Blaine's head is one big blob of fog. The fog's name is Kurt and no matter what he does, he can't shake it. The estate sale just about did him in, not only in meeting him there and realizing they had even more in common, but in the way Kurt simply is. He finds it hard to believe Kurt doesn't realize what he's doing and yet, when Blaine dares to look closer after he says things like, "I'll see you downstairs," with the rasp of a well-spent man, or wraps his lips around a forkful of creamy, luscious cheesecake and moans so deep it rattles in both of their chests, or when he plays – when he plays – so milky and smooth and effortless and how his phrases sail through the air and wrap right around Blaine's heart – to the point he forgets to come in on his cue – it seems Kurt truly has no idea the effect he's having on him.

Come to think of it, his brain isn't a fog at all; the images are crystal clear.

Blaine's head is one big blob of Kurt lately.

And, now it is the first day of school so Kurt-blobs-for-brains are probably not going to do him any good.

He's the new kid. He's nervous. Sure, Lima is similar in nature to Wapakoneta, but larger, more intimidating. He's so grateful for summer band because at least he's not walking in knowing no one. But still. First days suck. New schools suck. And getting dropped off out front when probably every other senior gets to drive themselves only makes it worse.

His mom might as well have packed his lunch and put smiley face stickers on the flap. He feels like a child.

"Have a good day, sweetie."

His mom leans over for a kiss and he rolls his eyes and pecks her cheek. "I'll find a ride home."

"Rehearsal after school today?"

"Not band. Kurt's probably coming over though." Two sentences in and he's already saying Kurt's name.

"I'm glad you two are friends now – see? Kindness worked."

"Right. Bye, Mom." God, get me out of this car. He steps out right into the path of probably 10 football players who make a grand show of being personally insulted.

"Watch where you're going, faggot."

"Sorry. Sorry. Just—just let me through, please?" Blaine dares to push at one of the smaller guys and he's allowed through as their laughter follows him into the building.

It's going to be a long day.

"Maynard! Hey, cutie. Welcome to the real McKinley High!" Tina grins and opens the door into the main hallway for him. "Love the bow tie."

"Oh. Th-thank you. It's not too much?"

"Do you like it?"

"I do."

"Then it's perfect." Of course, this is coming from the girl walking down the hall dressed in combat boots, a sleeveless chartreuse jacket that goes to her knees and—

"Did you dye your hair blue?"

"Just the tips. Do you like it?"

"I—" He stops walking and steps in front of her with his head cocked and reaches out to touch the locks. "Yeah. I do. Does Jonesy allow that? Our director at Wapak wouldn't let any unnatural hair color during marching season."

"So long as I hide it under my hat, I'm good. Where's your homeroom?"

"Um, room..." he pulls his schedule out of his back pocket. "Room 403. Mr. Blackburn."

"Ew. Okay, senior lockers are this way."

She hooks her arm in his and they turn the corner into the senior hall. And then he's more grateful for summer band than he could have ever imagined because if this had to be the first time he ever saw Kurt Hummel, he surely would fall over flat on his face. As it is, he only stutters his step, catches his breath and drops his arm from Tina's grip. "Oh my god."

Tina follows his gaze and smiles. "Yeah. Welcome to the real Kiki, Maynard."

"He's—he's beautiful."

Blaine doesn't even hear her chuckle, but has the sense to look when she pats his arm to take her leave. "Yeah. Stunning. I'll leave you to it." She pauses and pushes him forward. "One foot in front of the other, Maynard. You can do it."

"R-right. Thanks, Tina."

Kurt is dressed in what would seem to be simple dress slacks, a white dress shirt and vest. But, upon closer inspection it's more. So much more. He has an ascot. Scarf? It's the scarf from the estate sale perfectly knotted and tucked into the collar of his shirt as an ascot. As Blaine approaches, he realizes the vest isn't just any vest – it's lapelled with a chained brooch of some sort pinned to the lapel, draping delicately across the fabric and attached to one of the numerous small buttons down the front.

Kurt turns to close his locker, still unaware Blaine's there, staring, gaping, probably making a plum fool of himself and when Kurt's back is to him, Blaine does gasp. The back of the vest is cinched like a corset. Snug around his waist, the strings of the ribbon dangling down his back as an invitation to be slowly pulled and released and—

"Maynard!" Kurt slams his locker shut, grinning so completely that Blaine fears his eyes are going to dance right out of his head. And Kurt's hair – the swoop that has decorated his forehead all summer is styled up, the highlights of the summer's sun accenting the coif perfectly.

"Hi." His voice is breathy, which is odd since he can't seem to catch his breath, so he clears his throat and hikes his bag up on his shoulder. "You look—the scarf looks—I love your vest."

"Thank you. Did you see the back?" And Kurt spins and Blaine's brain spins in his head and he tries to look cool and collected, but his bag slips off his shoulder with a thud. "Oh! Are you—Blaine?"

"I'm—I'm good. Can you help me find my locker? I'm #29."

"Over here – two away from mine. And, I love the bow tie, by the way. Did you get that Saturday?"

Blaine stands up straighter as he walks around Kurt to get to his locker, glancing at his schedule for the combination. "Yeah, I did. They had some really nice ones." He feels the burn of Kurt's eyes on him and fumbles with his combination, hoping he doesn't notice when he starts the pattern the third time. "I wish I'd have brought more money but I sort of zapped all my funds with that pitcher for mom."

He finally gets it open, shoves his afternoon class folders into it and slams it closed, grinning up to Kurt who is still waiting on him. And then Kurt's reaching for his tie and Blaine automatically lifts his chin and closes his eyes. "Just a little crooked. Do you always wear bow ties?" When did Kurt's voice get so breathy and—open your eyes, Anderson.

"Not always, but often. Do you—it's too much, isn't it?"

"It's perfect. Very Brooks Brothers." Kurt pulls out his schedule and bumps it against Blaine's. "Do we have any classes together?"

Blaine scans quickly hoping for at least a few. No, French not Spanish, AP English!, band, lunch, no, no. "Looks like midday I'm attached to your hip."

"Excellent. I can think of worse ways to spend the lull of the day." The bell rings through the halls and they both jump. "Come on. Senior homerooms are this way."

Blaine nods and watches him walk away – that vest! - and Kurt stops and turns to drag him by his satchel, sneaking a peek down at his upturned cuffs and boat shoes. "Hurry up. Guys with cute ankles get double detentions for being late."

~~~**~~~

Brittany [08-25-11 3:03am]: How do you hypnotize a cow?

Blaine [08-25-11 3:05am]: What? Who even gave you my number?

Brittany [08-25-11 3:06am]: Snix. Because I went to the fair and one was wandering around in circles in its pen and I thought if I could hypnotize it, it would calm down and feel better.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:08am]: I have no idea, Nini. Maybe the cow wasn't wandering. Maybe it...why am I giving this any thought?

Brittany [08-25-11 3:09am]: Because animals are our friends, Maynard.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:11am]: Yes. Yes they are.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:12am]: How do you placate Nini at 3am?

Kurt [08-25-11 3:14am]: Run, Forrest. Run.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:15am]: Thank you. You've been very helpful.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:20am]: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9e3_EEJqDk4

Brittany [08-25-11 3:25am]: I don't know what a didgeridoo is OR where to find one. Now I can't sleep.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:26am]: That makes two of us. The cow is fine. The fair was over 5 days ago. Warn your girlfriend that I'm still her section leader and if she does this to me again, she gets laps.

Brittany [08-25-11 3:27am]: Snixxy didn't upset the cow.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:28am]: No, I'm sure she didn't. She loves cows as much as you. Good night, Nini.

Brittany [08-25-11 3:29am]: Goodnight, Maynard K. Hobbit.

Blaine [08-25-11 3:31am]: You are a dead woman.

Santana [08-25-11 3:33am]: She shared your link – quite the creative little fucker, aren't you?

Blaine [08-25-11 3:34am]: Three laps. Tomorrow's rehearsal. You are so mine.

Santana [08-25-11 3:35am]: Promises, promises.

Kurt [08-25-11 6:46am]: Did you solve the bovine mystery?

Blaine [08-25-11 6:48am]: How did you know?

Kurt [08-25-11 6:50am]: Snix has a big mouth.

Blaine [08-25-11 6:51am]: What did I ever do to deserve that?

Kurt [08-25-11 6:52am]: Consider it your rookie initiation. Do you want me to pick up coffee? I have time.

Blaine [08-25-11 6:54am]: Yes. Medium drip, please.

Kurt [08-25-11 6:55am]: Got it. Mooooooooo.

Blaine [08-25-11 6:56am]: Pity I can't give you laps.

Kurt [08-25-11 6:57am]: Pity.

~~~**~~~

Blaine flings his bag underneath the table in the middle of the hall, not quite sure why it's there, but welcoming the small hideaway it provides him. He has half an hour until rehearsal starts and the first assignment in his AP English class is already giving him fits.

He scoots underneath the table, pulls out the assignment and lays back, propping his head against his bag, re-hearing Mrs. Green's speech as she handed it out.

"Not doing this will lose you points. Doing it won't gain you any – numerically anyway. But, as you write your papers and formulate your opinions for me this semester, my grading system will work better if I know a little about who you are. Where you're coming from. This isn't a science or math class with facts and figures. It's English, and language is fluid. Paint me the river that brought you to me and we can float together."

Rumor has it Mrs. Green is the most coveted of all English teachers at McKinley, but at the moment, Blaine is thinking the McKinley student body is a bit daft – or Mrs. Green is – who even talks that way? He heaves a melodramatic sigh and reads through the prompts to the poem – the poem that will tell this stranger all about "the river that brought him to her." Please.

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

It's like a madlibs game you play with yourself.

Masturbatory Madlibs. I'd make a fortune with that.

He doesn't know where he's from. He doesn't care for that matter. All he knows is he wants away from wherever it is. But, he supposes, he won't know which direction away is if he doesn't have a notion of where he's standing now. Where he once stood.

He keeps reading, ten questions in total, all with three or four required answers and he wonders what ever happened to the good old, "What I did over the summer," questionnaire.

"I could have sworn I saw him come in this door. Maynard! Where are you?"

"Over here. Under. Here." He flaps his paper and laughs at the absurdity of it. Fortunately, Kurt and Santana find him, peeking under the table with furrowed brows and gym bags of rehearsal clothes, which is good because Santana is in a mini skirt and almost flashes him when she squats.

"Do I want to know what you're doing under a table in the science hallway?" Kurt sits down against the wall opposing the table.

"English. Have you done it yet?"

"Ah. Yeah. Sort of – I have answers down for it all, but I'm not sure how happy I am with it."

"Did you go honest or just fill it in to get it done?"

"Honest. Which is why I need to fool with it some more."

"Shit."

"Come over this weekend. We've got that obnoxious trig homework too."

"Yeah, dudes. I'm going to get dressed for practice. I am so glad I'm in High School For Dummies. Your college prep classes give me indigestion." Santana plants a peck on Kurt's cheek and stands back up, giving Blaine a view of only her purple kitten heels and her bare, tanned legs-that-never-end. It could be worse – she could have flashed him.

"I wasn't kidding about laps, Snix – make sure you stretch before I get there." Blaine rolls out from under the table and grabs his bag, inspecting himself for dust and crud from the floor.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Don't give out my number. It's rude, even if it is just to Nini." Blaine tries to keep his professional face on when Kurt offers no assistance at Santana's glare.

"Don't look at me, Snix. We're a team leadership here. I'm not going to overthrow his authority, especially when it means watching you work up a sweat before practice even starts."

"Let's see if there are any more movie night boobie snuggles – for either of you – in your future."

"Foot rubs. I always win."

Santana huffs and leaves, her heels clicking furiously on the tile floor. They hear a break in her step, followed by a perfunctory shit.

"Watch your step, Snix. I'd hate to see you pull a muscle before those laps!"

"Fuck off, Hobbit!"

The outside door crashes open as she leaves and their laughter fades, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Blaine shoves his assignment back into his bag. "Foot rubs, huh?"

"Yeah – you should come to our next sleepover. She's a lot less abrasive after 10 pm."

"Can we feed her after midnight?"

"Just salt & vinegar kettle chips. Not porn."

"Mmm...at least she has good taste in snacks." Blaine blinks and looks at Kurt with a wicked grin. "Wait – you've watched porn with Snix?"

"Shut up, Maynard. We're going to be late."

~~~**~~~

The first football game of the season never gave Blaine anxiety at Wapak, but today, he has been buzzing and thrumming with overwhelming energy all day. Of course, just like the differences with band camp, at McKinley, football Friday nights were a production. Rehearsal after school, dinner for the entire band served by the band parents, changing into uniform, another brief rehearsal and then either loading onto buses, or marching out onto McKinley's field for pre-game.

Basically, football Friday nights were 16 hour days, 18 if you went out to play afterward. And now, it was hour 10. Time to suit up for a short rehearsal, a full inspection and then cadence to the field. Tonight's game was at home. The half time show has been chopped down from a twelve-minute show to a seven-minute show, cutting off at the end of Kurt's solo.

Everyone is quietly getting dressed, talking in hushed tones – as if the nerves are the only thing holding the band together. Rookies are on edge, upperclassmen are focused at the task at hand, trying to remember all the details from last season. Band shirt, pants, black socks, suspenders, jacket, sash, long hair up, hat, plume, shined horn and shoes, mouthpieces, flip folder stashed discreetly for stand tunes yet-to-be-memorized. So many details. So many opportunities to screw it up.

Blaine slides his suspenders up over his shoulders and Kurt is standing in front of him with two square black boxes. "I grabbed your hat while I was in there – it's a little chaotic tonight."

"Oh, good. Thanks. Help me get the angle right? I always tipped it back too far at Wapak."

"Yep – parallel to the ground. You ready for it now?"

"Ready." Blaine stands up straight and closes his eyes while Kurt fits the hat solidly over his head.

"Oh. Dear. You. Um. Maynard, your curls."

"What? Just tuck 'em in." He lifts his hands to begin doing just that and opens this eye to find Kurt frantically glancing at the clock and looking back to the flag corps room. "What?"

"It's not going to stay."

"It always did at Wa—"

Kurt's glare silences him. "We're not at Wapak. For the hundredth time. You will fail inspection and you will be pulled from halftime."

"Are you kidding me? She'll – she actually fails people at inspection?"

"It's inspection. We have to be perfectly uniform. No hair below the collar, below the ear—"

"On the brow. I heard, but I figured for tonight—"

"No. Every performance. Even concert season we follow a strict dress, hair, jewelry and make-up code. This isn't a game, Maynard."

"Actually – it is? It's a football game?"

Kurt shoots him another irritated look and Blaine plops down on the chair closest to him. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Don't move. I'll be right back. Honestly, did you read nothing she gave us pre-season?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but Kurt has already walked into the flag corps room. He comes out with Sugar who clicks her tongue and tsk-tsks, running her fingers through Blaine's curls. "I think bobby pins, some super gel and spray should do it. Maynard, baby. You need to get a haircut."

"I like my curls."

"Then bring bobby pins and gel and hairspray next week. We don't give this shit out for free." She slams the items in Kurt's hand and bounces off, stopping for one more directive. "And a pick. We don't want a repeat of Lice-gate 2009."

"Oh dear god, no. We do not." Kurt shivers and lifts his hands to Blaine's hair, pausing before touching. "Can—can I?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Will we be late?"

"We're good. I work fast." Kurt squirts gel into his fingers and warns, "Cold. Sorry," before running his fingers through Blaine's hair front to back. "Hrm...this is thick."

Blaine can't even bite back the moan. Kurt's fingers are magical and he realizes as Kurt tries forming the mess into a side part how tense he's been all day. With every sweep of Kurt's fingers, either the soft dig to move his hair or the tender pat to make sure a bobby pin is staying put, he feels himself unwind and relax. He pockets the information for his next headache – this would be miraculous.

"Am I—am I being too rough? Pulling or—"

"No. No, it's—it actually feels really good. I'm sure I look ridiculous."

"Well. Yes. You do. But, it has to stay when you take your hat off and put it on, so – you're going to look silly." Kurt steps back and examines his work. "Actually, not so bad. You look sort of cute with the bobby pins."

"You are a horrible liar."

"We're not going for fashion – we're passing inspection." Kurt grabs Blaine's hat and eases it on his head, popping the top of it when he's happy. "There. Perfe—" He unhooks the strap from the side and slips it under Blaine's chin and reattaches it. "Now it's perfect."

"Two minutes to Chart One, people. TWO minutes!"

"Break a leg out there, Kiki."

"You too, Maynard."

~~~**~~~

Mike [08-27-11 2:57am]: Nice job out there tonight. I tried to find you post-game, but Kiki said you left.

Blaine [08-27-11 3:01am]: Thanks, man. Yeah, I forgot to tell Mom everyone went out afterwards and she wanted the car back home.

Mike [08-27-11 3:02am]: I could have driven you. Next week?

Blaine [08-27-11 3:03am]: Yeah. Next week. 'Night.

Blaine tosses his phone on the floor and curls around his pillow, running through stand tune fingerings to try to get to sleep. His mom didn't want the car home; not at 11pm. He was simply overloaded with Kurt. He needed a break. To breathe. To think. To not trip over his tongue and his thoughts and his normally put-together, sealed-with-a-bow-tie demeanor.

Mid-day classes, afternoon rehearsals, the game, the game, the game – together for everything. His cologne. His hair product. His sweat. His huge grin when they'd worked out a quick trumpet cheer based on Queen's Flash – Santana leading the oral cheer and Kurt and Blaine wailing away at the trumpet teasers.

Next week we'll get the low brass in on it – it's going to KILL, Maynard!

The accidental hug when McKinley intercepted a pass and took the ball 97 yards for the winning touchdown. The shoulder bumps and eye-catches as they celebrated around the victory bell and marched in perfect formation back to the band room, chanting W-M-H-S with the perfect cadence of the percussion.

Too much Kurt.

He squeezes the pillow tighter and sighs, remembering Kurt's arms around him like this at band camp. To feel them again. To feel him pressed behind him as they sleep again.

To think that maybe, just maybe Kurt longs for it too.