Santana [08-14-11 3:02am]: So since you bailed on our sleepover tonight...

Kurt [08-14-11 3:05am]: I'm tired. We never sleep on sleepovers. And look, here I am talking to you at 3am anyway.

Santana [08-14-11 3:06am]: See, if you'd have kept our date, we could be talking AND you could be snuggling up on my boobies as we watch movies.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:07am]: Yes, but when we're done here I can roll over and go to sleep without you tickling me so hard I almost wet your bed.

Santana [08-14-11 3:08am]: Whiner. So, have you forgiven He Who Shall Not Be Named?

Kurt [08-14-11 3:08am]: Voldemort's dead.

Santana [08-14-11 3:09am]: I'll take that as a no.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:10am]: Let's put it this way – I am not looking forward to rehearsal Tuesday.

Santana [08-14-11 3:11am]: It sounded amazing, Keeks.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:12am]: I'm never snuggling up on your boobies again.

Santana [08-14-11 3:13am]: Fine. I'll call Maynard and see if he's into non-sexual boobie snuggling. You CAN be replaced, you know.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:14am]: I'm the only one who knows how to rub your feet the way you like it.

Santana [08-14-11 3:22am]: Fuck.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:25am]: It took you that long to NOT have a comeback? I fell asleep. I am so disappointed in you.

Santana [08-14-11 3:26am]: Look. Just...just fucking forgive him before Tuesday, okay? I am not going to deal with my gaybies hate-playing. I dealt with that for too long with Doc.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:27am]: Doc was not your gayby. And? I'm going to sleep.

Santana [08-14-11 3:28am]: Now I need you to rub my feet, you asshole.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:29am]: Soon. I promise.

Santana [08-14-11 3:29am]: Fine. I love you.

Kurt [08-14-11 3:30am]: I love you too. And your boobies.

~~~**~~~

"Baboons would have raised cleaner people." Kurt yanks a pair of dirty gym shorts out of a top instrument locker and tosses it behind him. While he's perched on the floor of the lowest locker, he peeks deeper, hoping he doesn't find anything that smells worse than the shorts did.

Something liquid seeps through a brown bag that taunts him from the farthest back corner. "Jesus Fucking Christ. Neanderthals. Every last one of 'em." He stretches both arms into the locker and lifts himself a little higher, feet dangling into the open cage beneath. With his index finger and thumb he gingerly drags the bag across the floor of the cabinet, holds his breath and flings it behind him, not giving a good god damn if it explodes into a fatty, greasy mess on the floor. "She just said clean the instrument room. Not the new mess outside of it."

No one is listening to him and he knows it. Rehearsal ended twenty minutes ago; this is his "consequence" for leaving the final rehearsal of band camp to have his one-man pity party in his dorm room. Considering he thought he might lose the solo – or worse – his section leader status, he's pretty relieved.

Until he pulls a cleaning wipe out of its container and swipes at the floor of the top locker he's been digging in. "Good god, what the fuck was in that bag!?"

He hops down and covers his mouth and nose, taking a few cleansing breaths before stepping back onto the floor of the lowest locker to hike himself up and get the job over with. Well, this locker over with. It's his fourth one. There are fifty lockers. He might be here until rehearsal tomorrow.

"What are you doing?"

Kurt starts, hits his head on the top of the locker, swears and hops down with a cleaning wipe dripping with...something. Yellow. And...green? And still dripping. "Fuck. Me." He looks to where the voice came from and rolls his eyes. Of course. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

He cups the dripping mess and tosses the wipe out into the band room, plucks another to clean his hand, and then two more to finish the job. He most definitely does not want to have a discussion with anyone, especially Blaine. And his earnest eyes. And his earnest hands absently reaching to help which he doesn't need to thank you very much. Blaine simply needs to go away.

He finishes that locker, puts the mellophone back in it and hops down, dragging the master key from his pocket to unlock the middle locker. He pulls out the two clarinet cases from it, peeks around, smiles and closes it back up. He considers going to the bottom locker but would just as soon as not be on all fours while Blaine stands and watches him. The act of cleaning up after these animals is subservient enough.

"Honestly, Maynard. What the hell do you want?" He unlocks the next bottom locker to use its floor as a step and hikes up to begin cleaning another one. As he yanks the saxophone case from its locker, he hangs onto the caged door and glares down at his one-man audience.

"Well, since I've figured out what you were doing, I guess I'm still wondering why you're doing it."

"Because I had nothing better to do after a six-hour rehearsal. Why else would I be putting my hands all over the disgusting detritus of one hundred and fifty teenagers?"

"Okay, you know what? Just—just fucking move. You're hanging in front of my locker."

For the first time since Blaine arrived at rehearsal, Kurt allows eye contact. Except it's to hopefully burn holes in his perfectly perfect head. "Fine." He hops down, not blinking or moving his glare. "While you're in there, why don't you clean out any shit you might have lingering."

"You're free to inspect it, sir." Blaine unlocks his cage and shoves his horn inside, slamming the door closed. "I have a little self-respect."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I take care of my things. My belongings...my friendships."

Kurt wants Blaine to go away. His face is too expressive, his hurt and fury and confusion and disappointment in Kurt entirely too clear. "You know, in light of recent events," he hikes up to the top locker again, drags out crinkled old band schedules and slams the door shut. "I find that really hard to believe."

"I'm sure you do. But if you'd stop pouting long enough to have a conversation with me, you might find it a little easier."

"Pouting? Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Honestly? Yes. Completely separate from this god damned solo, we have to work together. You don't—"

"Oh, you mean like together? Like when you go to Jonesy with something that might possibly affect me a little bit, but can't even bother yourself to discuss it with me first? That kind of together?"

"I didn't go behind your back."

"The hell you didn't!" Kurt is finished with the conversation. With Blaine's nonsense. And with the way his heart skips beats whenever he dares to look into his eyes. It hurts. He hurts. And he knows he's pouting but he doesn't know what else to do to express the betrayal he's been feeling for the last four days.

He opens the next row's bottom and top lockers, hiking up to get at the two clarinet cases inside. When he steps down with them in hand, he feels pressure against the cases and looks, finding Blaine grabbing them from underneath. "I have this, Maynard. Just go."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

Kurt yanks the cases from Blaine's grip and takes a cursory glance inside the locker, shoving the clarinets back in when he finds nothing. "Then why did you steal my solo?"

"I stole nothing. You still have your solo." Kurt looks away and slams the clarinet locker shut, unlocking the middle locker, groaning when he sees piles of clothes shoved behind the trombone case inside.

"Pigs. These people are pigs."

Blaine chuckles and Kurt bites his lip to stop himself from joining him. He refuses to give Blaine the satisfaction of breaking him with the simple act of empathizing. But, when he feels Blaine's hand on his arm his reaction is so visceral, he can't hide it. He gasps and holds his breath, covering Blaine's hand with his own.

"Kurt..."

"What? Just—what?" He can't look at him. He can't pull his hand away. He can't sink into the hole in the floor because it doesn't exist.

"I'm not Doc. I want to enhance what you do because you do it so fucking beautifully. I'm not here to tear anything down, especially you."

Kurt can't speak. If he does, Blaine will hear his voice crack and then it's over. He can't cry either. Not over this. But the tears prickle at the corners of his eyes anyway, all of the years of being torn down threatening to sweep under his feet and wash him away. The fight leaves him with his exhaled breath and it's all he can do to simply nod.

Blaine pulls his hand from Kurt's arm and picks up his thermos from the floor where he'd dumped it to put his horn away. "You sure you don't want any help?"

"Yes, I'm sure." Kurt feels Blaine move toward the door and doesn't dare to spin to look at him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow."

~~~**~~~

Kurt [08-17-11 3:37am]: My pillow. Tide. Bounce. D & G's Light Blue. Oh, and sweat. Loads of sweat.

Blaine [08-17-11 3:42am]: Any particular ratio of detergent to cologne, good sir?

Kurt [08-17-11 3:43am]: A gentleman has to keep a few secrets to himself. Good night, Maynard.

~~~**~~~

"Go slow on the water, guys. We don't need a repeat of Trumpet Geysers of 2011."

Rookies. They seem to stay rookies throughout the entire season, never really grasping basic concepts of hydration, over-exertion and oh – common fucking sense.

But, the heat is making health, sanity, comfort and patience virtually impossible, even for the experienced members. Which typically means, vomit is inevitable.

Sometimes, Kurt really hates band.

Seeing Blaine sprawled out on the 35 yard line going over music, he takes one more swallow of water, fishes into his gig bag and heads over to join him.

Blaine is on his belly, propping his chin up with his fist, studiously scanning his flip folder. And then his charts. And back to his flip folder. His ass jiggles with each switch of folder and his feet kick lazily, flexing his calf muscles with each motion.

Sometimes, Kurt really loves band.

Trying to ignore the view, Kurt joins him on the pavement laying across from him, head to head, propping his chin up with a fist as well. He extends his other hand holding Blaine's 10C mouthpiece.

When Blaine doesn't even blink, Kurt shoves the mouthpiece closer into Blaine's vision and wiggles it.

Blaine looks at the mouthpiece and up at Kurt, pausing until he looks back at the mouthpiece. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Kurt rolls his eyes and smiles. "I'm returning your mouthpiece. Dad and I went out this weekend and I sort of forgot yesterday."

Blaine nods and shifts so he can take it from Kurt's hand finally meeting his eyes when their fingers brush in the pass-off. "You could have used it all season."

"I—thank you?"

Blaine's attention is back on his charts.

"Maynard. You're upset."

Blaine shrugs and sits up, leaning over to pocket the piece. "It's just interesting timing, don't you think?"

"No. It's—it's not?" Kurt sits up and brushes the front of his shirt off, taking another curious glance at Blaine. "It's just the first weekend Dad and I both had time together, so we went out and—you don't believe me."

Blaine runs a hand through his sweat-damp curls and sighs. "I asked Jonesy to pull me from Show."

"What? Why?"

"I don't—I don't miss anybody from Wapak. Not really. I had friends, but—" Blaine shrugs and draws his belongings into his lap, tapping his flip folder onto the hard cover of his chart notebook in an erratic rhythm, "but I don't miss any of them."

Kurt waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. He just keeps staring and swallowing and tapping. "Maynard, I'm sorry. I'm not following at all."

"Everyone's mad at me. Mike finally gave in but only because I fed him. Rachel and Santana still haven't talked to me and Finn gives me the hairy eyeball every time I even face the percussion section. And Mercedes and Q act like I stepped in their prized tulip patch or something, just shaking their heads at me like I'm some shamed puppy."

Kurt laughs and Blaine huffs, but chuckles a little too, blushing and he has to absolutely stop doing that. "They're very loyal. We've all been friends for years."

"And you—" Blaine looks down and blushes again.

"I was pouting. I can't promise I'm done either."

"I've been in this band a month. A month. And I missed yo—" Blaine stops and looks everywhere but at Kurt.

And Kurt isn't sure he can breathe.

"I missed all of you so much. In just a matter of days. It isn't worth losing—everybody."

"What'd she say? Jonesy?"

Blaine finally looks back to Kurt and shrugs. "She won't let me pull out."

Kurt smiles and looks up to the tower, catching Jonesy staring down at them. He waves and shifts, turning his back to her, not really interested in her being able to read their lips. Because he knows she can. "She knows I'll quit pouting. And she knows we're going to blow the competition away."

"I don't know that the cost is worth it."

Kurt nods, unsurprised and before he can poke and prod and get to the heart of what Blaine's saying – because surely it can't be what he thinks Blaine is saying – they are interrupted by the real business at hand.

"Reset 22. Drill only to the end. Let's hustle!!"

Blaine runs his charts to the sidelines and Kurt follows him, grabbing his arm before they take their spots only a few steps away. "I'm going to risk being rude here..."

"Never stopped you before."

Kurt thinks he might have to kiss the ornery right off of Blaine's face but he is happy to see it back; they work better this way. "Shut up." He bends to grab his cooler for another quick guzzle of water before starting another set in the heat, offering Blaine a pull as well. "A couple weeks ago, you told me your mom makes really amazing lemonade."

"She does." Kurt watches Blaine's throat and neck work as he drinks – and promptly gets caught. But Blaine graciously lets it go and tosses Kurt's thermos to the side with only a little smirk. "Do—do you want to come over? After practice?"

"Would that be okay? I can swing by my house and get some trunks to swim and— maybe we can start knocking this duet out."

"Yes. I'd like—yes."

"Kiki! Maynard! What's the hold-up? Get your asses out here."

"Jesus."

They jog out to their spots and sneak one more glance at each other before Artie begins, Kurt grabbing for one more commitment that this duet is going to fly. "Meet you at the 50?"

Blaine's grin seals the deal. "Meet you at the 50."

~~~**~~~

"I'm thinking swimming isn't going to happen." Kurt takes the marimba shoved in his direction and spins it around to push it inside. A pop-up thunderstorm cut rehearsal short by half an hour and it happened so abruptly, everyone got caught in it. As to be expected, protecting the expensive instruments became an immediate priority.

"No. Not tonight." Blaine is right behind him with the chimes, letting out the breath he'd been holding since the first crack of thunder disrupted what had been one of the most productive rehearsals they'd had all summer.

Kurt passes the marimba off to a band parent and turns to Blaine who is white as a ghost. "You okay?"

"N-no."

"At least the girls stopped screaming like dying banshies." When Blaine barely nods, Kurt rubs his soaking wet arm with his hand and steps back out to get a feel for how big the storm is. "Maynard, c'mere. There's blue sky peeking out already. Maybe we'll get a rainbow."

"I'll take your word for it." Blaine yanks Kurt back inside, shutting the metal doors behind them.

"Maynard, the sn—" Kurt chuckles and opens the door again, letting in the snare drummer who Blaine almost slammed into the door.

"Sorry, dude." The rookie glares at Blaine and Kurt glares harder making the little shit move into the percussion room with more speed than he's moved all season. "You're just like my mother. The tornado sirens are blaring and she's on the front porch looking for funnel clouds."

"Okay, no. If the sirens are blaring, I'm in the house. Storm chasing is Dad's job."

"Band, atten-hut!"

"HUT!"

"You have two options. Group up and practice or get the hell out. If you choose option A – grouping up and practicing – Beaman and I will help you and love you forever. If you choose option B and leave, you get two extra laps tomorrow morning. Option A, you outlast the storm. Option B, you might drown and I ain't comin' to your funeral."

"So, if you're smart, you'll pick option...???" Beaman points to the dripping wet band for an answer.

"A!"

"Excellent choice. You can spread to the auditorium, practice rooms with the doors cracked – MINIMUM OF THREE PEOPLE IN PRACTICE ROOMS AT ALL TIMES, Mr. Puckerman – the hall way and alcoves up to the gates and of course, you can spread out in here. You have 25 minutes."

"Awesome! Threesomes are a go! Who's in?"

A crack of thunder splits through Puck's idiocy and Blaine jumps, knocking backward into Kurt who surreptitiously rubs a hand up and down his back, leaning up to whisper in his ears. "It'll be over soon. Let's grab Snix and go to the back hall – it's further into the building."

Blaine leans back into Kurt's touch and sighs. "You don't have to do this."

"We have to practice, and that's a good spot without windows or anything." Kurt nudges Blaine's shoulder to get him to turn and look at him.

His eyes are wide and darting everywhere and he's simply adorable, curls dangling on his forehead, dripping wet spots onto his shirt. He looks about five years old. "No one needs to know – unless you jump out of your shoes again and then I'm going to have some explaining to do."

Santana pulls herself from Brittany and joins Kurt and Blaine, pouting that rehearsal didn't get cancelled.

"Let's go to the back hall – where we eat."

"Yeah, okay. Maynard, you alright? You look like your mom just walked in on you with Kiki's dick in your mouth."

"I—wh—I just—" Blaine shoots a look at Kurt who is pushing Santana toward the hallway door.

"Ignore her when she gets like this. The more you stutter, the more ammunition she thinks she has."

"I KNEW it! You want Kiki's dick in your mouth!"

Kurt tugs on her ponytail and slips a foot between her legs to trip her next step. "Do you ever want your feet rubbed again?"

"Alright, alright. Damn. I think my gaybies doth protest too much."

"I think our 3rd trumpet doth speaketh too much." They get to the alcove and slide down the wall to sit in their wet clothes and wait out the storm.

"Start with the band entrance in Show – we'll have a nice trio going."

So they do. And they do. And Kurt decides that maybe his senior year isn't going to be so bad after all.