Kurt hates the talent show. It's been a tradition of McKinley's band camp for decades and he has yet to meet anyone who really enjoys it. Well, outside of Rachel that is. Rachel never seemed to get the memo that it's a joke talent show. Every person in every section must participate and no one ever takes time from their breaks to prep, so it ends up as two hours of people goofing off, by section, on stage. A "stage" that happens to be the front of the cafeteria.

Since Kurt's been in band, the trumpet section's offerings have amounted to dancing to the California Raisins version of Heard it Through the Grapevine, complete with garbage bag costumes (a band mom idea, in case anyone couldn't tell – hello 1980's), a glorious rendition of Imperial March – on kazoos, and last year's nightmare was a stupid poem written by Doc himself about the idiocy of bandcamp. It ended with Doc ripping the largest belch in the history of McKinley High – or so he liked to tell anyone who asked.

But, this year they have a plan. Yes, it's stupid and goofy and will amount to everyone laughing and feeling ridiculous but that does seem to be the point. Since the band show is Queen, they collectively decide to do a dramatic rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, Kurt, Blaine, Santana and Nelson, the fourth section leader, lip synching the vocals and the rest of the group providing visual representation of the words.

They kill it. Blaine does Freddie Mercury like nobody's business and Kurt, Santana and Nelson lip sync the background vocals to perfection. The rest of the section acts out the lyrics in comedic melodrama, and when the song lands on the head-banging guitar riff to the end, the entire band is on its feet dancing around like loons. For a stupid talent show, it couldn't have gone better.

Except for Rachel and the flutes, who have the great dishonor of following them. Rachel titters around, putting all of her props in place – seriously when she have time to make props? – and the rest of the section stands and stares at her, not offering to help and looking like a public murder might be in the cards rather than an amateur hour performance piece.

Kurt worries at his bottom lip and side-eyes Blaine who has clearly figured out that this is going to go from bad to worse. And in light of the discomfort that is palpable in the room, it's starting off pretty badly.

"Hi. My name is Rachel Berry and I'm the section leader of the ever-amazing flute section. We're going to perform a scene from Les Miserables, wherein Fantine has been in conflict with fellow factory workers for sending money to her secret illegitimate daughter. I'll be playing Fantine, of course and the rest of the section is well...everyone else. Please hold your applause until the end."

"Oh sweet Jesus this is going to be a disaster. An epic disaster." Kurt nudges Santana in the side, even while biting back his own snicker. She's right. She just needs to keep quiet.

"At least she can sing?"

"She's—this is going to be a parody or something, right?" Blaine looks just as worried as Kurt is.

"Probably not. Just hold your breath and hope this doesn't go on too long."

"Oh god, I want to rescue her from the humiliation."

"You can't rescue someone aiming straight for the rapids."

And they can't. And she is headed straight for the rapids. The entirety of her section says their lines with the emotion of a block of wood. The snickering begins early and by the time Rachel starts her a capella version of I Dreamed a Dream, Jonesy is standing shooting glares around the room, hoping to settle the worst of it. One of the cardboard props topples over onto Rachel's head and that ends it, the band breaking out in fits of laughter, the rest of the flutes stomping off to find their seats and disassociate themselves from the disaster. Rachel squeals and runs out into the hallway to find, Kurt assumes, a hole in the ground in which to live for a few hundred years.

Santana is practically falling off of her seat laughing, but Blaine is next to Kurt holding his breath and reaching across the table to grab at Kurt's arm in terror for the poor girl.

"Should someone go find her? She must be horrified."

"Yeah. I'll go. God damn her, she just doesn't get it."

Blaine stands to join him but Kurt shakes his head. "Your well-intentioned heart will be sorely misunderstood, Maynard. Stay put. I've done this before – I'll do it again."

Kurt is up and out, trying to follow Rachel's cries as she runs out of the building. He finds her hidden behind an overgrown bush, sliding down the wall in mortified humiliation. He pushes down his guilt, feeling like she partially deserves it for her utter refusal to see things outside of her all-the-world's-a-stage mentality, but the truth of the matter is, all the world is, and always has been, a stage for her – and it will continue to be until she gets paid to be on one.

"Don't you say anything to me, Kurt Hummel. Not a word. I don't need one of your lectures."

Kurt simply offers her a few napkins Blaine plucked out of a dispenser and shoved in his hands before he took off after her. As he sits next to her, she folds into him, just as they've done time and time again over the years – in second grade when mean old Mrs. Meyers chastised her for missing her best friend Veronica who was out for a week with a nasty case of chicken pox. Then again in fourth grade when the role of Dorothy in Wizard of Oz went to the snotty principal's daughter. It was kismet when the little brat ended up with pneumonia. Rachel had rehearsed the part as an unwritten understudy, so she happily took the role. Her Dorothy to Kurt's wizard.

Wizard: I am the wizard, great and terrible. Who are you?

Dorothy: I am Dorothy, small and meek. Oh, great wizard, we need your help.

And then there were the romantic heartbreaks and the B's in algebra and the most recent meltdown after she visited a local mixer for potential NYADA students and found out that the world was a stage for a whole heap of young ingénues in Ohio who were just as good, if not better than her. She set her new goal to be the next James Galway, and while she is an excellent flute player, well. The world only gets one James Galway.

All in all, this meltdown is a minor one, but Kurt figures that in Rachel's mind, it's just as big as every other one. Because everything is big in Rachel's mind.

He pets her hair and coos and rocks her as she cries and slowly stills, hiccupping breath as she tries to speak again. "Why doesn't anyone like me?"

"Because you're difficult. And because they don't get you."

"You get me; you don't think I'm difficult."

"I get you. I also think you're impossible."

Rachel chuckles and sniffles and sits up to pull out her ponytail and rewrap it, closing her eyes as Kurt stops her to push a stray strand or two into her hand before she's finished. "I know the talent show's a joke, Kurt. I do."

"Then why do insist on taking it so seriously?"

"Because why not? If we have an opportunity to showcase our talents—"

"But this isn't set up for that. It never has been. And Rachel, no one really cares—not this week. We're exhausted. We're in a constant state of sweaty. We're practically malnourished and we all are longing for a moment's privacy. No one's lifelong dreams matter to anyone else right now."

She sits up and huffs. "Well, maybe they should. Our dreams should always matter. Always."

"To us, yes. But, not to the world."

They brush themselves off and Kurt pulls her to stand, folding her into his arms one more time.

"Will you walk me in? Going back is always harder than storming out."

"Always. You don't want to miss the percussion ensemble anyway. I thought I heard them practicing Tubular Bells."

"Why do they get to take it seriously?"

"Because they did it as a group. And because they're amazing. And because you love watching Finn's biceps when he plays." She stomps her foot and gives one more good attempt at a pout. "Oh stop it. You, more than anyone, know that a grand entrance trumps everything. Get in there and make it a good one."

He spins her toward the door and when he looks up, Blaine is standing there, holding it open for her, his eyes firmly on Kurt. She walks in, takes a deep breath, straightens her back and flings the doors to the cafeteria open just in time for the percussion ensemble to begin. Kurt and Blaine hang at the door for the performance, not saying a word to each other, but Kurt can feel the heat of Blaine's eyes on him.

Before going back to their table, Kurt dares himself to meet Blaine's gaze. "How long were you out there?"

"Long enough."

"I don't understand."

"I'm just really happy I didn't get stuck on my first impression of you."

Kurt can't stop the blush that rises on his face, so he steps into the cafeteria, bumping into Blaine's shoulder on purpose. "You and me both, Maynard."

~~~**~~~

"They're entirely too quiet over there."

"Maybe they're sleeping. You know, like we should be."

Kurt rolls onto his back and huffs out a sigh. "I really thought tonight, of all nights, we'd just fall dead onto our beds and be out."

"Me too. I figured those Tabatha episodes would do it. She's losing her touch."

"I know. Bitchy is only interesting for so long."

Blaine snickers and Kurt gets it. Ha. Ha. He's bitchy. He flings his pillow towards Blaine's face. And lands it.

"You know, you keep doing that and I'm not going to give it back anymore."

"Then I'll whine all night and keep you awake." The pillow lands on Kurt's face with a thud. "Thank you."

They listen to each other breathe and Kurt begins to consider throwing himself onto Blaine's bed. Onto Blaine's...Blaine when something slams against the wall they share with Mike and Sam.

"Ow. Fuck."

They both laugh and get up, tip-toeing to the bathroom door to try to get a better listen. When that doesn't work, they go into the bathroom and press into Mike and Sam's door.

"Is that Sam singing?"

"What song is it?"

"You Can Leave Your Hat On. Joe Cocker. Kick ass strip—"

"What?"

"Nothing, just...my brother likes older music and—"

"Stripper music."

"Well, not stripper music per say, but from what he tells me it's a great song to str—why am I telling you this? We need to be in there because this is going to be hilarious."

"You're not getting out of this story, Maynard." Kurt lets it drop for the moment and slides their door open, peeking in, Blaine tip-toeing up to peek over Kurt's shoulder.

They couldn't have prepared themselves for what they find. Mike is on the bed popping the flat of his hand on and off his flash light giving off a make-shift strobe effect. For Sam. Who is standing on his bunk in nothing but boxers and two bras. One for his chest, of course, and one for his head.

"His hat is a D cup."

"Oh! Hey! Guys! Hi!" Mike turns the flashlight off and Sam whines, jumping off the bed to greet Kurt and Blaine as if a midnight visit while dressed in two bras is not only typical, but expected.

"Run out of pizza rolls?"

"Jesus. No – what freshman lost her bra this year?" Kurt sits on Mike's bed and waves off his offer of a can of pop. He wants to go to bed. To sleep. To maybe snuggle, but most definitely not to be sitting in Mike and Sam's room – that smells like the inside of a gym sock – shooting the shit while Sam kicks around in two bras and his boxers.

"Wait? You stole these from a freshman?" Blaine hasn't budged from his spot inside the door. The poor guy might need resuscitation.

"Every year – it's up to the senior guys to deflower a freshman. Since unlawful sexual conduct is a misdemeanor in Ohio, we just steal bras."

"And why two this year?" Kurt yanks the flashlight from Mike's hand when he continues to turn it off and on in an apparent fit of nerves. "You're drawing attention to the room – stop it."

"They were hooked together. So, you know – bonus! I got a hat!"

"Okay. You—continue your little jig there, Sam." Kurt hands Mike his flashlight back and suggests putting it under his pillow for a middle-of-the-night potty run. When he looks at Blaine, whose expression has not flinched any more than his location, he finally cracks a laugh, pulling Blaine back into the bathroom before lifting his finger in threat. "If you guys get caught, our names better not come up."

"No one would believe us anyway – since when have you guys ever touched a bra?"

"May the straps choke you in your sleep. Also? Senior prank starts promptly at 7am. Eat a fast breakfast."

Sam finishes his song as they leave.

Suspicious minds are talking
Trying to tear us apart
They say that my love is wrong
They don't know what love is

You can leave your hat on

Kurt slides the bathroom door closed and Blaine's mouth is still agape, his finger pointing at Mike and Sam's room. "Blaine? Are you turned on or in shock?"

"Yes. I am."

Kurt laughs again and pushes Blaine into their room, shoving him into his own bed for tonight. They really need a good night's sleep and as it is, poor Blaine is going to be sporting wood all night.

This might go down as the most exasperating bandcamp of all time.

"So...strippers?"

"Shut up. I'm sleeping."

~~~**~~~

Senior prank has a bad history with McKinley Marching Titans. Apparently, it started as an initiation activity with one goal – abject humiliation. Social justice awareness and, rumor has it, a threatened lawsuit, put that business to an end. However, the seniors still like to try to get away with a little something on the last day of bandcamp.

And Jonesy allows it, as long as the emphasis is on a little something and not prank. Kurt knows of the failed attempts his first three years in band and hopes that this year, while the plan is pretty lame, it goes off without a hitch. Or, without Beaman killing it before it gets off the ground, which is what happened his Freshman through Junior years.

It seems Beaman knows about today's plan because she doesn't even flinch when forty students get up and leave breakfast early. She doesn't send out band parents to put a stop to forty students carting sleeping bags and blankets to the practice field, wearing all forms of sleeping garb – eye covers, rollers, fuzzy slippers, flannel pants, iPods.

So, when they all spread out across the field in groups of two or more, and lay down as if to sleep, Kurt looks around and smiles. This year it might go off okay. He and Blaine are stretched out on Blaine's unzipped sleeping bag, watching Finn and Puck unceremoniously get Artie onto a stack of sleeping bags on the fifty-yard line. Somehow, he's going to direct rehearsal from there. It's probably a good thing his legs aren't functional because all Kurt sees is a broken leg in his future.

Which is a really insensitive thing to even think. Chuckling at himself, he rolls over and bumps Blaine's shoulder. "You're quiet this morning."

"So fucking tired." Blaine's head droops onto Kurt's shoulder and he can't help but rest his cheek on his curls.

"I know. But tonight – we go home to our own beds."

"Basketball-sized space between partners, boys. You know the rules." Santana purposely walks between them, on Blaine's bag and takes off running when she feels Kurt grab at her ankles.

"You're lucky I'm exhausted, Snix. I might actually forget to give you laps for that."

She flips him off as she falls onto a sleeping bag with an already napping Brittany. "Sleepover. My house. Saturday. You owe me some stories, Kiki."

"Mmmm. We'll see about that."

"You sleepover with—"

Kurt picks two thick blades of grass and ties one to the other. "Oh yeah. Have for years. Rachel and Mercedes too. Although never with Santana – there would be no survivors."

"How long have you known Snix? You just seem like," Blaine picks a white clover and holds it until Kurt finishes tying a third blade of grass to his first two, "a pretty unlikely pair."

"We are. We met in eighth grade. She came from St. Charles Catholic. A cheerleader with one hell of a reputation." Kurt looks at the clover and then at Blaine, not taking it.

"For your—whatever it is you're making."

"I'm not sure what I'm making, but thank you." He plucks it from Blaine's hand and leans in a little closer, smiling when Blaine reaches for another clover. "She stole my alcove."

"She what?"

"I'd get picked on all the time. There was this alcove by the teacher's lounge where I'd go to cry or catch my breath or whatever. One day I headed there after somebody tripped me and my folders went flying all over the hall, and she was there. Curled up into a ball, crying her eyes out."

"What did you get picked on for?"

Kurt took another blade of grass and looked at Blaine like he'd grown another head. "Maynard. Look at me."

"I am. What did you get picked on for?"

Blaine's eyes are so sincere, so bright and glowing amber in the early morning light that Kurt has to look away. He has to fuss with his project more, picking his own clover flowers and grass, intertwining them and weaving them as his mind races to places he had convinced himself he'd never be visiting in high school. Movie dates and prom and snuggling with a cute boy in the stands for football Friday nights. Stolen kisses and having a companion at Friday night dinners with his family once football season is over. Passing notes in English and make-outs in the instrument room hoping Beaman has left for the day.

And as he twists and spins the flowers and grass, he can see it all as clear as Blaine's eyes. And he is having trouble finding his breath to speak. But a flower pops off its stem and Blaine is chuckling and his daydream fades for some clarity. "Anything. Everything. My voice. My clothes. My inability to do anything in gym class without humiliating myself. The options were plentiful." Kurt pulls the string he's made back to get a better look at it and takes another clover from Blaine. "I bet you didn't get picked on much."

"Not at school."

Kurt stops his work and looks at Blaine again, who's focusing on fanning the few blades of grass he's picked between his thumb and forefinger. "Home?"

Blaine nods and passes a blade over, not looking at Kurt at all. "So, why was Santana crying?"

Kurt lets it drop. "She was known as the class slut."

"Oh. So, she's bi?"

"No. She was hiding. And her reputation was worse than reality, but reality wasn't great. That took about four alcove meet-ups to learn, but as the year went on, we'd share more about why we were there. Never talked in the halls. Never socialized. Never acknowledged we knew each other – even in band – but by high school, we'd let that go and—" Kurt grinned as he tied the two ends of his masterpiece together. It's a wreath. "We've been friends ever since."

"You shared each other's secrets."

"Yes. We came out to each other first – before we were even sure what it meant. I mean, we knew, but we didn't—well, you know how it is. You don't completely understand the weight of I'm gay until you've said it out loud."

"You're lucky you had each other."

"We are. Sit up for a minute." Kurt gets up on his knees and Blaine sits facing him, a stray blade of grass sticking out of one of his curls. Kurt clucks his tongue and picks it out with a smile and places the wreath on Blaine's head, delicately weaving his curls through the leaves and flowers to secure it to his head. "Think it'll stay on when we lie back down?"

Blaine's eyes are still closed from Kurt's fussing and he reaches up to wiggle it. "I think so. How do I look?" He blinks his eyes open and Kurt gasps.

Beautiful. Radiant. Handsome. Comely. Edible.

"They're crossing the bridge – assume your positions!"

The moment killed, they plop back down, their giggles mingling with the rest of the seniors' and await the arrival of the underclassmen.

And it comes as expected, full of whining and complaining and why do we have to do this while they SLEEP, and you're on my mark, Kiki and of course, the seniors respond with silence or snores or groaning roll-overs – they're taking this free, on-field nap to heart. Jonesy spends calisthenics and warm-ups, biting back laughter and taking pictures from the tower. For a lame prank, it's good, harmless fun. And, no calisthenics – which is never a bad gig.

After thirty minutes of the silliness, she puts an end to it and everyone's up, tossing their sleeping bags to the sidelines and grabbing their horns from the band dad's pick-up truck where they'd been hiding.

"Someone get Disco his chair so he can get on the tower." The band groans – having Artie on the 50 to direct had been hilarious for everyone. "Let's start with the closer – chart 55. Santana and Mike, hit the 40 for the duet. Everyone else, congratulate them. They're going to kill it."

Kurt and Blaine high five each other and Kurt jogs to Santana's new spot, kissing her forehead even when she pushes him back. "Save it for your little trumpet pixie over there."

Kurt's not to be swayed. "I'm proud of you."

"Kiki, get back to your mark. Disco, start us off and...Maynard, what in the—nice. Nice headgear, babe."

"Thank you, ma'am. I think it matches my eyes."

"I don't get paid enough for you people. Hit it, Disco!"

~~~**~~~

Blaine wears the fool headdress all day. Flowers pop off of it and Kurt picks new ones, weaving them in and it's time for the next set, the next sectional, the next break. It becomes more and more difficult for Kurt to pretend that standing in such close proximity, twisting his fingers into the loops of Blaine's hair, feeling his breath on his overheated cheeks isn't driving him absolutely mad.

But, he manages. Or so he hopes. Because, he fears, if Blaine shows up one more time with a clover in his hand and a pout on his lips, Kurt's going to give it all up, kiss him and then—well, he can't allow himself to get past the idea of the kiss.

Because the kiss cannot happen. Inner-band dating is disastrous – see exhibit A of his step-brother and Rachel – but inner-section dating? Impossible. Ill-advised. Ignorant and oh god, Blaine's bending over to stretch out his legs and back.

Besides, who said Blaine is even remotely interested? Surely, he's not.

"Everyone rested from break?" Jonesy pauses long enough for no one to respond. It's the final rehearsal of band camp. Two hours in the oppressive heat, senior hug line, pack and head home. And then, fall into bed for the next four days before another rehearsal Tuesday morning. Point? No one is rested. "Show Must Go On. Reset 40. Maynard, do you have what you were showing me ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please stop calling me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mayn—kick out from your spot on chart 47 and then join Kiki at the 50. Trumpets spread out your spacing from there until the closer for this run-through." She pauses as everyone takes their spot, but Kurt hasn't moved.

Join Kiki at the 50.

He feels the blood drain from his face and he's sure he looks like he's just seen a ghost, but he can't bring himself to function. Did Blaine get the solo after all – even after he's being doing it all week? Why is he joining him mid-way through?

"Hey. Kiki. Let's move."

Kurt's eyes focus on Blaine's, earnest and concerned and happy. So fucking happy and all Kurt can do is stare at him. "What's going on?"

Blaine takes his hand and guides Kurt to his mark. "Do you trust me?"

When Kurt looks at him, really looks at him, the floral wreath still perfectly perched on his head, his skin glowing with the kiss of weeks in the sun, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and neck, his eyes dancing like they always do – always – he has to shake his head in disbelief. How can one person evoke so many emotions with one glance? "I do." He looks up to the tower as if to get one more reassurance from Jonesy and sighs. "With caution."

"Fair enough. I think when this is over, you will completely."

Blaine winks and takes off to his mark when Artie blows the whistle leaving Kurt standing on his mark to await the count. And to trust.

Which isn't easy given the situation.

The song begins and Kurt plays with the band for the four-bar introduction, making his way to the 50 yard line where he'll stay for the duration of the song, only moving closer to the home-stand sideline. He hits his cue for the solo and plays it as well as ever, holding a little back from his typical 100% routine. His mind is still busy racing and questioning and wondering what's coming around the bend of the song.

Nothing appears out of place when he starts the second verse, the band executing abstract images around him. Next to the simple act of playing and performing, it's his favorite part of marching, feeling 150 other people swirling and spinning around him, making motion out of music. He starts the second phrase of the verse and he sees new motion to his left. And hears new sound.

It's Blaine, walking toward him playing a counter melody to his solo. It's pretty, admittedly, but – what is he doing? Why is he doing? Why—he focuses back on his solo and Blaine stands next to him, a response to the call of Kurt's melodious solo. As they continue, he recognizes it as the lead guitar part of the original song and when the chorus starts again and the band picks up their volume so the solo part is no longer featured, he lowers his horn and snaps his head to Blaine.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Accompanying. Adding color. Just—go with it. Please?"

"Kiki, you're going to miss your cue – quit talking and pay attention!"

Kurt shoots a glare up to the tower and pulls himself straighter, tighter, raising his horn and hitting his cue straight on, full volume, bellowing, rich sound soaring over the band, but Blaine is still there. Still playing. Wailing high and harmonic and matching perfectly to Kurt's melody. Mother fucker. It's gorgeous. It adds. It embellishes.

It infuriates.

It. Hurts.

Just as expected, the song ends and the band explodes in joy, Jonesy is on her feet with a rare-to-be-seen grin and Beaman has tossed her clipboard in the air in excitement. Beaman doesn't do excited.

And Kurt? Steams. Seethes. Fumes.

He feels Blaine's excited gaze on him. Sees the bounce as he stands there waiting for Kurt to what? Pick him up and swirl him around in emotional glee? Bow down to him as the new king of stage stealing?

"Kiki! Maynard! Absolutely stunning! Show stopping! Maynard, that is brilliant. Alright, people. That's our new chart set up for The Show Must Go On. Reset one."

And that's it. No discussion. No input from him. No warning, no respect. No nothing.

With a calm that scares even himself, Kurt turns on his heel and walks off the field, grabbing his cooler and gig bag on the way out.

"Kiki! If you leave this practice field, there will be consequences."

He keeps walking.

"Maynard, Snix, get back to your spots. No one follows him. No one."

Kurt walks across the rickety bridge and onto the parking lot, the smack of his tennis shoes resounding on the hot tar and gravel. He hears footsteps behind him and figures it's a band parent been sent to make sure he doesn't do something stupid like run off to the circus – which minus the constant smell of manure doesn't sound like such a bad idea – and he keeps right on walking. Up the hill, past the cafeteria and activities center and into the dorms. He's dripping with sweat, heavy with emotions so strong, so intense he doesn't have names for them. Mrs. Lopez wordlessly follows him into the elevator where he stares at the numbers over the door, silent.

"You didn't know that was coming, did you?"

Kurt shoots her a glare so forceful, she pulls back and looks to the ground until the bell dings for the 5th floor.

"I'll—I'll be in the hall waiting for you."

"Whatever."