According to Kurt Hummel, the best thing about being in band is that it gives you a completely pre-packaged, forever-committed family in the midst of the raging hell that is otherwise known as high school.

The worst thing about being in band is that you're with that family constantly. And when you're not with them, you might as well be because they're text-bombing your phone at 3 am with juice on the latest cheerleader's pregnancy or that while drunk, Rachel finally confessed that yes, she indeed would go bi-curious for Quinn.

If Kurt remembers the text message correctly, the phrasing was, "Yes! I would dive into Quinn like a fat kid at a pie eating contest!" or something equally nauseating and traumatic. And offensive.

But this moment - right here, right now - is a best thing.

It's early July, the last few weeks of summer freedom. Their final Independence Day parade is over, and to reward themselves for marching five miles in 95-degree heat in full wool uniforms for four years straight, everyone that matters is gathered at Mike's house for the annual pool party.

Senior style.

The lemonade is properly spiked, there are no directors shouting watch your horn angle, or toes up, or hold the line, dammit, and the best part, everyone - except Kurt of course - is in proper states of undress. Kurt might be as gay as a rainbow-farting unicorn, but there is never anything wrong with appreciating the beauty of woman's human body, especially one as fine as Santana Lopez's.

Until it's coming into his line of vision, dripping chlorinated water onto his bare thighs.

"Kiki, look at you. It's nine-thousand degrees out here, you're still wearing your shirt and are entirely too dry. We need to fix that."

Kurt lowers his sunglasses and looks over them straight into Santana's cleavage. "It's all part of a carefully thought-out plan. I play coy and you come shove your boobs in my face."

"Aw, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. But, even I can't deny you have an amazingly fine..." Kurt squints, searching for the right word, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose when he finds one. "...landscape."

Santana stands upright and grins, reaching out a hand to pull Kurt up. "C'mon. You're getting in the pool. I need a bottom for chicken and I know you can manage that."

Kurt makes a display of disagreement, huffing and puffing and tugging and whining while he stands and reluctantly takes off his shirt. "What happened to Brittany?"

"She's topping Mike."

Kurt looks into the pool and sits back down again. "I am not competing against them. They will drown us like rabid sewer rats!"

"You forget, I'm the chicken champion." She leans in and kisses the tip of Kurt's nose as she removes his sunglasses, tossing them on his chaise and pulling him up again. "You need to loosen up; I've got this."

"Fine. Just. Fine. But if I'm bottoming you're going to have to lube me up." He digs into his bag for a bottle of sunscreen and tosses it to her. "Lay it on thick, Snix. I have a feeling you don't go easy."

~~~**~~~

They are cremated. Slaughtered. Spit-roasted and fried. Kurt and Santana spend more time resurfacing from being pulled underwater than they do getting Santana repositioned back up on Kurt's shoulders. They even try playing with Kurt on Santana's shoulders - which seems to go pretty well - until Brittany and Mike swap and it's all over. Kurt falls back into the water with a squeal pitched high enough to raise the dead and enough water up his nose to refill Lake Erie should it ever dry up.

But, the only one keeping score is Santana, so she convinces everyone she's still champion. Because really, no one else cares.

"I'll get that crown back at band camp anyway."

"I'm riding your ass so hard this summer, you won't be able to straddle anyone's neck by then, Snix."

"What makes you think you're top dog?"

Kurt yanks the towel off of his head and rolls his eyes. "Oh come on. Doc graduated; lead trumpet is mine and you know it."

"Yeah, Doc may be gone, but didn't you hear, Kiki? There's a new kid in town."

"That sounds like the beginning of a really bad movie."

"Play it right and maybe it will be."

Kurt is already bored with the new kid. No new band member is going to unseat him. "So, who is it?"

"The hobbit that moved in next door to me. I tried giving him my old toddler bed to sleep in, but he said he already had a bed." Brittany shrugs. "Not my fault if he gets lost in the night."

"A hobbit is going to take lead trumpet from me."

"If he doesn't get lost in his gargantuan human-sized bed, he is."

"Snix, what the hell is she talking about?"

"The new kid. From Wapak."

"Wapakoneta's band sucks."

"Yeah, but remember their show last year?"

"Maynard Ferguson. It made my ears bleed. Was totally disrespectful to a legend- wait." Kurt blanches. "Except for the lead trumpet. He killed."

"And he lives next door to Brittany now. Happy senior year, Kiki!"