"Alright, everybody. Come hither."

Kurt follows his director's commands, busy watching and judging the freshmen class after calisthenics. He's calculating how much work he's going to need to do just to get them through the first evening of rehearsal, no less the entire season. From his initial evaluations, this class consists of a bunch of flabby, undisciplined malcontents. Half of them are chugging entirely too much water from their coolers— let's see how much puking happens tonight – and after only 2 laps around the practice field, the other half are too tired to even get to their coolers, no less to the tower.

The tower— the band director's home for marching season. Ms. Jones and the percussion instructor, Ms. Beaman, sit at the top of the 20-ft. 2-level scaffold-and-wood monstrosity to oversee drills and rehearsals. Head-microphones boom their voices across the 100-yard black-topped practice field, offering praise or scathing criticism, depending on the need of the moment. The blessing of the tower – they can't see the kids' eye rolls. The curse?

They see everything else.

The band, old and new, gathers around the tower to hear what Jonesy has to say. It's the beginning of four solid weeks of summer rehearsals before school starts. The beginning of weekly football games and multiple marching competitions. The beginning of over three months where no one has a life outside of marching band.

Santana slings an arm around Kurt's shoulders as they approach, pointing out a boy with dark curly hair and a shiny, spotless, undented, top-of-the-line Bach Stradivarius trumpet.

Kurt is unimpressed. "Is that him?"

"Yup. He's entirely too pristine. And so is that horn. Who rehearses with their Strad?"

"Apparently he does. I am so fucked."

"Breathe, Kiki. Maybe last year was a fluke. Or, they wrote the stuff simpler so he'd sound better. Or...maybe his eyebrows are stick-on and you'll have fodder to last you through this week anyway."

"Snix! Are you joining us this year or are you simply here for a social call?"

"I'm here, Jonesy. Sorry."

Ms. Jones smirks. "For the rookies in our midst or for those who have attention span issues and missed it, this year we're doing the music of Queen."

While most of the band knows this, a cheer erupts anyway. She's been known to change her mind and this is a show that everyone, regardless of clique or musical tastes, can get behind. It's theatrical, it's rock, it's pop. It will be, Kurt has decided, the best show McKinley High School has ever seen.

"And before anyone asks, no we're not doing Bohemian Rhapsody. You know I don't like doing top hits when we do shows like this."

After the mumbling and whispers of excitement die down, Jonesy continues into her annual spiel, outlining basic rehearsal etiquette, to be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late and to be late is to do laps, wah, wah, wah, wah. Before long, Kurt completely zones out— this is his fourth year hearing it.

Besides, he's too busy scoping out the new kid.

Tiny guy. Curly hair. That's where Brittany got hobbit— god, she's an idiot. Muscular, great legs, great arms. Oh my god, shut up, Kurt. Good lips for brass, clearly in tune with his playing – constantly flipping valves, buzzing lips – perfect lips, reall— Jesus Fucking Christ. He doesn't stand still very well. That will have to be worked out. And those eyebrows do look like the fallout from a nuclear meltdown. Okay, I can work with this.

And then—

"Snix, take the trumpets to the right 45—"

"WHAT? Jonesy, that's my section!"

"Kiki, spend some one-on-one with Blaine. He'll be assisting you this year if he can learn the ropes quickly enough."

"Assisting— are you kidding me? I've waited for—"

"Yes, I know. Which is why I have faith you'll be a team player and go make Mr. Anderson feel welcome and at home." Kurt huffs and looks around, finding Blaine ten yards to his left, smirking like he knows a dirty secret. "One hour in sections and then we'll come back for fun block."

~~~**~~~

"Hi. Sorry to take you from your position."

"What? No. It's temporar— it's okay." Kurt slugs back a drink from his gallon cooler and pops the spout from his mouth, tossing it to the ground with enough force to prove that no, it most certainly is not okay. "Let's, um...let's go over to the 30 over here. First hash mark."

"Do I need my horn?"

"Yeah, we'll go over horn angle and stuff. Make sure what you did at Wapak matches us."

Blaine snaps his horn to his mouth in a perfect angle, back straight, elbows out, chin up and Kurt bites back a sigh. "Yes. That's—yes." Overachiever. Delightful.

They get to the 30-yard hash and Kurt shoots a glance at the other trumpets as Santana parades them around, going over the basic 8-to-5 step— eight evenly spaced steps to move a five-yard distance. Marching 101. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-hit—oh my god, have you piss ants ever even walked a mall before?"

"Look, we can join them over there and you can take over. I'm sure I'll catch on."

"No." Kurt brings his attention back to Blaine who's suddenly standing one step inside of his personal space bubble and why didn't he notice this guy's eyes earlier on? They're the color of Grade A maple syrup and just as sweet. Shit. "I'm—" He steps back and points to the end zone. "You did glide steps? You weren't military, right?"

"Right. Corps. Heel-to-toe."

"Good. Horn up." Blaine snaps his horn again and Kurt begins to tick a steady 100 beats per minute. "Ten yards, 8-to-5, pay attention because I might change it."

And he changes it. And Blaine keeps up. So Kurt tries more, using different steps – large 4 steps-to-5 yard strides, tiny 16 steps-to-5 yard shuffles, front-facing steps where no yard markers can help him measure. And Kurt smiles to himself when he finds Blaine isn't the marcher he'd like to think he is. He's having to over- or under-compensate to hit his marks properly and while he does hit them, the mess in-between yard markers is not acceptable.

So, Kurt joins him on the 30-yard-line to march with him. "Stick with me. Your steps aren't even."

"I'm hitting the marks."

"Lesson number one: it doesn't matter. If the steps in-between are shit, the performance is shit. Marching shows are moving designs. Every step has to be exact or the view goes fuzzy."

Blaine rolls his eyes and snaps his horn up, mumbling into his mouthpiece. "Never mattered at Wapak."

Kurt lowers his own horn and walks to stand in front of Blaine, pushing his trumpet down with the press of a finger. "Lesson number two? You're not at Wapak anymore."

Blaine opens his mouth to offer what Kurt assumes is a smart assed retort, but Kurt takes his place next to him and snaps his horn up, side-eyeing Blaine until he follows.

"We'll start simple for you. 8-to-5, 20 yards to the end zone. Slide after 10 yards. Ready-and-go."

~~~**~~~

At the end of the hour, Kurt and Blaine join the rest of the trumpet section. Blaine's marching is heads above the rest of the freshman and if he is just going to be a section member, Kurt would be satisfied. But as a senior who is supposed to be assisting him in a leadership role? He isn't even close.

"You're going to need to get a gallon jug. Twelve ounces of water won't last in this heat."

Blaine wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at his half-empty bottle. "You going to tell me what underwear I should be wearing too?"

"Fine. Pass out from dehydration. I'll just step over your sorry ass." Kurt snaps his thermos closed and tosses it on the ground, exchanging it for his trumpet before taking off to talk to Santana.

"Kurt—Kiki? Is that what Jonesy called you?"

Kurt stops and sighs, turning back around with a glare. "Yes. And before you say anything, I'm fully aware it's slang for genitals of both sexes in multiple languages, so don't even start. Jonesy gave me the name, she didn't know any better and—"

Blaine's smiling now, biting back a laugh and it's quite possible his eyes just sparkled? In this oppressive, hazy heat, his eyes sparkled. Kurt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "You're laughing at me."

"Not at. Just—with?"

"I'm not laughing."

"Okay, then. I guess I am laughing at you." Blaine caps his water bottle and picks up his trumpet. "You know, maybe if you took the stick out of your ass, I'd be laughing with you. It's really your call."

~~~**~~~

The rest of rehearsal goes well enough. Kurt can't concentrate, his focus solely on Blaine. His marching is improving as the evening progresses, but still needs serious refinement. His playing isn't shabby, but not good enough to threaten Kurt's top spot. And his ass jiggles perfectly in his loose gym shorts when marching in front of him—

"Clean out your spit valve, Kiki. You're drooling into your horn."

"Is it that obvious?" Kurt leans his head back onto Santana's shoulder and sighs, grateful that Jonesy has decided to torment the trombones for the time being. He's tired. He's hot. He's drooling. Two out of three ailments are shared by the entire band, but the last one is the most concerning.

"Eh, probably not to anyone but me. Just don't get a chubby or I'll never let you live it down."

"You're a true friend, Snix."

"I know, baby." She kisses his cheek and pushes him off of her. "Too hot for snuggles." She continues staring at the show, however. "That is a fine ass."

"And probably straight."

"The odds are not in your favor."

"Look at the way his calf muscles shift just standing there shooting the shit with Chelsea." Santana moans. She is not helping. "Should we warn him he'll never get away from her once she gets started?"

"Nah, let him figure it out for hims—" As she finishes her sentence, Blaine looks up to Kurt and Santana, eyes pleading for an escape, and Santana caves. "Maybe we should rescue him."

"He does look like an abandoned puppy dog."

"Blaine! C'mere a minute!" Santana snickers as Blaine gives an apologetic look to a very smitten Chelsea, mouthing a thank you as he walks up to them, checking to make sure she's gone.

"Oh my god, does she ever stop?"

"No." Kurt and Santana chime in unison and pull Blaine to the sidelines when Jonesy calls for the final water break of the evening.

"We had a guy like that in Wapak. Clarinet player. He'd talk and talk and talk and the whole time he's mouth-breathing and licking and sucking on his damned reed."

"Sounds like Nate." Kurt points to the clarinet section where a moppy-haired, slightly overweight boy is obsessively licking his reed, sucking the mouthpiece into his mouth every few licks. "He sounds like a drunken goose when he plays. We figure he chose clarinet because he likes to blow wood."

"Ah, well. There are worse hobbies."

Santana and Kurt swallow back spit-takes and look at the new kid with an entirely new level of respect. And interest. "Are you...?"

"Gay? Yeah, you?"

"I knew I should have worn my Scarlet G today."

"Well, I sort of fig—I mean—" Blaine clears his throat and tips back his water bottle to drink, only it is now empty. "Shit. Is it—is it safe here? To be out?"

With a sigh and an I-told-you-so look, Kurt hands Blaine his jug. "At McKinley? Yeah. No. Well, it is here in band." Kurt points to the tower and smiles. Jonesy and Beaman are having a heated discussion, Beaman's arms flailing, Jonesey's hands up in submission. As usual, Beaman wins this round. "When both of your leaders are gay, it's sort of a requirement to offer a safe haven for your class."

Blaine nods and tilts his head back to pour water into his open mouth while Kurt stares, almost dropping his trumpet. Santana, the most excellent best friend of all time, smacks Kurt's shoulder and cackles as she walks away. "Not to repeat myself or anything, but – happy senior year, Kiki!"