Kurt knows his dad is ready to throttle him. Finn has given up and virtually moved in with Rachel. Carole, who is the epitome of patience, civility and let him find his own bliss is shooting him daggers over the dinner she pushes to him across the island.

Because he's not eating with the family.

Because there isn't time.

Since the day after the competition he's been holed up in his room. It started quietly as he dug into the bowels of the online trumpet players' world where they discuss mundane things like the bore and rim of a mouthpiece, the finish on a horn and how it does or does not affect sound, the intricacies of varying breathing machinations to get the sound quality any given player is shooting for.

He not only came out of it with more information than any one, singular person would ever need, but also with the realization that while he is a kick-ass player, when it all boils down, he doesn't know as much as he'd like to think.

But, he has a lifetime to learn it all and right now, he needs range. He needs a freedom from the score – something he's never struggled with before, but this time – he knows it – this time, he is buried in the music and not in the heart of the song.

He needs a confidence to dive into the soul of the music like he dives into the soul of his fashion sense every single day. And, because it's worth saying again, he needs range. So, after lunch on Sunday, he sits down and studies the literature and finally, when he thinks he might know enough to at least start, he starts.

He starts with the stupid Minear Method, god dammit. Just looking at the printouts make him want to rage. But they're good. And they work – Blaine's proof positive, and while Doc was sloppier than a frat boy at a kegger, his range could also be attributed to Frank Minear.

Kurt hates Frank Minear.

But, he spends a good majority of Sunday afternoon going through the exercises again and again, and while, by the time he stops for dinner he doesn't necessarily have a wider range, he can feel the ease when he's playing the higher end of it.

After dinner, he moves to air flow studies and lip flexibility exercises where he stands and sits and breathes and pushes and he knows he can't do it in a day but the next competition is in less than a week. He keeps going. When his dad finally calls up and begs for an hour of silence, he goes down to the basement to figure out if Finn's old rowing machine still works.

It surprisingly does, and he gets on it and pulls and pulls and pulls, tightening his gut making every muscle work and work and work until he can't pull any more. The monotony of the movements, the wearisome click-hiss-slide-chunk noises quiet his mind for a bit to where he thinks of his breathing. His abdominal muscles. His biceps because holy shit, they are burning.

When he can't pull one more time, he showers and soaks in the bath while pouring over more articles and finds a jackpot. Lip pressure. Upper lip pressure, to be exact. Apparently, too tight of upper lip pressure – what one just naturally uses – effectively puts a stopper on the highest reaching notes of a trumpet player's range. It makes them simply not happen. What normally makes for good sound, good volume, good overall playing, is detrimental when cranking out the notes that live lines above the staff.

But, it's late, so he runs a few more scales, digging down deep and whirling it up as high as he can and for the first time, he ekes out a D#6. It's not much and not where he wants to be, but it's progress.

The next day he coasts through school trying mightily to ignore everyone, even Santana. Blaine, obviously. He toughs out sectionals and does his job as section leader, but makes no effort to truly communicate with anyone. His mind is on one thing and one thing only.

And that one thing is most definitely not Blaine Anderson and his long eye-lashes and broken-hearted face and the warmth he feels whenever he's around. It most definitely is not that he's busting his chops, his gut, his patience and if this goes on for too many days, his grades, to become a better player so Blaine won't regret coming here. Won't think that Kurt is nothing more than a wimpy little boy trying to make himself bigger and better when the raw talent isn't even there.

He has to get better. He has to figure this out. He has to meet Blaine in the middle and stop playing like a girl and god dammit, he called me rigid and I am not—okay, so on this fucking solo, I'm rigid. He's fluid. Ebony and ivory? Oil and Water? This should work.

He has to get it right. Has to.

So, Monday evening, after sectionals, he's practicing again, lip exercises and Mr. Minear, the bastard, and rowing and rowing and before he knows it, it's Tuesday and someone is stomping down the hall to his room and didn't Carole understand when he said, "If anyone comes by, I'm not here?"

"What. In the hell. Is wrong with you?"

His back is to the door and he's just finished a C5-C6 scale and it's easier than ever before – notes he's been hitting for years, but he's not tensing at the top – he's not worried about it. He still cannot find the comfort in going higher on the regular, so he needs to keep working and it's Santana. Of course. "Nothing was wrong with me until you barged in here uninvited." He begins again.

She slams his door closed and he ignores her, starting the next scale on a C#, not making it to the top because she has yanked the horn from his mouth. "You won't answer my texts. I don't like to be ignored."

"And I don't like to be bothered, or have my mouth put in danger by an enraged Puerto Rican, so if you'll kindly leave I'll get back to what I'm doing."

"And what exactly are you doing?"

"Gee, I don't know, Snix. I have my trumpet to my lips, exercise sheets strewn throughout the room, and no life outside of this place since Sunday. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're obsessing over something that isn't important."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. Please go."

"I will not go. What about that judge's comments – oh don't look at me like I don't know that's what this is all about – what about his comments has your boxers in such a fucking twist, Kiki?" Kurt goes to respond, but that's not happening when she's in a rage. "I even asked Jonesy if I could see them for myself yesterday and I can't, for the life of me, figure it out."

Kurt mocks a voice he's never heard. "We don't blend. We don't balance. I'm too wimpy. He's perfectly athletic. It's Doc and Kurt all over again, only this time we get to play the game while we're publicly judged."

"You have fucking lost your mind. That judge said nothing of the sort." When Kurt glares at her, she retracts – partially. "Okay, he said you didn't play together. That you're stand-out musicians, but you needed to blend and balance more."

"Exactly my point. So, I'm trying to—I'm fixing it. Now go home." He puts his trumpet up again only to have Santana lower it again. "You're not going to ignore me – or Blaine – until you've perfected whatever fault you seem to think you need to perfect. If you want to blend with him, you have to work with him."

"I'd just as soon never see him again, so I'm working on my end of things. If he can't be bothered, then I guess he'll have to carry that burden."

"You're an asshat. Ignore your pride and your crush and fix this."

He blinks at her impatiently before speaking. "I want an E6 – I popped a D# yesterday. You think I can get that half-step by Saturday?"

"You think being able to hit higher notes will make a difference?"

"It'll tighten up the end. Know how he climbs up there as I'm holding my note? If I climb with him – right alongside, but a third down? It'll be—" Kurt huffs and points to the door. "I don't expect you to understand."

"No, after all these years, understanding you is the one thing I do worst of all." She smiles in victory when his shoulders slump. He knows and she knows that if anyone understands him, it's her. From the alcove in the middle school until this moment – it's always been her. "You have one thing to do, Kiki. One. Fix this. By Invitational. Three-and-a-half weeks. Fix the notes if you must. Fix the musicality if you can. Fix whatever it is that's broken. But fix it. Because your mania and his sad puppy dog face are going to send me to an early grave. And I have plans for the rest of this year and they don't include visiting either of you in the loony bin."

She stands and goes to the door and he sighs, unable to turn to look at her. "I miss him. It's been three days and I haven't even looked at him and I don't know what to make of it and I want this to be—I want it to be epic. I hated the idea of this damned duet and I hated him for making it happen, but I can hear what we can be together and I think—I'm probably out of my mind – but I can feel what we can be together and every time I let myself get a little closer—"

"Fix it, Kiki. You know what it feels like when it works with him and you know, deep down inside what you did to make it happen. Find it again. Because when you do?" Kurt turns his head just a bit and she steps back into the room, kissing the top of his head. "You'll be unstoppable."

~~~**~~~

Two days later, Kurt's standing at his locker trying to decide what to do before full rehearsal begins. Santana's words still ring in his ears but he hasn't let up on the manic practice sessions at home, kicking it into even higher gear yesterday earning a very irritated visit from his father.

"You know I was all in support of you joining band, right?"

"Be grateful I'm not a percussionist like Finn."

"Finn doesn't practice."

"Finn's an idiot." There was a beat of silence and Kurt lifted his horn to begin again, but Burt added, "What are you trying to prove?"

"I haven't figured that out yet."

"Figure it out soon. Or your inheritance is going to my mental health bills."

Now, he has an hour to kill and his lips are begging him to let it rest so he'll be at full potential for rehearsal. He could do his French homework but that sounds très ennuyeux – beyond boring. He sighs and closes his locker only to find Blaine standing there, a shy smile in place and those ridiculous big brown eyes gleaming in the fluorescent hall lights. Against all common sense, Kurt feels his wall begin to chip and crackle. Again.

Because liking him has been the easiest thing Kurt has had to do all season. "Hi."

"What are you doing this hour?"

"I was just trying to figure that out."

"Can we—hit up a practice room?" Blaine's eyes pop. "To—to practice. Of course."

Blaine bites his bottom lip and Kurt's heart melts even more. God dammit. "And maybe to talk?"

"Yes. Talking is good too."

They make their way to the band room, waving at Jonesy in her office as they disappear into one of the small, acoustically charged rooms. Wordlessly, they get out their horns and start some simple scale work – quick warm-ups. They stop and look at each other, the red circle of mouthpiece imprint already forming on each of their top lips. Kurt states the obvious. "You've been practicing a lot this week."

"So have you."

Kurt nods and digs into his folder to pull out some of the lip exercises he's been working on. Blaine scoots his chair closer and the scratch against the tile pulls Kurt's attention back out of his bag. Earnest Blaine has arrived.

He puts his folder down and waits.

"I—I need to say something. And, I really hope – Kurt – that this is the last time I have to say it for you to believe it." Kurt takes in a ragged breath and nods for him to continue – because he knows exactly what Blaine is going to say. "I'm. Not. Doc." Kurt breathes to speak because he knows Blaine is right, but Blaine plows forward before he has a chance. "I'm not wailing on notes to cover you up because I don't think you're good enough to do it on your own. Or because I want all the attention. We—our styles – they complement each other. We complement each other. And I want to prove that to you, but I can't do it alone at home driving my mother crazy with 24-hour practice sessions."

Kurt purses his lips and looks at the floor, wondering when it was last swept. Because wondering that is easier than dealing with the mess that is his mind. His heart. That trust, that warm, connected feeling that has ruled the last few months of his life is seeping back into the holes in his once-solid wall. And while he wants to succumb to it, he resists. If only a little. "The judge didn't seem to think we complemented each other."

"The judge is a dick."

"Jonesy delighted in the fact that we didn't complement each other."

"Kiki, that doesn't even make sense. She delighted in the fact that we were screwing around while she read the comment sheets and she had something to hang us with. Jonesy is a dick."

"Okay, now you're trying too hard."

"Probably. But, you're not trying at all."

Kurt sucks in a breath and closes off again. "You have no idea how hard I've been trying this weekend. How hard I've worked. My dad wanted to put me on the streets."

Blaine laughed and Kurt has to chuckle with him, even though he doesn't want to. "You wouldn't have been alone. Mom was about to boot me out on my ass too."

"We could have busked."

"Might have been fun, actually."

They share a smile and Kurt comes clean. "I don't know how to—he said I played like a girl. Again."

"He said that individually we were fantastic musicians, but together we didn't blend. You heard you play like a girl because he commented on how beautifully you played, but that's not even close to what he said." Blaine stabs at the air with each word. "And.you.know.it." Kurt stares down at Blaine's finger and feels a brick dislodge from his wall with every jab. "That's your easy out and it has to stop. Because it isn't even remotely true."

Kurt meets his eyes and has to look away – they are bright and piercing right through the heart of it all. The heart of him.

"I have an E6. Solid. Ish." He blushes at his own honesty. "I can pop that with your G to tighten up the end – a 3rd instead of the 5th we've been doing. The band has the root of the chord in spades."

"Ish? You want to perform an ish note?"

"It's—it's there. It's just—"

"Then let me come down to the E. Keep your C. It's solid. It's bell-like. It'll work. I don't need to blast that stupid G."

Kurt huffs and gently rubs at a scratch on the tuning slide of his horn. "Don't you see? You shouldn't have to sacrifice what you can do to come down to my level."

"I'm not—stop it. Complement. That's what we're going for. I'm going to start my part where you are to blend in more. I've been working on—" Blaine pulls out his etudes and exercises and shows them to Kurt. "I've been trying to get that resonant, vibrant tone you have in your mid-range. So we can sound like two notes coming out of one horn, you know?"

"You have?"

"Yes. I have. I want—don't you want to take what he said as an opportunity to make it better? If he loved it as much as he said he did and then we add his suggestions – can you imagine—"

Kurt knows what he's been doing to match Blaine's quality and now, to see that Blaine's been doing the same thing—he's overwhelmed. "We're going to be fucking amazing, aren't we? The two of us."

Blaine grins and the room is alight with it. "We are. It's going to take some work, but—"

"By Invitational?"

"By Invitational, definitely."

"Okay. Let's—let's start. Well. Let me start. I still need to work on being more fluid with timing and things. I'm still rigid, but—"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said—"

"You were right. I can't get my nose out of the score. My timing off the metronome. I normally don't struggle with it, but for this I am and it's annoying me."

"We'll get there. One thing at a time. We've got this."

With Blaine's confident smile, Kurt's wall is virtually rubble, bricks of stubbornness and hurt and insecurity piled at his feet. It's not completely gone and there is work to be done, but they're on the road.

Together.

~~~**~~~

By the next competition – only two days later – not much changes for their duet other than a general comfort with each other. Kurt thought they'd had it before, but after this particular performance, and the one the night before at the football game, there is a new ease to it. He had been tightening up when Blaine joined him, and that naturally led to, as the judge said, playing at the same time, not together. But, now – he isn't sure if it's the conversation, the change in attitude, or the small musical changes they are making – now there is an added unity to it all.

It still doesn't have the punch Kurt is hoping for. But, for now, it is good. He catches Jonesy cheering at the end of it before he spins off to his position for Santana and Mike's duet. It feels amazing. And there is still room to grow.

It is time for awards and the September evening air is getting cooler, so everyone is snuggled up close, rooting Artie on as he rolls his wheelchair to a central point on the away stand's walkway. It's time for roller coaster, the most ridiculous stand activity they do, but the parents love to see it from across the field and – ridiculous or not – it's fun.

Artie spins his chair so his back is turned and shouts over his shoulder. "Everybody buckle in!"

The whole band mimics the lowering of shoulder bars coming down and latching them in for a swirly, upside-down, hill-heavy ride. And then they bounce, as you do when riding toward the first hill of a coaster. Up the hill everyone goes, leaning back onto the row behind them, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

"Here we goooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" And it's downhill, hands in the air, squeals and whistles and cheers filling the air as Artie's car leads them left and then right and then up a small climb again, bouncing, bouncing and then down again and woooaaaah! it's a flip upside down and someone leans over the side to "puke" – has to be a rookie – and back around and through and left and right and Artie jerks to a stop and the band follows and breathes heavily and sighs and leans on each other because oh my gawd, that was a roller coaster ride!

The band parents from McKinley cheer from across the field, and after a few more silly chants between bands, "We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit, how 'bout you?" it's time for the announcement they've been waiting for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have the judges scores. We'll start with Class C."

There is no Grand Champion at this competition, each class winning their own awards, but McKinley takes top honors in the AA division again. First place overall, first place percussion, first place general effect, first place visual effect, first place music, and second place auxiliary – which means the color guard is going to have a hell of a week with Ms. Sylvester on their tails. But, it's good. It's all good.

And Kurt has to chuckle at Blaine, who looks almost forlorn sitting on the bus without the gargantuan trophy on his lap.

Jonesy makes them wait until Monday to hear the comments and it's just as well. There's not much to hear. In fact, none of the judges are particularly wordy, all apologizing for it because they were so enjoying the show that they sort of "forgot" to make comments.

That afternoon after sectionals, Blaine's settling into Kurt's car for a lift home and Kurt catches himself staring. And then Blaine catches him staring, so he makes to start the car quickly, floundering for something of worth to say.

"All that work we did and they barely said anything about our duet."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Must mean we did okay."

"I'm sorry I was such—I was a dick. Again."

"I think we established that the judge was a dick. And, that Jonesy was a dick. Not you."

"Maynard, I was a dick." Kurt levels his gaze at Blaine as he starts the car and backs them out of the parking lot.

"Okay, you were sort of a dick."

"Thank you."

"You know, you can stop doing that now, right? No one's—" Blaine rests his hand over Kurt's as it drapes over the gear shift. "No one's out to get you anymore. This is your brass ring to grab."

"Can it—maybe—" Kurt stops himself and pulls up to a light, looking over to Blaine. Earnest, sweet, patient, why-does-he-keep-putting-up-with-me Blaine. And while the thought is something he never imagined he'd consider as few as two months prior, it's crystal clear now. "Can we share it? The brass ring? Our brass ring?"

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

~~~**~~~

Santana [09-25-11 3:01am]: Okay, give.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:05am]: You the finger?

Santana [09-25-11 3:06am]: You'd tell me if you and Frodo were getting it on, right? I mean, you at least owe me that much.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:07am]: I owe you nothing pertaining to my sex life, but yes. You know I'd at least tell you if—I don't know what I'd tell you. But there's nothing to tell.

Santana [09-25-11 3:09am]: I'm losing a bet here, Kiki. Not even a kiss? You haven't even KISSED him yet?

Kurt [09-25-11 3:10am]: Why the hell would I kiss him? Friends, Snix. He sees us as friends. We are still pretty wobbly as friends.

Santana [09-25-11 3:12am]: Is that all you want?

Kurt [09-25-11 3:15am]: You know the answer to that.

Santana [09-25-11 3:16am]: Then what's—you guys are practicing together all the time, aren't you? I mean, you fuckers got a Standing O last night – the band didn't even get that outside of our hover moms.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:17am]: Yes. Practicing. Talking. It's—business?

Santana [09-25-11 3:17am]: Bull Fucking Shit. He wants you, Hummel.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:18am]: He has done nothing to indicate that he does and besides, I'm sure I'm not his type. Not all gay men want all gay men – I shouldn't have to explain this to you.

Santana [09-25-11 3:19am]: You don't. You're an idiot.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:20am]: Thank you. Do you think if I practice without a metronome I'll be able to play more freely?

Santana [09-25-11 3:21am]: You are a one-trick pony, aren't you?

Kurt [09-25-11 3:22am]: If you do the trick right...

Santana [09-25-11 3:24am]: He wants you. You two would be amazing. I love you and you need to be with him.

Kurt [09-25-11 3:25am]: I think I'll try without the metronome. We should be perfect by Invitational Saturday. One more rehearsal.

Santana [09-25-11 3:26am]: Kiki...