Blaine has a plan. And it's now officially a plan in action. His heart is racing and his racing heart is making his heart race even more because Kurt has agreed to every bit of it so far. But he's afraid that if his nerves show even an ounce, the point will be lost. The true point.

The secondary point is probably wasted energy anyway, but the point.

The point is the music.

The music is why he's doing this, he is convinced. It's why Kurt is getting out his horn on the sidelines of the practice field on the one day a week they don't have practice. It's why he's plugging Jonesy's miniature speaker system into the conduit underneath the tower and why he's plugging his portable iPod speakers into that.

It's why Kurt is now sitting somewhere near the 40-yard line, legs stretched out for miles in front of him, propped back on his hands, watching Blaine buzz around and probably look like a deranged maniac. Kurt has a smirk on his face and a tilt to his head that only serves to invite Blaine to nuzzle in his neck – as if he's presenting the summer-tanned, smooth flesh for him to run his lips—

"You know, most people have the party ready when the guests arrive."

Blaine shoves his iPod onto the connector and stands, grabbing his horn with a grin. "Yes. Well. I'm not most people. And. I'm ready. I think. If I did everything right." Blaine walks to him and reaches his hand down to help him up. "Do—do you need any water or anything before we start?"

"I'm good. It's a nice evening." Kurt stands and wipes off his ass before licking his lips and locking eyes with Blaine. "So. Um. What are we doing here?"

"Well. We are—I thought—I used to do this—" Blaine closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I thought we could try something I've done in my lessons with Mr. Orr at Dalton – who, you really need to call because he has an open slot after mine once marching season is over and I think he'd serve you better than the TA at OSU Lima you've been using—" Kurt's eyebrows are raised at me like I'm speaking another language. Slow down, Anderson. "And it really helped me feel the music when the technicality of it all weighed—"

"Wait. You—you talked to Mr. Orr? About me?"

"Yes. We talk frequently and—after our first competition I emailed him for some suggestions on my tone quality and—"

"He has a slot for me? You asked him about me taking lessons with him?"

"I—did I over step—"

"How much?"

"$70 an hour."

"Ouch."

"What do you pay now?"

"About $30 for 45 minutes."

"And how much do you get out of it?"

"About ten bucks."

Blaine waits while Kurt calculates and this isn't why they're here tonight, but marching season is in full swing and winding down at the same time, as it does, and if Kurt's going to study music—

"Right after your slot? We could—we could carpool? Maybe?"

"I'd—I'd like that. There's a nice café there to wait for each other and—I think you'd really—he's amazing."

"Lead for Columbus Jazz Arts Group, right?"

"Yes. But he's on top of the classical stuff too, of course and—"

"I'll talk to Dad. I can put in some more hours at the shop or something." Kurt looks past Blaine to the horizon and sighs. The front coif of his hair has flopped down like it used to every day during summer rehearsals, and he's wearing a lightweight hoodie and jeans so tight Blaine's not sure how Kurt can slip a hand into his pocket, but he does. And stares back at Blaine. "I still don't know why we're here."

"Yes. Sorry. So, Mr. Orr used to have me do this in his studio, or in the band room there if it was free. Sometimes I'd get bogged down by the mathematics of the music too, and it helps."

"Do what?"

"Oh. Walk. Around. Aimlessly. While you play. It sort of takes the steady beat of it out of your head and helps you sink into the music more. The ebb and flow of it all. So, I thought we could do that with the duet."

Kurt tilts his head again as though Blaine is a puzzle to be solved and Blaine rushes forward with more explanation. "I asked Jonesy if she had the demo we listened to of Show and she did. The solo trumpet was on its own channel, so I pulled that out and it's just the band accompaniment here and she loaned us the speaker and—"

"Why are you doing this?"

Kurt isn't angry, even though he's still looking at him like he's lost his mind. Like he's not sure if he should just get in his car and go back home. But, he steps forward, closer to Blaine and doesn't stop studying him.

"Because—because I believe we can be something amazing."

"We?"

"Playing. I mean. Of course." Blaine swallows because he thinks Kurt's shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I remember how much it helped me at band camp – when you met me on the field to fix my marching and this just seems like another opportunity to shed our ghosts, you know? I can stop being so over-the-top screaming at my dad and you don't have to be so controlled to protect yourself from Doc because—"

"Because you're not Doc."

Kurt's shy smile almost makes Blaine forget to breathe before he speaks again. "Because I'm not Doc and—and my dad's not listening anyway."

"But a lot of other people are. And they really respect you." Kurt takes a step back and begins to walk a little, slowly as though he's getting the tempo of the song under his feet. "I should know. I'm one of them."

"Thank you." Respect. Blaine decides he'll take it. Especially from a talent like Kurt. Kurt, who's still walking slowly and looking wistfully to their surroundings, the late afternoon sun slowly dropping in the sky and casting a lovely orange glow around him as he goes. "So, you can start. Maybe just by singing the lyrics? You said you've loved this song for a long time."

"You want me to sing?"

"Only if you're comfortable. I want you to be comfortable, but having the lyrics in your head better might help you know when to push and pull at the phrasing better?"

Kurt stops and hums a bit to himself, turning back toward Blaine and nodding. "Okay. With the track?"

"Yes." Blaine smiles as much encouragement as he can muster and he starts the song. "Just use the whole of the field. I don't have to hear you. This is for you, not me right now."

Kurt's back is turned when he begins singing and it's clear he's testing the waters of his voice, of Blaine hearing it, of the lyrics and how they can help tell the story once they're removed for the band performance.

But even with all of that, his voice is stunning. He sings with his eyes closed and his face relaxed and peaceful, only a pinch of concentration showing between his brows.

Once he gets to the second verse, his voice already stronger, he stops before it starts. "I'm already doing it, aren't I? It's so much easier with the lyrics."

"You're doing it. You sound beau—"

Another hero, another mindless crime
Behind the curtain, in the pantomime

"I'm going to sing the chorus with you, but don't follow me. Do your own thing."

Kurt nods and keeps going into the chorus as Blaine joins him. Just like in their first competition, they're singing at the same time, but not together, but that's the point right now. Kurt needs to find his own rhythm. Needs to lead with the steady background of the band. Needs to confidently take the reins.

When the next verse starts, Blaine plays his trumpet as he would for the show, quieter, accompanying Kurt's beautiful melody.

Another heartache, another failed romance
On and on, does anybody know what we are living for?

Kurt keeps singing and Blaine continues playing but at the final verse, Blaine has to quit – just to listen. To the hitch in Kurt's voice when he realizes that he has the capacity to disappear into the music but not lose himself in the process.

I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now
I'll soon be turning, round the corner now
Outside the dawn is breaking
But inside in the dark I'm aching to be free—

Kurt stops abruptly, peeling his eyes open and they're standing face to face. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi. You okay?"

"I think—I'm ready to play now."

Blaine resets the music and grabs Kurt's trumpet, handing it over. "Your voice is beautiful."

"Thank you. That felt—that felt really good."

"Music is supposed to feel good, Kiki."

"I think I forget sometimes." He's talking over the music and they chuckle when Blaine bops back to the iPod to reset it yet again. "Sorry. Still walk around?"

"Yes." Blaine hits pause one more time. "You—Kiki. You've waited three years to lead, so you need to lead this. The band is the steady beat behind you. I'm your accompanist. You lead me."

"Do you think that's been part of the problem? I've not—" Kurt stops talking and huffs as realization seems to wash over his face. "It is, isn't it? You come in and I'm so used to backing up and letting—Jesus. This is mine to lead."

"It is. It always has been. I've just needed to step aside."

"And I've just needed to take control of it." Kurt worries his bottom lip under his teeth and nods, bringing his horn to his lips blowing air into it, checking the valve action before they begin. "Okay. Hit play."

He does and Kurt begins, walking in one direction, Blaine another. He listens to Kurt's melody, joining him on the chorus and then truly accompanying him with his counter melody. Not playing over the top of it – just adding, joining. Kurt's natural lag and rush of the melodic line is perfect now and when they stop to regroup, Kurt does it differently and Blaine follows his lead as best as he can from forty, sometimes sixty yards away.

They finish the second run-through almost on opposite sides of the field, waving to each other and jogging to the middle, a little out of breath from playing so passionately. "That was awesome. One more time?"

Blaine beams, so thrilled his experiment worked – even better than he could have ever imagined. "Yeah. Can we try one more thing?"

"Sure."

"Let's stay in our spots this time. But, instead of standing side by side like Jonesy has us, let's angle a bit? Lean into each other? You know how Freddie and Brian May – all the rock stars – do? Shoulder to shoulder so we're still sort of front-facing, but—"

"Yeah! Yeah, let's—and then you can tell what I'm going to do, right? You can feel me – when I'm going to breathe and slow and—"

Blaine doesn't answer. He simply goes to the iPod, hits play and grins like an idiot when Kurt starts his solo. It's stunning. He's stunning. So stunning, he almost forgets to meet him at the fifty-yard-line. But when he does, their hard work is evident. They take it to the end and in a quick band interlude, Kurt tosses to Blaine, "Take the G. I'm ready."

So he does and Kurt hits his E with clarity and precision and their sound rings through the field as the recorded band accompaniment moves on into the next song.

Blaine takes Kurt's hand and they bow and then laugh at their ridiculousness while Blaine turns off the music. Kurt sits where he is on the practice field catching his breath, and when Blaine joins him, he dramatically leans onto Kurt, feigning exhaustion. Kurt laughs and pushes him off but his fingers linger and drag down the length of Blaine's arms.

And Blaine feels like the world might slip off of its axis. In fact, as soon as he hears Kurt's voice, whispered and raspy and tentative, he's pretty sure it does. "You said you believed we can be something amazing."

"I did say that."

"Do you really?" Kurt looks up from Blaine's arm and into his eyes and his breathlessness no longer seems to be coming from fatigue. "Believe we can be?"

And Blaine searches Kurt's eyes to figure out if Kurt is speaking musically or—it doesn't matter. The answer remains the same.

"I do."

~~~**~~~

Blaine is grateful for adrenaline. And endorphins. And caffeine – sweet, blissful caffeine. Because since that night on the practice field, he hasn't done much sleeping what with all the Kurt-on-the-brain.

He coasted through a history test that he's dreading getting back. He remembers full-band rehearsal being particularly harsh, but as Kurt had warned, Jonesy is always particularly harsh right before a competition and the full-band rehearsal before Buckeye Invitational was a new level of harsh. Upon reflection, half of the clarinet section ended up in tears. Upon further reflection, they probably deserved it because at one point they sounded like didgeridoos.

Broken didgeridoos.

The football game was a non-event as it had poured all day Friday and into the night, so they didn't march and now, he's in the boys' bathroom furthest from the band room – you don't have to deal with percussion and low brass talking about tits, poop and sports back here, Maynard – about to get changed for the biggest competition of the season.

He's nervous. He's anxious. He's ready.

As he strips off his shirt, Kurt walks in and quickly focuses on his shoes as he goes to toe them off. "Hi."

"Hi." Blaine bends to retrieve his band shirt from his own bag and when he stands, he finds Kurt staring at him through his reflection in the mirror, lips slightly parted, his eyes scanning up and down his body, but never at his face.

Feeling a little buzzed from the combination exhaustion/caffeine/adrenaline mix, he drops his band shirt, pauses and then takes off his sweats, humming to himself as if he's completely oblivious he has an audience.

When he reaches for the hanger holding his black band pants, he looks again and Kurt is still staring – but sees he's been caught. He blinks away and stands closer to the mirror, inspecting a non-existent blemish on his chin.

"Kiki?"

"What Maynard?"

"You're ogling."

"I'm—I'm not. I just, zoned out for a minute. I'm nervous and—" Kurt stops fussing with his face and meets Blaine's smirk in the mirror. He sighs and drops his hand from his chin. "I'm ogling."

Somehow Blaine has the decency to slip into his band pants before responding – besides, it gives him an extra moment to celebrate and to gather his thoughts. As he hooks the waistband and zips, he meets Kurt's eyes in the mirror again – still ogling – and smiles. He steps forward and leans against the mirror making Kurt look at him. Directly. Honestly.

It's time.

"Tell me you've noticed that I do the same thing with you."

Kurt's eyes dip down to Blaine's shoulder and chest and after a swallow, he meets Blaine's eyes. "I—I guess I have. A few times." Kurt shrugs and lifts his shirt over his head, quickly grabbing his band shirt from his bag, fumbling with the hem to slip it on, entirely too quickly for Blaine's tastes. "I just figured I was imagining things."

"What? Why? Why would you do that?" Blaine finally puts his shirt on and he thinks he might see disappointment cross Kurt's face.

"Why wouldn't I? Even gay boys don't like boys like me—it could have only hurt things with us in band and—"

"Wait. Stop. Who says boys don't like boys like—what exactly do you mean – 'like you'? You're not like anyone I've ever met."

"Exactly. Like me." Kurt motions to himself up and down and flips his wrists effeminately. "I cook. I sew. I like fashion. My voice, my—everything. And of course, I play like a—"

"Don't. Don't you dare finish that sentence. We excised that one, remember?"

"Maybe musically we did, but—"

"But nothing." Blaine pulls back and considers Kurt for a moment. "Where did you hear something like that anyway? On the internet?"

"No! No, I just—" Kurt slips off his sweats and hastily grabs for his band pants, talking as he puts them on. "AfterElton, okay? I read it there and besides—" He hooks the waistband, zips and pulls his suspenders off their hanger, twisting them in his fingers. "I've been told that my whole life. You know this."

"Okay, but how many gay men have told you no one would want you?"

"Well, AfterElton is—"

"Kiki..."

"None." Kurt suitably blushes and untwists his suspenders, buttoning them into his pants. He stops his motion after hiking them up onto his shoulders and sighs. "None."

"I haven't been ogling because I have nothing better to do with my eyes, you know."

"Blaine..."

"I like boys like you. I like you." Blaine takes a step closer and has to start twice before continuing. And Kurt's just staring at him, waiting. "And I'm really tired of pretending that these conversations we keep having are always about the music. Because they're not. For me."

Kurt sucks in a breath. "Blaine?"

"Please tell me I'm not making an ass of myself. That I haven't misinterpreted things."

Kurt stares at him with, his mouth slack, as if holding it closed would take too much effort. And then, a small smile curls at the corners. "You're not misinterpreting things." Kurt swallows and takes a step closer. "I just didn't think—"

"FIFTEEN MINUTES TO CHART ONE!" Beaman bangs on the door and they reach for each other in shock and then because Blaine doesn't want to let go, especially when Kurt smiles and laughs and rolls his eyes as though he's actually relieved that maybe this dance they've been dancing all summer is over, he hangs on even more tightly, pulling Kurt just a little closer.

But then Kurt's face goes serious and he slides his hands down Blaine's arms and grasps his palms in his fingers and they're looking at their hands there together, their chests heaving in anticipation – if not a little left-over fear from Beaman's whacks on the door – and slowly, slowly their eyes travel up to land solidly, peacefully, happily in one another's.

"Maybe you need to stop thinking."

"If this is what not thinking feels like, then I definitely need to stop."

Blaine smiles down to his toes and Kurt's eyes are dancing, so he does what comes naturally. He cups Kurt's jaw in his hand and just as he closes his eyes to press in, Kurt gasps and pushes gently at his chest. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait."

"What? I'm sorry—I—"

"No. You're—it's just that—oh god, our timing is the worst." Kurt takes back Blaine's hand that he'd dropped and tenderly kisses two fingers. "It's just that—I don't want my first kiss to be in the smelly boys' bathroom."

Blaine lowers from his tip-toes – too pumped from the moment to have the sense to be embarrassed that he was on...his tip-toes – and smiles, relieved. "Your first—no. Absolutely. You deserve much better than that."

"I'm sorry. I want to—"

"You will. We will." Blaine's eyes drift down to Kurt's lips. Pink and perfectly puffed and oh, is it going to be splendid. "Before the day's over, I promise you, Kurt Hummel. You will be kissed. Soundly."

"I'm going to hold you to that." Kurt slides his arms around Blaine, pulling him in, kissing his temple and every muscle in Blaine's body turns to liquid. Kurt's voice is but a whisper, his arms holding their promise between them. "But now we have to hurry. I still have to do your hair."

Blaine squeezes Kurt tighter, his slim waist and lean, muscled back like a dream in his arms. When he pulls back, Kurt's cheeks are flushed and he looks happy. So, completely, blissfully happy.

"TEN MINUTES!! GET YOUR ASSES MOVING, PEOPLE!"

~~~**~~~

They've just passed Marysville – a little over an hour into their journey to Ohio State and Blaine really hasn't even noticed if anyone else is on the bus or not. Oh, sure. It's loud and the jokes are bawdy, as usual. And the songs are off-key, as usual. And whoever is sitting behind them keeps kicking their seat, as usual. But, he's been scrunched down in his seat with Kurt, holding hands, saying little, taking turns resting on each other's shoulders, stealing glances and giggling like they can't believe how the road is still solid beneath them when surely every tectonic plate on the planet has shifted.

Not as usual.

Finally, someone can't take it anymore.

She appears, squatted down next to Kurt in the aisle seat. She says nothing, simply looking pointedly to Kurt, a moment to Blaine, but mostly to Kurt. They don't need words – it's one of Blaine's favorite things about the friendship between the two of them. Her eyes ask it all and he simply smiles and nods, "Yes."

She lifts her fist to give out a cheer, but pauses to look at Kurt. Blaine doesn't know what it is in Kurt's expression that stops her, but she stills and lowers her hand. She smiles sweetly, lovingly. With a gentle hand on each of their heads, she leans over and kisses Kurt's forehead and then Blaine's. "It's about fucking time, you assholes."