It isn't until the Friday night after the sleepover when Kurt can even begin to think clearly. It took every ounce of his self-control, of his non-existent acting skills, of his will power to even pretend to come close to being calm, cool and collected when Blaine's bare feet rested in his hands. When he could splay his fingers over the muscles in Blaine's calves and feel the hair tickling at his skin. When Blaine's body was pressed behind him in the bed, warm, comforting, snuggling in closer at every opportunity. When Blaine grinned like a kid who just won the ring toss at a carnival as Santana painted his toenails bright pink.

So, it's not even a little disappointing as he stands in the middle of the pre-game-buzz-busy band room running his fingers through Blaine's hair getting it gelled and pinned back for his hat that all of those breathless, stirring, gut-spinning feelings come tumbling back again. It had been – he looks up at the clock and sighs – maybe twelve hours. He's been calm for only twelve hours.

"Shit. I forgot to wash my gloves." Blaine leans over for his gig bag hissing when Kurt hasn't let go of his hair, pulling it in his fingers.

He might have been a little zoned out daydreaming. About—hair. And pulling.

"Sorry." Kurt waits and wipes the extra gel off his fingers before popping a few bobby pins in his mouth, talking around them. "Buy another pair. I buy new ones every week."

"Why?" With a huff, Blaine sits back up and bounces his leg nervously. "Aren't they three bucks? That's lunch."

"First," Kurt pulls the bobby pins out of his mouth to make his point, "the fact that you're buying lunch here is a grave disappointment. I think they manufacture the manufactured soy beans they use to make the hamburgers. And second, just have it charged to your account."

"Then Mom has to pay it and—"

"Oh. Well, you're going to have to start buying more anyway so you can layer when it gets colder." Kurt gives up shoving the pins back into his mouth and hands Blaine the card of them, wordlessly showing him how to hold it so he can just grab and work.

"We can't just wear normal gloves when we're not playing?"

"Full uniform, Maynard. Have you not gotten that mess—"

"I got the message. Loud and freaking – ow! Shit, what are you doing up there – clear."

"Sorry – you keep fidgeting and you're super tangled today. Just sit the hell still." Kurt puts a few more pins in and walks in front of Blaine to check his work, tucking one errant curl up into a pin. "Close your eyes." He sprays his hair heavily and pats it all down one more time. "I can bring in my extras from last year."

"Are they clean enough for inspection?"

"Yeah, I just toss 'em in a sink full of bleach and water. Besides, the way you shine that horn of yours, I can't imagine they'd get too grimy week to week."

"Wait 'til you see my horn next week. Blinding finish. Makes this one look like a toy."

"You have something better than your Strad?"

"Yeah, I compete with my Monette – concert season too."

"And yet, he can't buy you $3 gloves every week."

"I know. I quit asking questions a long time ago. Saves on aspirin too."

"God. I'll bring you my old ones. I have last week's pair you can use tonight."

"Thanks." Blaine reaches up to touch his hair and accidentally pops a bobby pin out. A spring of curl jumps away from his head as if it's trying to escape. "Shit. Sorry."

"Why so jittery?"

Blaine sighs and crosses his eyes at the curl that's now dangling in the middle of his forehead. "Dad might come tonight."

Kurt stops fussing with Blaine's hair to look at him. He's jittery everywhere. "We're not even doing our duet."

"I know. So if he's here, he's going to wonder what I'm doing at McKinley – he encouraged Mom to choose this district for the music program and—"

"If he doesn't see you center stage—" With the final errant curl properly pinned, Kurt stands and appraises his work. Blaine looks like a dork. But he'll pass inspection.

"Exactly. The initial if he's going to insist on staying in band, make it a good program will suddenly become if they're not going to utilize that Anderson talent then he might as well come back to Wapak." He fixes to run a hand through his curls and stops himself with a huff. "I don't want to go back."

"I don't want you to go back." Kurt plops down on the seat next to him, his heart racing when he sees Blaine's furrowed brow and a leg bouncing up and down. He moves before he thinks, resting his hand on Blaine's bouncing thigh. "He wouldn't really – would he?"

Blaine's nervous smile makes Kurt's heart beat even faster.

"I think Mom would fight it now. I just—I'm just not in the mood for it tonight. I want to play and screw around during the game and go out with you guys afterwards and—"

"Then that's what we'll do. If you want to stay in the stands for 3rd quarter break to avoid seeing him, we can."

"No. I'm not hiding from him. This is my life now. I'm happy. I'm really—god, I had such a great time last weekend and I'm enjoying my classes – minus Trig – and I lived through reading that horrible poem and there's you—"

Kurt sucks in his breath as soon as Blaine's eyes snap down to investigate a small pull on his marching trousers. "—andeveryoneelse and—" Blaine looks up to meet Kurt's gaze, full, round eyes with a hint of fire in them. "He's not making me go back." He scoffs. "In fact, he probably won't even show up."

"I don't even know what to say."

"Say you have my hat and put it on me so I can get my head in the game."

"I have your hat." Kurt plucks it from the box and gingerly places it on Blaine's head, grinning when Blaine crosses his eyes to focus on the small bill as it lowers on his head. "You're a goof."

"Let's go kick some ass."

~~~**~~~

Blaine [09-03-11 3:03am]: What is a Titan anyway?

Kurt [09-03-11 3:04am]: This is what keeps you up at night?

Blaine [09-03-11 3:05am]: I drank too fucking much caffeine at the pizza place. You were supposed to stop me.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:06am]: I didn't know you needed a babysitter.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:06am]: Just admit you don't know what a Titan is – then we can both go back to not sleeping.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:07am]: The offspring of Uranus. And who says I wasn't sleeping?

Blaine [09-03-11 3:09am]: You answered right away. And you're making that up.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:09am]: google.com, asshole.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:12am]: Our school mascot is a child of Ur.Anus. And shouldn't that have been google.com, anus? Or, am I taking this theme too far?

Kurt [09-03-11 3:13am]: Yes. Ur. Anus. My. Anus. Everyone's. Anus. One can never go too far with anuses.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:14am]: And now I'm thinking of everyone's ass. These are largely unpleasant thoughts, Maynard.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:15am]: Asses aren't bad. Anuses are...well. I mean.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:16am]: Oh my god. I'm turning off my phone. I can't believe I typed any of this out loud.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:16am]: Don't act so pristine. We're gay. Anuses are part of the party.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:17am]: Because we know every gay man loves a butt party.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:17am]: Wait. You're not into—I mean. Oh. Sorry.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:18am]: We're having this conversation at 3am? Give me a minute.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:18am]: No. I mean. Shit. No. I was just being a jackass b/c I couldn't sleep. You don't. We... I'll leave you to sleep.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:19am]: No, let's do this. You're my friend. You're gay. I've never had anyone to talk to about this stuff before.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:22am]I...have no idea what I'm into. I know that the idea intrigues me and that I enjoy gay porn and I think that's all I'd like to say at the moment.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:23am]: Same. Which, sorry – cop out. But yes. Same. You've never...

Kurt {09-03-11 3:24am]: Not with someone, no. I've tried—I'm shutting up.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:25am]: Right. I just thought. You and Santana talk so freely and I assumed. Wow. Okay. Me either.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:27am]: And now I don't know what to do with this information.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:28am]: Go Titans?

Kurt [09-03-11 3:29am]: Those cute little ur.Anus babies.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:31am]: Mom's pissed Dad didn't come tonight.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:31am]: Are you?

Kurt [09-13-11 3:32am]: And be proud I didn't go with the "from one asshole to another" joke.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:33am]: I'm more pissed I wasted rehearsal and game prep time being stressed out about it. And Mom said she'd give me money for gloves. Sorry to mooch off of you.

Blaine [09-13-11 3:34am]: Not proud. Disappointed. I left that door wide open for you.

Kurt [09-03-11 3:35am]: You weren't mooching. You can...any time, okay?

Blaine [09-03-11 3:36am]: Yes. Okay. Practice Sunday?

Kurt [09-03-11 3:37am]: Can't wait.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:37am]: I'm going to assume you weren't using a sarcastic font and say 'me either.'

Kurt [09-03-11 3:38am]: No sarcastic font. I missed our duet tonight.

Blaine [09-03-11 3:39am]: Me too.

~~~**~~~

"Watch your diagonals, woodwinds!! Front to back, side to side! Perfect step—no. No, no, no. Disco, cut 'em off."

Artie stops the band and brings them back a few charts to start again. It's the afternoon before their first competition and as is typical before competitions, Jonesy is in a mood. Kurt wants to shove her headpiece up her—anus.

"Kiki! Maynard! Line up those trumpets – since when is this chart a freeform?"

Kurt lowers his horn and takes a breath before spinning on the ball of his feet to turn to his section and line them up again. And then he sees she has a right to be pissed off. "I see four of you in the proper spot. Four. Out of 20. Did someone miss the memo that we compete in five hours?"

While Jonesy continues verbally pounding other section leaders, Kurt begins physically moving people into their proper places. Blaine follows suit with his half of the section and when finished, Kurt tosses a warning glare to the lot of them and turns back to the tower. "I think we're ready now, Jonesy."

"Yeah. Except no. Fun block. Parade line-up. Front row on the 20. There is no excuse for the marching mistakes I'm seeing."

"Shit." The fun in fun block is for fundamentals. Never for fun.

"You care to run rehearsals differently, Mr. Hummel?"

"No, Jonesy. Row D, E, F trumpets, let's go!"

Everyone shuffles to their spot and Jonesy yells again. "You all in a hurry or something? MOVE!" They pick up the pace as little as they can get away with. It's not the August heat any longer, but September in Ohio means any weather is possible.

Today, the weather is impossibly hot and they're rehearsing in half-dress. Band pants – made of wool, suspenders – made of ugly, and band t-shirts – blessedly made of white cotton. Their feet are swathed in impermeable vinyl shoes, heads topped with uniform hats without plumes, and hands, sadly covered with gloves.

It's 85 degrees and completely miserable.

Beaman's voice blasts through the miniature sound system with a list of commands they must memorize and execute. Perfectly.

"Ten yards 8-to-5, right flank. 10 yards 16-to-5, slide right lateral. 10 yards 12-to-5, right flank. 4-count left turn, mark time 8, step-halt-kick-down." She repeats the directions and monotonously adds, "Does anyone need that repeated?"

Even when a third of the band moans, "Yesssss," Artie blows the whistle, the snare ticks off a beat and they begin, marching and counting. Section and squad leaders shout out reminders and commands – hold the line! or spacing, spacing! Watch your spacing! When it's over the band is no longer in a block of any kind – students are a scattered, lines are skewed and tempers are rumbling to a flare.

"Inexcusable. Block it on the 20 again! Beaman, send up another set."

And she does. And this time it's better. But, not good enough. So, she sends up a third. And this one is much better, minus a few strays, everyone staying true to their block formation – lines straight, diagonals sure.

They start the show from the top. Which, honestly pleases no one because now they're hot and sweaty and exhausted and they haven't even boarded the busses for competition yet – no less warmed up – or amped up with nerves before the performance.

"Okay, full run-through, no Show duet. Kiki, Maynard, just pull back and watch your section's drill. Save your chops. All other featured solos play, however."

"No Sh—Jonesy, can I respectfully request that you reconsider?" Kurt shakes his head at Blaine, appalled that she'd even suggest skipping it. "We'll play sotto voce. We both know how to prepare for a show—"

"I'm sure you do. The answer is no. Reset top!"

Kurt huffs and goes to his spot, finding a smile somewhere inside himself when Blaine's head droops forward to rest on his back waiting for Artie's starting whistle.

"Is she always this wicked before a competition?"

"Yep."

"Really makes me want to give 100 percent."

"Okay, guys. We can't let this rehearsal get us down! Let's do it!" Artie starts them and miraculously, it runs smoothly. Kurt offers Santana a wink as they pass in a formation and at the end of Bicycle, the second full song of the set, everyone surreptitiously reaches to various places on their horns to hidden, attached bicycle bells, ringing them soundly to end the song and segue into Show.

"Can't you ring those things louder? They sound like toys. Louder! Come on! Louder!!"

Kurt tosses a look to Blaine who is biting his lip, all the while pushing at the lever to ring his stupid bell. His shoulders shake with stifled laughter and his eyes close as if praying prayers his grandmother taught him at church.

"She does know there is no way to control the volume of these things, right?"

"She does know they are toys, right?"

Santana sums it all up perfectly. "The woman has finally lost her mind."

"As soon as your trumpet leaders are done planning the overthrow of the British Empire we'll continue."

"No coup today, Your Highness. We're good."

~~~**~~~

"Snix? Honey. You're peaked. What's up?" They are lined up outside of the stands, waiting for the previous band in the competition to finish. It's nerve-wracking hearing them and the way Jonesy arranges it, their backs are turned, so they can see nothing.

It's all a head game at this point – attention should be on their own program and no one else's. Kurt is doing one quick walk-through his section to make sure everyone is good. Tuned in. Attentive. Centered.

But, Santana is wobbly at best.

"I think I might pass out."

"Seriously? Sit down, then." Kurt puts an arm around her and moves to seat her on the ground, but she resists.

"No. Jonesy'll have a conniption."

"Better that than you pass out. Didn't you eat?"

"I ate, Hummel. Oh my god. You have no idea, do you?"

He blinks at her in confusion. "Apparently not."

"I have to go out there and play for – how many people are here? I knew I shouldn't have let you talk me into this."

"You've played it for football games – you kick this solo's ass."

"Mike kicks this duet's ass. I just sort of – set the foundation for it."

"Oh, shut up." He passes his trumpet to an underclassman, lifting an eyebrow in warning before letting go. "It's my Strad. Drop it and die."

"Yes, sir."

Cupping Santana's face in his hands, he leans in close, bumping their hats and plumes together, demanding eye contact with the brush of his thumb over her cheek. "You have come so far this season. You have a solo. You're killing it every time you play it. Your sound is crystal clear. You are the best squad leader I could ask for. And you're my best friend which means you're beyond fabulous."

Santana closes her eyes and reaches out for Blaine's hand when he sneaks up beside them to quietly assist in the pep talk. "What if I blow it?"

"Then you blow it. And a blown solo has never affected ratings. You'll get reamed in the comments, you'll fix it and do better at our next competition."

"And then I'll die."

"Oh stop. I'm the drama queen around here." Kurt kisses the tip of her nose and steps back, adjusting his hat and then hers. "I'm not giving up that role any time soon, so you'd just better get over it and go out there and knock 'em dead."

"And breathe from my cootch."

"And breathe from your cootch." He takes his horn back and chuckles at Blaine, who still blushes every time they say the word cootch. "You good now?"

"I'm good." With a deep cleansing breath she squares herself back into her parade block position.

Kurt demands eye contact one more moment. "You're amazing."

"I'm amazing."

"Band...atten-HUT!"

"HUT!"

Kurt and Blaine scurry to their spots and Finn whispers a hup-hup-hup. The band moves in sync into the stadium to the sideline, whispered directions guiding the underclassmen who are bug-eyed with nerves and bound to forget basic details. On the line, they are silent, breathing deeply, hiding any fidgets and nerves beneath thrumming energy waiting for the judges in the press box to give them their final command.

"McKinley High School. You may begin your pre-placement and/or warm-up."

Artie rolls across the field to his lift at the opposing side-line as the guard runs behind him dropping flags into their proper spots.

Just before the snare taps begin signaling a move into their positions, Blaine dares lean just a little to his right, bumping Kurt's elbow. "Meet you at the 50."

Kurt stares straight ahead and grins, nodding his head, his plume wobbling in the breeze. "Meet you at the 50."

~~~**~~~

Kurt can never pinpoint what his favorite part of performing is, and while he's in the middle of the high, he's not sure he wants to be focusing on it anyway. But, when it's over, in those short moments between the gathering immediately following a performance to hear Jonesy's initial reaction and piling back onto the buses to change into partial uniforms for the awards ceremony – when no one is talking and everyone is in their own head – he's not sure he could say.

Is it the rush of putting yourself out there after so many months of work, the immediate feedback from the live audience? Is it the feeling of family and teamwork and friendship that surrounds him physically and emotionally as they all play toward the same goal, even if their notes are different, their movements varied yet all, somehow, in perfect synchronicity? Is it the moments of escape when all he can see, hear, think, feel is the music – the taste of his mouthpiece? The smell of the freshly mowed grass under his feet and, in the distance, the deliciously chemical whiff of spicy meat warming for the always-desired Marching Tacos from the concession stand?

Is it, this year anyway, the moment his solo begins – lyric and melancholy – such a perfect expression of his high school years thus far? Is it when his first verse is finished and the band joins him, filling in harmonies to his melodic solo – making him feel, momentarily, like the star of the show. The center. The leader he waited so patiently to be. Or is it when he feels Blaine approaching as the first chorus comes to an end with not a hint of acknowledgment – as has been choreographed – but with just the slightest nudge of his shoulder, they are a team. Kurt's pulled lyricism, Blaine's crisp guitar-like notes dotting up and over the ribbon of sound that Kurt puts forth. He fought it and he fought it hard, but he cannot deny they sound amazing together.

Or maybe, it is all of those things – the sweat and the energy and the joy that bursts from one hundred fifty teenagers as they line up for the final company front, marching in line, in step, in perfect musical harmony with horns to the box, sound through the non-existent roof as they push push push to the end and then – that glorious moment when their last note sounds and the band-wide, deep, guttural "HUAH!" rings through the stands—

And then the crowd. The crowd goes wild. It's a show catered to them - familiar music from their youth, a drum break that showcases precision, skill and musicianship with rhythm and choreographed stick tricks, talented soloists, and yes a cliché – yet always effective – company front to bring it all home.

It is. It is all of these things and Kurt hopes he never, ever tires of it. Never forgets it.

These are some of the best moments he's ever experienced.