It's the final chorus of Show Must Go On, and Kurt has to bring his horn down to take it all in. To soak in the music around him. To listen to Blaine take the counter melody up and over the top of the band. To turn and watch him, his own vision clouded by tears because this is it.

As these notes ring out, as this rehearsal ends, they will never again be here with these people, playing this music, listening to Beaman and Jonesy give direction from the tower, watching Artie direct them through the songs, see the color guards beautiful flags flapping in front and around them as they maneuver here, on this parking lot at McKinley High School.

It's the final rehearsal before state contest. At Artie's cut-off, they'll pile onto busses, head to Dayton and begin a whirlwind of activity. Warm-up, line-up, perform, get their ratings and pile back into busses to eat a disgusting meal at a buffet restaurant while taking as many photos as possible to memorialize the last minutes of marching band season. And for the seniors, of marching band. Period.

"Kiki! You okay?"

Kurt turns to Blaine's voice, raised to be heard over the band, flipping his valves, his stance broad and focused to gear up for their final run, their flashy end to the duet that almost ended them before they started. The duet that taught them to be better men. Better musicians. Better.

"Yeah. This is it, Maynard."

Blaine's trumpet is up to his lips before his smile flashes full, but Kurt can see it in his eyes. Talking behind his mouthpiece, he nudges Kurt's arm to join him. "Then let's kill it."

And, being the final rehearsal of all final rehearsals, they do – taking the end of their duet to its peak instead of holding back as they usually do for a pre-performance rehearsal. This one counts in different ways. It's for this band family. The parents packing busses and gearing up to chaperone who cleaned their injuries and held their heads while they puked – who listened to broken-hearted sob-fests and broken up pissing contests. The directors and composers and choreographers who made the music the best it can be – who walked, ran, cursed and loved on them during some of the most memorable moments of their lives thus far. And of course, their friends in the band – even their not-so-friends – who laughed, cried, bled, played, hugged, hated and loved, and made marching band the one thing from high school that will stay with all of them for the rest of their lives.

As they round out the closing number, reality hits anew and Kurt has to harken back to early rehearsal days, getting that damned newbie back on track with his squad. "Maynard! Half step left – your whole squad is off."

But instead of snarking back or giving Kurt an attitude, Blaine simply takes his half step and checks his squad, a gentle direction to his 2nd trumpet lead to line it up. They're a well-oiled machine now, egos pushed aside, one goal in mind— to end this season on top.

The Grand Champion trophies already decorate the case in the music hall, the oversized 4 ft. tall trophy from Buckeye Invitational at the center of the display. Now, it's a simple matter of a Superior Rating. One final score. One final show.

As soon as rehearsal is over, the seniors line up on the 50-yard-line and await the underclassman to come by for hugs – some awkward, some like coming home – one more opportunity to say goodbye to marching season. They load the busses, Blaine sliding down into the bench seat with Kurt, bopping Santana on the head in the seat in front of him as he goes.

"Oh god. This is one thing I won't miss after today. Come here." Kurt giggles as Blaine rolls his eyes and leans his head in – he knows. A curl being difficult, popping out of its pins and gel.

"You're not going to miss having your fingers in my hair?"

Kurt finishes and narrows his eyes, a little naughty meeting a little naughty. "You know that won't stop."

Blaine grins, scrunching up his nose when Kurt pats the offending pin and curl down. "I do know – and I'm so grateful." Kurt hums and curls Blaine's arm in his as he settles back into their seat.

They fall into silence, almost loud in comparison to the ruckus of the other students around them. Blaine asks again. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I am. It's so hard to believe we'll never do this again."

"We will. Just not here."

Kurt grins at Blaine's Ohio State dreams – dreams he was a little afraid to allow himself to dream earlier this season, but now has embraced as reality. "I'm going to miss this though."

"Yeah. Nothing quite like it, is there?"

"No. And you." Kurt kisses Blaine's temple. "You've made it amazing."

~~~**~~~

State competition is a bit of an anticlimax to the intensity and focus of something like the Buckeye Invitational – or any large competition. The only competitor is yourself and each band is shooting for only one rating – Superior. No rankings, no trophies, no in-stand parties while awaiting scores, no five-glove-per-hand snuggles. Five bands take the field, five bands get their scores, five bands leave. Another five enter. It's a machine.

And participating in it can put everyone on auto-pilot. Horns – from the least beautiful beginner horns most freshmen still carry, to the most expensive professional horns Blaine carries – shined, oiled and greased. Shoes, polished. Hair, pinned. Hats, secured. Gloves, bleached white. Sashes, sashed. Plumes, fluffed. For performance, it's clear-cut precision, horns-to-the-box sound, three months of work all to be presented to seven highly respected judges who will tell you if it is superior, excellent or – god forbid – only good.

For this year's competition, it's unseasonably hot and humid for the end of October in Dayton. The wool uniforms are already feeling sticky and itchy and the hats are suffocating. But, it's time to march in, backs turned to the previous band as Jonesy paces to give her final instructions. Kurt has been through this pre-competition routine 19 times before – five times every year – and he knows her spiel by heart, but he nods at the right times, lost to his own thoughts.

Watch the opening diagonal. Check Chelsea on chart 15. Connect with Maynard before bridge in Bicycle, Santana on way to 50 for solo. Kick ass with Maynard. Maynard – Blaine. God, how did we get here? How did I manage any of this shit called high school without him? I could really use a kiss right about now. Of course that would lead to more things knowing the way we've been going and Jonesy has a thing about PDA so—Jesus, Hummel. Head in the game. Okay, solo, duet, kill the E like you own it. Squeeze the shit out of Blaine's hand at the bow. Send Snix and Mike good vibes, remind Brent to hit the right fucking yard line at Chart 62. Company front, blow the stands off of their foundation, make Dad – and Mom – proud. Go home. Sleep for a month—

A flash of lightning in the distance pulls him from his speech and he looks back to find Blaine, wide-eyed and scanning the skies. Shit. Not today. He finds his phone to check the weather and jumps when Jonesy's hand is on his shoulder. Another flash of lightning flickers behind her and she's not looking at his phone as he'd feared, but behind him to Blaine. "Go to him. He's starting to unravel."

This is beyond Jonesy being kind. This is Jonesy breaking her own rules. You do not break rank once lined up in view of the audience. Even before lining up on the sidelines and your competition officially starts – for McKinley the games have already begun.

Kurt nods, whispering a thank you, and goes to him lifting a hand to calm him as soon as he sees Kurt out of line.

"Kurt—you're going to get in tr—"

"Shh. Jonesy sent me." Blaine's eyes are on the sky waiting for another bolt in the distance. "Look at me, Maynard." Kurt tugs gently at Blaine's hat strap secured under his chin. "We're the last band in this group. Then scores. We'll be out of here in 25 minutes, tops."

"How far away—"

"Forty five minutes to an hour. Have you even heard thunder yet?"

"No."

"We'll be on the busses. And we're headed away from the storms. And we have a job to do. No one in this band can do it without you."

"Well that's simply ridic—"

"I cannot do this without you." Blaine's eyes snap to Kurt's – finally – bright and wide and golden brown, still filled with anxiety but at least Kurt has his attention. "Hi."

"My dad's here."

"What?"

"Dad's here." Blaine glances up and around to find Jonesy or Beaman and pulls his phone from his pocket to show Kurt. "Mom texted as we were coming out."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. The storm just – now I really can't blow it and Dad's here. And since when does it storm Halloween weekend? And why couldn't he have come to Invitational?"

"Because he came here." Kurt digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up a text. "Seems to be the day for it."

He shows Blaine the message from his dad and chuckles when all Blaine can utter is a breathy oh shit. And then, "Are you okay?"

"I think so. Doc won't know what hit him."

Blaine's face softens and he dares to lean in, bumping the rims of their hats together. It's only a few moments, but Kurt can feel Blaine's stance straighten, his resolve firm around them. When he pulls back, he's there – all Blaine – eager, earnest, ready and so completely gorgeous.

And unpredictable. "I love you."

Heat washes over Kurt at Blaine's declaration and he finds himself falling deeper and deeper as the blush creeps up Blaine's cheeks. He wants to plant a big wet one on his face, but that would be pushing the rules Jonesy has already broken for them.

Blaine loves him and he loves Blaine and while they've never said as much – someone needs to work on this boy's timing – he knows it as sure as he knows his own name. Lightning flashes around them and this time, Blaine doesn't even flinch. "I love you, too." When Blaine lets his nerves give way to a relieved smile, Kurt gets back in section leader mode. Someone really needs to work on Blaine's timing. "Now, get your head in the game."

"Yes, sir." Blaine straightens even more, jaw set, feet firmly planted, a terse nod that he is ready. Focused. In the game. Except for a glimmer in his eyes that Kurt knows is just for him. "Meet you at the 50?"

Kurt checks for adult eyes and seeing none, leans in for a swift kiss. "Meet you at the 50."

~~~**~~~

The celebration for their Superior rating is more subdued than it would be for a normal competition, a melancholy about the ending of marching season swallowing up some of the joy. The storm veered south so they take the time to celebrate before boarding the busses, but there are more tears, more hugs, more quiet chuckles and tired chats than usual.

And then there's Rachel. For reasons no one can quite grasp, she has taken the concept of their 35th Superior State Rating as some sort of personal victory, jumping up and down, squealing like an injured seal, dragging people in celebratory laps around the parked busses.

Somewhere mid-squeal, she stops and huffs, hand on her hip as her mane of hair falls out of its bun, pinned up long enough for competition, and not one minute more. "Why is no one else excited about this!? Thirty five years!"

"Because we're tired? Because we can't wait to stick un-ripened fruit under a chocolate fountain that's had 14 thousand kids' sticky fingers in it all day? I don't know, Rachel. Why should we be excited?" Kurt hip-checks Blaine when he starts to giggle because as annoying as she is, not taking her seriously when she's taking herself seriously only leads to tears and wet shoulders and snot-covered everything.

"Don't you remember? Thirty-five years ago, my dads got the first Superior rating for McKinley at state. We're carrying on their tradition!"

"Oh." Kurt looks to Blaine who seems equally impressed. "I had no idea. Why in the hell haven't you told us that after all these years?"

"I have. I know I have. No one ever listens to me."

"Maybe if you didn't shove every idea that crosses your mind into people's faces they'd be more inclined to hear the important ones."

"Kiki."

"What?" Kurt sees the look on Blaine's face and feels adequately scolded. "Fine. Sorry. Tell your dads congratulations then, too."

"I'll do that. I can't wait to see the comment sheets. Do you think Jonesy will share them over—oh." Rachel focuses her attention over Kurt's shoulder and he turns to follow her gaze. Shit. "Hello, Doc. How'd you get back here? This area is just for the bands."

"I told 'em I used to go here – the old lady let me in."

Kurt looks to where Doc is pointing and shakes his head. "That woman is your mom's age."

"Right. Old Lady."

Kurt gives Blaine a pointed look to get Rachel out of the scene, which he quickly does. "Rachel. I think I saw Finn looking for you. Come on."

"I'd say it was nice to see you again, Doc, but my dads taught me that lying is more impolite than being impolite."

Blaine yanks her away and Kurt has to bite back a laugh, finally meeting Doc eye to eye for the first time since he graduated from school. "She hasn't changed."

"No. Don't suspect she ever will. Was that the new kid? My replacement?"

"Your replace—" With a huff, Kurt lets out the chuckle he'd been keeping in. "I see you haven't changed either."

"Some of us don't need to."

"Mmm. So, how's Capital treating you? You in the orchestra?"

"No, they—I swear they rig the auditions to keep the underclassmen out."

"Why would they—"

"I dunno man." Doc shifts and skitters, his attention everywhere but on Kurt. "So, uh. Decent solo and all there, man. Crowd seemed to love it, anyway."

"Meaning you didn't, I'm sure."

"I was just surprised – nice range. Not so much like a girl."

"I take it that's something they teach you at Capital too? How to play by gender?"

Doc's eyes flash angry and Kurt holds his ground, unflinching. "No, I'm just—Jesus. You are always so fucking sensitive. What was that note anyway?"

"Just an E."

"So what'd that other dude have? A G? I mean, that's a breeze now with school and all, but even I didn't have that consistently."

"Mmm, maybe he's better than you—"

"Doc! Nice to see you!" Kurt isn't sure he's ever been so grateful to see Jonesy – or even appreciate her unreasonable affection for Doc. She claps him on the back and pulls away with a frown. "I'm sorry to hear about Capital – what are you going to do now? Finally give OSU a shot?"

"No, no. I—" Doc shoots a look at Kurt, more shifty and awkward than usual. "I think I'm just going to get a job. See—see what happens."

"Might be good. Save some money. Get your bearings."

Kurt asks with his eyes, first to Jonesy who is stone-faced professional, and then to Doc who finally caves. "I— I flunked out."

"But you just said—"

"I flunked out, okay! Just—just—you're probably loving this right now, aren't you?"

"Kiki, where's Maynard?" Jonesy pulls out long blue sheets from the manila envelope she's been carting around and looks out to the band, giving Kurt a stern warning to just let it drop. "Doc, I want you to see this too. We never got comments like this before and you're part of the tradition that got us here."

Kurt doesn't hear the last of Jonesy's words, still in a bit of a shock. Doc flunked out of music school. Is it karma that he doesn't believe in? Is it just the way the cards fall when you're an undisciplined, rude son-of-a-bitch who treats the world like it owes you something? Either way, he's not really loving it as Doc suspects.

He's not especially hating it either.

But, he scans the chaos near the busses, finally spotting Blaine. His bobby pins are sticking out in all directions, he's sweaty and smiley and bouncy and at the moment, hiked up on Sam's back being carted around like a ruck sack. He's adorable. "Maynard!"

Blaine looks up and grins, thwacking Sam on the head to be let down, a bobby pin shooting out of his hair when he lands with a thud. "Oh shit – did that hit anyone?"

"Language, Maynard – get over here. I want to show you something."

"Sorry, Jonesy." Blaine checks the girls who jumped at the flying missile one more time and jogs over, giving Kurt only a quick, "Brace yourself, babe," warning before jumping on his back.

"Oh my god. Maynard, you jackass!" But, Kurt's laughing, scrabbling for Blaine's legs to get him hiked up, walking them back over to Jonesy who should be scolding them, but is laughing and laying out the comment sheets on the hood of a band parent's car.

"Rip one of my uniforms and you're both dead." She pushes a couple sheets to Doc. "Take a look at those – general effect, visuals. Really nice stuff. And then this is what I want you two dumbasses to see."

Kurt takes the page and lifts it so Blaine can see it too. "Oooh, one of the music judges."

"That's Dr. Gallagher, previous head of the trumpet department from Ohio State."

"From Ohio—don't you have to be a high school instructor to adjudicate?" Kurt backs up against the car and dumps Blaine onto the hood, staying pressed back between his legs as they scan the page together.

"You do. He left OSU this fall and went back to public schools. Got sick of the administrative politics."

"Holy shit, Kurt. Look, look. Balance and Blend section."

Kurt scans down and reads aloud. The blend of this ensemble is particularly impressive, especially given the talent of the two trumpets we heard today – I can only assume your other sections have the same outstanding musicians. Typically big talent leads to big egos and getting those types of leaders to work within the context of an ensemble is difficult. Nice leadership, Janice – and boys. Please see the back of this for some more personal comments.

Kurt looks up to Jonesy for permission. "Yes – yes. Read!"

Impressive overall, as usual Janice. You know I've always respected your programs. These two boys we heard today – Kurt and Blaine – please tell me they're headed off into music in some capacity.

"Kurt..."

"I know, I know." Kurt leans into the kiss Blaine's pressing to his cheek and keeps reading. I have not heard that sort of control and command over a score from kids this age in years. If I were still at OSU, I'd be proud to have both of them in my studio.

Kurt looks up to Jonesy and she is positively beaming.

"Keep reading, Kiki."

With a quick glance at Doc who's long given up reading the other sheets, looking – well, he looks downright depressed – Kurt marches on. If they are headed that direction, let me know. I can put in a word for scholarships and make sure they're matched with the best instructors. They gave me gooseflesh and I want to assist in their journey.

Kurt numbly hands the papers back to Jonesy, his mouth slack as Blaine squeezes him tight. "Kurt. We did it – more than we ever hoped for!"

"You two were amazing. All season. It wasn't easy, you both screwed up royally, but every time you came back shining and—" She steps closer and grabs Kurt's face, kissing his forehead, doing the same with Blaine. "I'm just disgustingly proud of both of you."

She gathers up her papers and looks up to the band, smiling when it's clear Beaman has started gathering everyone up into the busses. "Doc. Nice seeing you again. Good luck to you, and gentlemen—" She taps the sheets into the envelope and levels her gaze. "You have 30 more seconds in that position before I give you laps, 7:15 Monday morning."

She whacks Blaine's thighs with the envelope as she walks off leaving the three boys to close out the suddenly awkward situation.

"I'm—yeah. Gonna go help load up the pit." Blaine nudges Kurt forward and slides off the car. "Doc – nice to meet you. Glad you could come." They shake hands and he steals a quick kiss from Kurt. "You want the window seat?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Kurt laughs as Blaine skips into a jog, grabbing Tina into a spin as they disappear behind a bus. And Kurt and Doc are left alone, something that would have, a year ago, given Kurt an anxiety attack. "You know Doc, that could have been us."

"Um, no. I'm straight. And you're—"

"Not even remotely interested. I'm talking about those comment sheets, you ass. That could have been us."

"You weren't that good."

"You weren't, but I was. And I'm even better now, because he didn't intimidate me. He inspires me."

"What's your point, Pussy?"

Kurt smiles, smug and satisfied, stepping in closer – closer than he's ever allowed himself to be to this boy – this tormentor. His eyes are narrowed and he is confident, sure and unmoving. "My point, Doc?" Doc flinches and Kurt grins even broader. "You can call me Pussy. You can say I play like a girl. You can even question what I hide under my clothes. But at the end of the day, I will always be a bigger and better man than you'll ever be."

~~~**~~~

Thunder rumbles outside, lightning flashing gold splashes of light into Kurt's room. Kurt curls his naked, thoroughly sated body around Blaine, nuzzling into the back of his neck with a peaceful sigh. They're still catching their breath, sweat-damp and spent, thrilled for another uninterrupted night together. Another night to explore and discover and simply play.

"So, I think we found a cure for my storm anxiety."

"Orgasms?"

"Mmm." While Blaine contemplates, Kurt kisses along the back of his neck and back, loving the salty tackiness of his skin. "Just you." Blaine softly moans at each slow press of Kurt's lips. "And your kisses."

"Just my kisses?" Kurt brushes his hand across Blaine's chest, swirling a finger around a nipple while he presses closer – too exhausted to do anything else, too wrapped up in the moment to want to part.

"Okay. And Orgasms."

"I'm on board with this theory. Ohio summers suck, so—"

"Maybe I could develop a snow storm anxiety, too – you know, just to keep us in practice."

"Oooh, excellent idea. And you know how well we practice together."

They snuggle in tighter, Kurt tracing lazy lines and circles around Blaine's stomach, dragging his fingers through drops and strings of come – something he never imagined he'd be into, but the slick, warm wet of it all is just one more intimacy. One more secret between them. One more discovery he's happy to have found with Blaine.

And he can't wait to discover more.

But, now it's the quiet luxury of another unexpected night alone. Skin on skin and lazy kisses and quiet moments to take each other in. Where Kurt finds that Blaine has a lone chicken pox scar near his hairline in the center of his forehead needing to be kissed. And where Blaine utters in whispered breath, "Your freckles are fading," and Kurt assures him, "They'll be back next summer."

Blaine's stomach interrupts their reverie and they clean up and head to the kitchen for sustenance.

"Want me to warm up some cider?" Kurt opens the lid to a container of iced pumpkin cookies and slides them over to Blaine.

"Oh that sounds—do you guys always have fresh baked cookies?"

"Pretty much. Between my stress baking and Carole's need to mother everybody who walks through the front door—"

"I need to visit more often." Blaine takes a bite of the soft cookie and leans back against the counter while Kurt puts on a pan for the cider.

Once it's slowly heating, before Blaine's cookie is even gone, Kurt traps him against the counter with his arms, and offers soft, tongue-led kisses to the corner of Blaine's mouth before pressing in, kissing him full. He giggles around it when Blaine squeaks as his cookie drops to the floor. "You had some glaze on—" Kurt points and brushes Blaine's lip with his finger. "On the corner—" He goes in for one more kiss and smiles when Blaine chases his mouth as he steps back to grab some spices to add to the cider. "You taste delicious."

"I definitely need to visit more often." Blaine picks up the cookie from the floor, sneaking a kiss to Kurt's silk robe-covered ass. "Except I'll need to figure out some way to work the cookies off since marching season's over – no more built in exercise."

Kurt plops a few cinnamon sticks into the pot, along with some cloves and allspice berries, lowering the heat and jarring the lid on top with the spoon. He takes Blaine's hand and spins him around and into his arms, unable to wipe the smile – the one he figures is now a permanent fixture – off his face. "I bet we can come up with some more exciting ways to work off the calories."

"Oh, I have no doubt."

They settle at the kitchen table, nibbling on cookies, taking in deep breaths as the cider heats and fills their space with scents of autumn and comfort. A stray rumble of thunder rolls around them and Blaine flashes out of the moment, but is easily pulled back in with the soft touch of Kurt's hand on his knee. "So, your dad. Are you okay with how things ended up with him tonight? It seemed – I don't know. Anti-climactic?"

"Anti-climactic is definitely a win as far as my dad's concerned." Kurt levels his gaze at Blaine and Blaine simply shrugs, handing Kurt a cookie. "He showed up, you know?"

"And you got a thumbs up. Period."

"I know." Blaine sighs. "Look, Dad—he'll never be Burt Hummel. He just won't. And for me to expect that of him isn't fair to either of us. I'll be disappointed all the time and he'll be failing all the time."

"Whatever happened to striving to be a better version of yourself? Is that just something we outgrow?"

"Well, I hope not. I'm not sure Dad ever—I don't know. He showed up. He looked for me. He didn't even raise an eyebrow when he saw us kissing behind the busses."

Kurt suitably blushes. "God – we're going to get in so much trouble one day."

"Maybe, but it'll be worth it." As if to prove it, Blaine leans in and presses a kiss to Kurt's lips, taking his hands in his own. "But, dad – yeah, it was a lame thumbs up, but for him, that's a sign of approval. I'm—I'm really good with that."

"Okay. I just want you to be okay. I finally unloaded everything Doc laid on me over the years tonight and I—I want the same for you."

"It's not the same, but it's good. It's fine. I won't ever completely unload Dad's shit, but it seems easier to carry now anyway."

"If I can help in any way—"

"Just—just love me."

A smile spreads across Kurt's face as the ease of that request washes over him. He's amazed at all that has happened in the past few months – that marching season is over. That he found a boy. This boy. This boy with the earnest, amber eyes. With the passion for music to match his own, with the passion for life that challenges him to step it up, take it in, let it wash over him like a spring rain.

As if Kurt's silence concerns him, Blaine scoots in closer and squeezes Kurt's hands tighter. "You know, earlier. Before we performed. It wasn't anxiety and nerves and the moment that made me tell you—"

"I know. It wasn't some guilty obligation that I said it back—"

"I was terrified moving here. Starting over for my senior year and joining a huge band, not sure what I wanted to do after school beyond get the fuck out. And now, I feel like I have everything I need."

"Because of me?"

"Largely. Like you said to Doc – I'm a better man now. A better musician. You inspire me."

"You heard all that, huh?"

"I did."

Kurt lifts a hand to brush his knuckles along Blaine's cheek – checking to see if he is really real. "I love you."

"I love you." With a soft kiss and a nuzzle of noses, Blaine adds, "So, are you ready for me to whoop your ass for wind ensemble?"

"Oh no, Mister. I think you have that backwards." Kurt gets up to turn off the heat to the cider, pouring mugs for both, decorating each with a cinnamon stirring stick. He sits back down with an ornery smile, handing Blaine his mug. "I am whooping your ass. I will be first chair winds – I'll graciously concede the seat for jazz band.

Blaine chuckles, taking the mug. He closes his eyes to breathe in the aroma, the warmth of the mug on his fingers and lifts his cup to Kurt's with a soft smile. "Happy senior year, Kiki."

"Happy senior year."