Except maybe Santana, but everyone knew that her motto was gay until proven straight, so no one took her too seriously when she hinted and conspired. Sometimes, however, her remarks hit a little too close to home, and Blaine found himself getting entirely too upset. He blamed it on his 'aggressive nature', an act that had not slid by with the rest of the football players. He used to be one of the only ones that didn't hurt innocent peers.

Those days were long gone.

It was Blaine's junior year, and nearing his one year anniversary for his first slushie delivery.

"What an accomplishment," he muttered to himself ruefully. "Mom would be so proud if she knew."

The door to the bathroom opened suddenly. Blaine hadn't heard the water go off. Filling the main room with the warm, nearly-tangible scent of citrus, Quinn stepped out in a simple pair of sweatpants and one of Blaine's shirts. Her honey-blonde hair was wet and tangled, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot. She must have gotten shampoo in them. Again.

"When are you going to learn to close your eyes in the shower, Quinn?" Blaine teased in a tone that conveyed years worth of history.

"Quiet, Anderson," Quinn snapped back playfully in the same fashion. "Bathroom's free."

"I noticed." He gathered his clothes from his bag and took the towel she offered him, ruffling her hair on the way. He ignored her squawk of protest.

The bathroom still smelled like Quinn's things, but he pulled his own out from the medicine cabinet where she hid them. Her parents would definitely not approve of proof that Blaine took showers in their home with their daughter present, especially when they were alone. But they didn't need to worry.

Blaine and Quinn were definitely not attracted to each other.