Blaine has never held a Grand Championship trophy before. He's seen plenty of them – going to other bands, of course. Class C bands never receive Grand Champion unless there are only other C bands in the competition. It's a pretty unfair system, the larger bands usually taking the top honors.

But, now he's in a larger band. A Class AA band, and tonight they receive top honors. Top over all of the other AA bands. All of the other A bands. All of the 18 bands that competed in all class levels. In addition, they received straight I's – or straight Superior ratings. Nine judges felt their show was, to quote the Ohio Music Educators Association guidelines, "An outstanding performance, with very few errors." They have automatically qualified to compete at State Finals and Blaine has never had that experience either.

He never thought he'd be grateful his dad was such a jackass, but in this moment of jubilation, of great relief and celebration, he finds himself chuckling at the idea of it. Because if his mom hadn't caught the man with his pants down – literally – Blaine would still be carrying the entire 55 voice band in Wapakoneta, Ohio. Heading nowhere.

"What's got you so tickled?" Kurt leans into him as they're seated together on the bench seat of the school bus. The ride from Ada High School is bumpy and dark, mostly country roads with ditches created by years of combines and tractors ruling the path. Blaine is quite enjoying it, taking every bump as an opportunity to inch just a little closer.

And Kurt doesn't seem to be resisting, watching Blaine run his fingers along the columns of the trophy. It's huge – they always are – four feet tall and about as cheap as the vinyl on their marching shoes which neither of them can wait to slip out of. But, it's theirs. They earned it.

"I was just thanking my dad for being a philandering pig. You know, the usual."

"What?" Kurt pulled back and Blaine laughed as realization dawned. "Oh—because you're here?"

"Because I'm here. That was incredible tonight. We were incredible. All of us."

"Yeah, especially for our first one. End of season I don't think we'll get away with some of the errors though."

"Oh god. Are you one of those? You're analyzing the entire thing in your head already, aren't you?"

"Yes? How else are we going to get better?"

"We can just float on the high first?" Blaine grabs the trophy and lifts it up, cheers filling the bus as it rises and gently knocks the roof. "We got a freaking larger-than-life trophy!"

"Okay, okay." Kurt laughs and pulls the trophy down so Blaine doesn't knock the poor little metal band dude off the top of it. "You're going to kill someone with that thing."

"Am not."

"You are such a child."

"Am not."

"Oh my god. You win. Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow we sleep—"

"I cannot wait to do that."

"And Monday, we analyze."

Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder and grins when Kurt scrunches down into the seat, propping his knees up on the back of the seat in front of them, resting his head on Blaine's. "I could skip the celebrating and move right to the sleeping."

The bus hits a pot hole big enough to swallow it whole and Blaine reconsiders. "Or, maybe I'll just think about sleeping."

~~~**~~~

"Comments tonight or Monday, band? What'll it be?"

The answers clearly divide the band, some wanting to just go home and sleep already and others anxious to hear the specifics of what the judges said about their performance. "Disco. You decide. Now or Monday?"

"Let's hear it now. 'Dis gon' be goooood."

Santana plops on the floor between Kurt and Blaine's chairs where they've been picking bobby pins out of their hair, tossing them into a plastic container, cheering when one would go in. Which wasn't often. "You guys need booze to do it right."

"At this rate, I'd be blotto."

"My point exactly, Maynard. Blotto sounds like a dream right about now."

"I already feel hungover. Let's not make it worse."

Beaman starts reading the percussion judges sheet, solely to shoot pointed looks at her section when they say something that she's been ragging on them from the beginning of the season. Which isn't often because he happened to be impressed. In fact, the percussion section had also come in first place of all the bands competing. As had the guard. And the general effects scores. And the visual effects scores.

All but music, which was taken by Piqua – a class A band. It was the one pock mark on the evening.

"Did you see me almost plow into that damned percussion judge though?" Blaine picked out one final bobby pin and cheered, sinking back down into his chair when he got a glare from Jonesy.

"No. When?" Kurt huddles down to whisper and Santana leans back, draping an arm over each of their thighs that she's sitting between.

"Right before I meet up with you. I stepped out of line—" Blaine looks up to the front to make sure they're not being noticed and continues when the coast is clear, "and took maybe three steps. He almost walked right into my damned horn."

"Oh shit –what'd you do? Did you go against the chart?"

"I meeped."

"You what?" Santana lolls her head back and looks at him like he's crazy.

"Mee-meep. Like Roadrunner."

Between his Roadrunner imitation, Kurt's snort, Santana's cackle and the shuffle of anyone sitting near them to see what was going on, they most definitely were no longer in the clear coast seating.

"Mr. Anderson—"

"Fuck."

"Do I blame the Wapakoneta educational system for your lack of manners?"

"No, no. Sorry. My apologies ma'am—Jonesy. Jonesy Ma'am." He grins at Beaman for no clear reason while Santana and Kurt practically hold each other up trying not to laugh out loud. "Beaman. Ma'am." And then sinks back into his seat as low as he can. "I give. We need booze."

They finally get themselves settled – until Kurt randomly "mee-meeps" and the giggles start again. The truth is, the comments from the judges are getting sort of boring. It's the first competition of the season. They're going easy. The band was well-prepared. There just isn't much to say of any worth.

Nice sound. Pull that phrase out more. Excellent maneuver percussion. Watch your spacing clarinets. Beautiful flags – beautiful effect.

Nice, rich tone on the mellophone/trumpet duet.

Which earns Santana a kiss on each cheek and a mee-meep to spare.

And then, the fun and the giggles and the flapping hands to stave off getting caught comes to an abrupt halt.

"...my only major musical concern was with the trumpet duet in The Show Must Go On," Jonesy reads.

"Wait. What?" Blaine and Kurt sit up, and a hush falls over the entire band. "Us? Is that—"

Kurt lifts a finger to shush Blaine and leans in, his demeanor going from alert to agitated when Jonesy looks up and grins the evil gotcha way that only teachers can. "Ah. I thought that might get your full attention, gentlemen. I'll continue."

"Oh hell." Blaine drapes his arm along the back of Kurt's chair and dares to rub his hand along Kurt's shoulder blade. He's not sure who he's comforting more, Kurt or himself, but since Kurt doesn't seem to mind – or even notice – he keeps at it.

You have two of the finest trumpet players I've had the pleasure of judging in quite some time. Your soloist – lyric, controlled, musical – definitely has great command over the instrument and the score he's playing from. Simply stunning. Your countermelody – range beyond his years, improvisational skills some professionals would envy, an athleticism in his approach and like your soloist – great command over the instrument he's playing and the score inside his head. The problem is – and it's early enough in the game to fix – that while individually they are splendid, they have the common mistake of playing at the same time, but not together.

Balance and blend in music; stand out in life.

There is a unity missing in their song, and for that reason, Jonesy, I'm not going to be able to give you the 85/90 points I was originally intending. Eighty points tonight. Congratulations on your Superior Rating and a fine, enjoyable show. Good luck this season.

A long silence covers the band room and Kurt slowly raises his hand. "Jonesy, if I may? What was our combined music score?"

"164."

"And Piqua's?"

"168."

Silence again and then, from the clarinet section, "So if you two asshats weren't so busy mentally jacking each other off, we'd have had enough to take the music trophy home too."

Kurt is up like a flash and Blaine grabs for his arm, which he yanks away, firing off his outrage anyway. "And what, dearest Nate, do you contribute to this fine organization? Huh?"

"Kurt, stop. He's not worth—"

Kurt shoots a glare down to Blaine and his heart stops. In all the anger Kurt tossed his way earlier in the summer, nothing compares to the look he's getting now. It's no longer laden with fear or worry. It's pure, unadulterated fury.

But before Kurt can say anything, Jonesy's voice is ringing throughout the band room. Blaine doesn't know when she got over to Nate, but she is there, her hand firmly on his shoulder, fingertips white with effort to hold him still – to make her point. "Kiki, open your mouth again and laps will be greeting you at sectionals on Monday. Nate, you owe me 20. You're lucky I'm too tired to make you do them tonight."

Kurt sits down in the chair closest to him, no longer near Blaine. When Santana makes a move to come close, he scowls and she retreats, whispering to Blaine. "He'll cool. Just leave him be."

"Is everyone under control now?" Jonesy pointedly looks at Kurt and he nods, still visibly seething. "Excellent, you all were amazing tonight. I'm proud of each and every one of you. You can pick up your state qualifying hoodies Monday after school. Have a good weekend. Band...dismissed!"

The mood in the room, while celebratory at first, has sunk to purely dismal. Chairs scratch across the tile floor, bags shuffle and bump, instrument cages crash and clang and no one really says anything to anybody. For a Grand Championship night, it's all off and Blaine sits in his seat in the middle of the room taking it all in, wondering what went wrong. They received honors he's never had before, but because of one missed trophy – just one—

It makes no sense.

He finally stands to gather his belongings, looking around for Kurt to resurface from the instrument room. When he doesn't, he gives up and heads out, not wanting to make Brittany wait any longer than necessary to take him home.

As the huge metal door slams behind him, Blaine sees Kurt loading his trumpet into the trunk of his car. When he hears the beep of his doors unlocking, Blaine kicks into a jog to get to him before he leaves.

"Kiki! Wait up!"

Kurt looks up and sighs, opening his car door and stopping when Blaine arrives as he is about to sit. "Just go home, Maynard."

"I don't want to go home with you angry with me, especially when I don't know why."

Kurt tosses his keys into the car and steps outside his door, crossing his arms and leaning against it. "You know, when Nate gets it better than you do, it might be time to tune in a bit more."

"Nate? He—he was just being an obnoxious prick. I think that's the only complete sentence I've heard him utter."

"And it was a powerful one, don't you think? I mean, here you are all—all cute and flirty and let's be best friends and trust me trust me trust me and I bought it. I bought every little bit of it and let you in – even though deep down I knew it was stupid and all it did—" Kurt stops and regroups, pulling himself up straighter, his chin tight and lifted, his gaze piercing. "All it did was make us lose focus on what we were supposed to be doing and that—that was not being sloppy and undisciplined. And clearly that's what we were tonight."

Blaine tries very hard not to concentrate on the fact that Kurt just called him cute and flirty and really, with the fire in Kurt's eyes, he'd be an idiot to do so.

Sometimes he's an idiot.

But, he hones in on the part where Kurt calls him sloppy and undisciplined, and as if someone hits the rewind button on their season, they are right back where they started months ago.

And he's pissed.

"Sl—sloppy and undisciplined? Really? I hit every note dead center tonight and you know it. You fucking know it. You're just jealous you don't have it in you." Kurt pulls back and Blaine blinks back the hurt that he just might have caused, plowing forward. "That—that you can't just go in the moment and change up the music a little and sway with the crowd. No, you have to do exactly what the score says, completely rigid and unwavering. You ignore what might be inside of you or god forbid, what might be inside of me so we could actually sound like a unified team."

Oh. That is in there. And bubbling. Apparently. And it sounds horrible and he means every word of it in this exact moment. And he's made Kurt even more angry now and this was not how the night was supposed to end at all, but he doesn't care because these kinds of outbursts are getting old. And he'll be damned if he takes the fall for this.

"Yes, because team is what it's all about for you, isn't it? While you're wailing away, blasting over my part – making sure everyone knows the second-coming of dead, drug-addled Maynard Ferguson has arrived!" Kurt yanks his door open, pushing Blaine out of the way. "I knew everything felt too good to be true." He slams his door shut so quickly, Blaine's not even sure part of him isn't half in there with him – the ache of Kurt's words as sharp as if it was.

In seconds, Kurt's engine revs, he backs up and roars out of the parking lot.

Blaine stands there in a daze, unaware of the small group of band members who witnessed the entire thing, awkwardly fumbling to get into their own cars. Until Brittany is at his side, hooking her arm in his and walking him to her car to get in.

"What the fuck just happened?"

"Kurt had a fit. All over you." She flicks non-existent remains of the argument from his shoulder.

Blaine numbly settles into the car and stares straight ahead, not sure – not even caring – if he has all of his gear. "What are we—how are we supposed to make it work now?"

"I dunno Maynard, but there is a bright side."

"A bright—what? There is no bright side. We have the entire season in front of us and he—he really does hate me."

"Hey. Frodo." She pulls out of the lot and stops, waiting to turn onto the street while taking his hand in hers.

He looks down at their intertwined fingers and sighs. Grand Champion shouldn't feel this shitty. "What, Nini?"

"He called you cute. I might be kind of dumb, but—I think that's a win tonight."

Blaine can't help but crack the most faint of smiles. He doesn't know how he's going to repair the mess that's been made, but Brittany is right, as wrong as she usually is. "Yeah, he did. Now to get him to remember."

~~~**~~~

He hits Sunday morning running. Figuratively speaking. He's up before 8 am – which for a Sunday is early – and fixes himself a full breakfast, serving up two when his mom stumbles in wondering what domestic god has swept into her home.

The morning is cool, but he risks a swim, covering a few laps and then centering himself in the deepest portion of the pool, treading water and then sinking down to the bottom to sit as long as his breath will allow. He surfaces, treads again, controlling his breathing and sinks again, trying for longer and longer stays with each dunk.

After exhausting himself, he drags himself out, and showers, ignoring his mother's complaints of dripping pool water all the way through the house. It's water. It dries.

And then, when he's dressed, when his mom stops bitching, when he's double checked his Trig homework and made sure he's completed every problem and has the entirety of the day ahead of him, he gets out his Monette and polishes it. He cleans all of his mouthpieces, those from both horns, seven in total – some for jazz, some for concert season, some for marching and some because they came with the horns – all get equal treatment, even though his plan is to use just one. The 7C because dammit, he's not going to use tricks – he's going to earn this.

He collects all the printouts he made last night, researching trumpet tone quality, breathing exercises and etudes to help round out his sound, improve his middle range to match Kurt's rich quality more effortlessly. He checks his email to see if Mr. Orr, his trumpet teacher from the esteemed Dalton Academy, has responded with any further ideas. And he has. He prints those out as well and spreads everything out on his bed, setting his chair and music stand up just so and pulling out the first sheet of etudes.

And then he begins. Simple scales first, leaving Minear behind today. Today is not about stretching his range or about making his body produce notes that only a few trumpet players can do well. No, today is about becoming a rounded, full trumpet player. A team player.

Even if his teammate wants nothing to do with it. He's going to hold up his end of the partnership if it kills him.

And after three solid hours of practicing, he thinks it might do just that.

Undisciplined. Sloppy. I'll show that son-of-a—god, he's even stunning when he's screaming at me like an enraged badger.

Focus, Maynard.

He eats lunch, his mother asks how much longer he's going to practice. He shrugs his answer and heads back to his room to start again, this time beginning with more complete breathing exercises, yes even taking Kurt's crass advice to Santana and breathing from his cootch.

Or balls, as it were.

Deep, full intake of breath and a slow, even release controlling the exhale with the steady pressure of his abdomen as if a billows slowly blowing air onto a stack of lit kindling. As he breathes, he thinks. Of why he's working this hard. And why he cares so fucking much.

And all he can see is Kurt. Kurt's smirk as he wrote his new nickname on his thermos and handed it back with the most stubborn, gorgeous, mind-numbing glint in his eye. Kurt's eyes, shining in the dark of their dorm room at band camp, worried over Blaine's anxiety and giggling when he cracked the stupidest of jokes. Kurt's thighs wrapped around his neck when they played chicken and took down Finn and Puck and then again the last night at band camp when modesty had slipped only a little and he'd slipped off his pajama pants before sliding into his own bunk to spend their last night in their own beds.

Kurt, holding onto Rachel as she sobbed from humiliation and anger and then, in glimpses that continued every day with his friendship with Santana. The love they share is enviable and yet, it's welcoming and he feels like he's been allowed in, if only a little bit.

He sees Kurt's hands as they massaged his feet and calves with lotion and grace and shy, averted glances when Blaine would moan like a wanton hooker. His whispered tones in the night at band camp, and again, the night of the sleepover – deep and hushed and raspy and so fucking sexy. His lips as they curl into a smile that makes the blue in his eyes sparkle and shine – and when Blaine has been the cause of that smile, well. All the better.

He's lost track of time, and time is not on his side, so he shakes his head clear and then he's playing again, centering around his mid-to-low range, long steady pitches, dipping scales into a mellow, resonant tone.

He is going to show him. He is going to show himself. He is more than The Screamer – as they called him at Wapak. He is more than Maynard. He is more than Timothy Anderson's gay son. He is most definitely more than Doc.

He is Blaine. He is falling for his difficult, mouthy, opinionated, talented, gorgeous, compassionate, caring trumpet partner. And he's going to prove that he's worth the risk, that they are worth the risk.

And he's going to do it by meeting him in the middle.

~~~**~~~

Puck [09-12-11 3:12am]: What did you do to my man, Maynard?

Blaine [09-12-11 3:17am]: Did Nini give you my number?

Seriously, does being the bro-friend of the guy-you're-pining-for's step-brother give you 3am texting rights? His phone buzzes again – obviously it does.

Puck [09-12-11 3:18am]: Finn. Come on, dude. Why'd you go and make your boyfriend mad?

Blaine [09-12-11 3:19am]: I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm single.

Puck [09-12-11 3:21am]: You can tell me. I'm no homo-hater, man. I know you and the Keeks are getting nasty. But I gotta tell you. I was over there today and he is—spitting. I don't think he stopped playing his stupid horn long enough for a piss break.

Blaine [09-12-11 3:22am]: That's—charming. And, he sort of pissed me off too, if you must know.

Puck [09-12-11 3:24am]: Yeah, I heard there was a smackdown. What's the big? We got the stupid Grand Champion? We qualified.

Blaine [09-12-11 3:25am]: I have no idea. Apparently at this school it's all or nothing?

Puck [09-12-11 3:27am]: Well, I'm here to tell you, Kiki's giving it his all. He was hitting notes today that would've deafened my dog. Amazing shit, May—amazing shit.

Blaine stares at his phone and reads the text a few more times. He feels like Kurt just kissed him.

Blaine [09-12-11 3:31am]: I'm sure it was. He's pretty amazing.

Puck [09-12-11 3:33am]: There you go. I just don't want to see my boys all heartbroke and upset. I'm rooting for you two.

Blaine [09-12-11 3:34am]: Thanks, Puck. I'll see you tomorrow? Sort of exhausted.

Puck [09-12-11 3:36am]: Yeah. You two'll be getting all janky again in no time.

Blaine [09-12-11 3:37am]: Yes. Janky. Wanky. Hanky and panky.

Puck [09-12-11 3:38am]: Is that some sort of homo-talk or??

Blaine [09-12-11 3:39am]: Good night, Puckerman.