Kurt ran a tight, top-notch cheerleading squad.

The Cheerios were the best of the best, and while part of that was due to Coach Sylvester working them until various body parts (often fingers or toes, but larger extremities weren't unusual) were bleeding, Kurt liked to think it was also because he was a fair, but stern, captain.

He didn't allow bullying, backstabbing, gossip, or too much partying. If he found out any of his girls or guys were doing drugs, he went straight to Coach Sue. He was slightly more lenient when it came to alcohol, because while he absolutely hated underage drinking (or really doing anything to excess), he also understood that there were only so many ways to blow off steam and relieve the immense pressure so many of his squad were under, especially in this podunk midwestern town. The lock-ins Kurt had started were common, especially as they got closer to Nationals. The teens could drink and be a little rowdy, and Kurt knew that no one would be driving anywhere—the admission fee was putting their car keys in a large round fish bowl Kurt held at the door.

Over the years, the lock-ins had gained in popularity, not just with his Cheerios, but also the football players (many of whom were dating members of his squad) and even parents. He was almost positive the parents knew at least some of what went on during the weekend parties, but as one of his girls had said, "My mom'd rather she knew where I was, and that I can't get in to TOO much trouble, than have to actually sacrifice her own Saturday plans to try and keep me in check."

It was so successful, in fact, that by the end of Kurt's Junior year, even kids who weren't at all associated with the cheerleaders or any of the jock cliques were attending. There had been some friction when it first started happening, but Kurt had come down swift and fierce, raining down like the wrath of God (in whom, incidentally, he didn't even believe) on the offenders, saying that EVERYBODY was welcome, and if anyone had a problem with that, they could leave. The first time he'd said that, in a quiet but serious voice (that his Cheerios knew to fear the most, because it meant he wasn't just angry, he was seriously pissed off), a few of the jocks had smirked like they'd gotten just what they'd wanted. Kurt had turned to the group of three "unpopular" kids (a couple Sophomores and a nerdy Junior Kurt recognized from his French class) and asked if they had a problem with being at the same party as everyone else. They'd quickly shook their heads, so Kurt had jerked his head toward the interior of the room. "Okay," he'd replied mildly, "then I hope you have a great time."

And then he'd turned to the group of boys, all at least as tall as he was, if not more so, and definitely broader through the shoulders, and leveled his gaze on each of them for several seconds. "Do any of you gentlemen have a problem occupying the same party as everyone else who's here?" He'd crossed his arms over his chest and put on his most impressive bitch-face as some of the guys started to look angry. "Because if you do, there's the door. Don't let it hit you on the ass on the way out."

There had been no more problems.

This was the last party of the year, and several of his Cheerios were graduating, so for them it was a bit of a last hurrah. Several other Seniors had shown up as well, so it was a bit more raucous and bawdy than usual. At midnight, Kurt took the fishbowl full of keys and locked it in his Navigator, then wandered around the back of the building. Since the lock-ins had become so popular, they'd moved to bigger and bigger venues; at present, they were at an old abandoned farm on the outskirts of town. It had a huge barn they were all staying in and around, butted up against an abandoned field. The only thing growing in the field now was weeds, that came up as high as Kurt's chest. But closer to the barn it was just overgrown grass, and Kurt spread out a woven blanket he'd grabbed from his car before settling down Indian-style on it. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around his legs, staring out over the field, toward the horizon.

Kurt loved being a Cheerio. He loved being popular. He loved his family, and really, he loved his life, for the most part.

He just hated this fucking town.

He had it all planned out. He'd end his high school career next year winning his fourth consecutive National championship, and have his pick of college scholarships. Most people didn't realize that there was prize money—substantial prize money—to be won from championships. And while Coach Sue definitely took the lion's share to help fund the Cheerios' in the future, she didn't take all of it. She got quite a lot of funding from the government and the community, so even with some of her ridiculous splurges on her squad, she was still able to dole out some of the winnings to her top performers. Kurt currently had close to $5,000 in a savings account just from the various competitions they'd won. He had quite a lot more than that saved altogether, from all the odd jobs he'd worked over the years, seasonal things like mowing lawns, detassling, walking dogs, snow removal, working in his dad's mechanic shop—you name it, he'd done it. He was getting out of this town, even if it was by sticking his thumb up and his leg out on the side of the highway.

"King Kurt not wanting to associate with his subjects tonight?"

Kurt barely stopped himself from groaning out loud at the voice speaking behind him. Maybe he'd have to rethink the whole "everyone's welcome" policy at these events. He hoped if he didn't say anything, maybe the other boy would go away, but no such luck. Only a few seconds later, a body plopped down in the grass beside his small blanket. More movement, and Kurt couldn't stop himself from glancing over, just in time to catch the boy beside him pulling out a cigarette and lighter.

"Don't you know smoking kills, Anderson?" Kurt said brusquely. He still couldn't stop himself from watching the curly-haired teen light up, expertly pulling on the cigarette until it ignited, then taking a long drag as he put his lighter back in his pocket.

Anderson turned his head enough that his mouth was facing away from Kurt before exhaling a long string of smoke, but his eyes stayed on Kurt. "Not as immediately as drunk driving," he said, switching his gaze to look out over the field.

Kurt frowned in confusion, and dug his nails into his leg through his (designer) jeans. He knew that, probably better than most of the other assholes in this town.

"I like your key policy," Anderson continued, still staring out into the field. Kurt wasn't sure if Anderson wasn't looking at him because he didn't want to, or if, in some bizarre way, he was trying to give Kurt some privacy while they talked. Did Anderson actually want to talk to him? He had sat down beside him, after all. This was just weird.

"Umm...thanks. Yeah, I don't want anyone driving around drunk, they could get hurt."

"Or hurt others," Anderson said quietly, speaking the words Kurt had been thinking, but hadn't wanted to say. Kurt watched as Anderson glanced down (shyly? Why not, Kurt had already entered the Twilight Zone, talking to one of the outcasts of McKinley High), then his eyes flickered over to Kurt's face. Kurt was fascinated with the barely-there flashes of emotion he saw on Anderson's face, gone too fast to put a name to, but they oddly pulled at Kurt, nonetheless.

Both boys were quiet after that, and once Anderson was done with his cigarette, he stood up, placing his hand on Kurt's shoulder to boost himself up. Normally Kurt would have bitched at him about touching without permission...but something about the whole exchange made him hold his tongue. He wasn't used to just sitting silently with someone, and it hadn't been at all uncomfortable silence, either. Normally, his fellow teens just had to jabber incessantly about things, usually boring things that Kurt didn't even care about. It had been nice to share company without sharing words. Before Anderson let go, he squeezed Kurt's shoulder. Kurt turned his head to look, but Anderson never looked back, moving off toward the barn.

Later, Kurt would see Anderson with his tongue down Sasha Taylor's throat, and his hand up her skirt. He ignored the peculiar twist in his stomach the sight produced, dismissing it as being caused by the very thought of touching a girl sexually.

He dismissed Blaine Anderson from his mind, but it wouldn't be the last encounter the two boys had, and in the next year, their lives would become forever entwined.