"Hi! I wanted to properly introduce myself yesterday but you left sort of quickly and I could see Kurt had your attention and I'm Rachel." Blaine numbly grabs the hand shoved in his and limply shakes. "Rachel Berry. And you're Blaine, right? Blaine, it's nice to have you here in the McKinley Marching Titans. I hear you're a fantastic trumpet player and while I don't remember hearing you last year, Kurt sure seems to be up in arms about you being here, so I just wanted to tell you not to be intimidated by him. He really is a softie. He just cares so much about this band. We all do really. We have quite a reputation to uphold and it's the job of every single member to make sure that happens. Thirty-five years of straight I's at State Finals. Wouldn't it be awful if we were the band that broke that amazing trend?"

Did she breathe? Would that flute she's flinging around so carelessly work as a cork in her mouth? Wait, she stopped. Is she waiting for me to speak? Her eyes are the size of truck tires. What did she even ask me?

"Um. Yes. Kurt is...demanding. I noticed. But, I'm sure we'll find our groove in time." Blaine offers what has to be his weakest attempt at a smile and takes a step back, hoping she doesn't follow as she has been for the entirety of this "conversation." He needs to warm up and figures blasting his highest note in her face is not the best action at the moment.

Although, he is tempted.

"Yes. Well. I just—" She reaches out her hand again, shaking his violently. "—wanted to welcome you and tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes."

"What? I—okay. Thank...you? I need to go—" He points his trumpet to the rest of his section already warming up. "Go, um. Warm up. Some. Yes. BYE!" He kicks back a few steps and sprints away, tossing his new water jug to the sidelines.

He considers joining his section but thinks better of it, checking the action of his valves and turning his back to the group to warm up his own way, his best way, his most comfortable and trusted way.

He starts mid-range with 5-note arpeggios rising and falling just to get his embouchure settled in, his breathing centered. Next are lip trills, pushing his range a little higher, well within his comfort zone but a stretch for many a high school trumpet player. He buzzes air through his lips before starting ascending chromatic scales a few octaves lower than where he'd stopped, working his way back up again, gradual in step, flying 16th notes, landing securely on C6 – a note any decent senior player should hit – bell-like, echoing along the soybean field across the street from the school.

Feeling confident and fully warmed up, he moves on to quick ascending and descending chromatic scales, stretching and lifting higher and higher until he completes a G5 to G6 scale, notes reserved for the wailing trumpets in jazz. He pulls his horn away with a huff of air only to be met with complete and utter silence behind him.

He turns around and while the majority of the band is taking a water break before starting calisthenics, the trumpet section stands and stares, mouths hanging open, horns at their sides. Kurt, however stands with one hand on his hip, one eyebrow crooked, and his lips pursed in an apparent attempt at holding back a litany of opinions that Blaine is sure he doesn't want to hear.

"Signing up for jazz band, I'd assume?"

"Um. Probably, why?"

"Because that's where that kind of hot dogging belongs. Not here."

"Hot dog—I was warming up."

"You were showing off."

"I was warming up. It's the Minear Method or are you just unfamiliar with—"

"I'm more than familiar with Mr. Minear, but I don't think showboating a—what note was that anyway?"

"G6. What do you have in you...Kiki."

Kurt flushes and side-eyes Santana. She wordlessly slinks next to him and flops an arm around his shoulder. "I don't—I don't think that's important here. Those aren't notes we'll ever be using on the field."

"Pity."

"Look. This isn't Wapak and you're not the star of the show anymore. This is a team effort and drawing attention to yourself like that doesn't—"

"Hey, Anderson!"

The trio's attention is drawn to the top of the tower where Jonesy is leaning over the edge. "Yeah?"

"Nice stuff there. Can you do that consistently?"

Blaine bites back a laugh, while Kurt huffs and stomps off to the sidelines for water. "Yeah. I wouldn't want to end a show with it, but yeah."

"Nice. Good chops. Keep it up."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"It's Jonesy, kid. Do NOT call me ma'am."

~~~**~~~

"Reset 8!"

Even with the sun's lower position in the sky, the humid July heat isn't letting up, exhausting everyone. Rookies – unprepared for the heat, for the intensity of rehearsals, of the demands put on them from their section – and squad leaders, are dropping like flies. More experienced members might be used to it, but it's still affecting them, their marching getting lazy, play getting sloppy and attitudes getting bitchy.

Blaine rests somewhere in the middle of everyone, a rookie to this band, but a marching band veteran. This kind of intensity, however, is new to him. It's only the second day of rehearsals and the show's opener is completely blocked and the music is coming along. It would take Wapak at least two weeks' worth of rehearsals to get to this point, especially with the difficulty of music they are playing. In fact, he knows Wapak couldn't handle this music, this marching, this discipline or this passion.

And he loves it. He loves the challenge. He doesn't love, however, the idea of resetting clear back to the 8th chart, virtually starting the opener from the beginning. And from the grumbling around him, he's not alone.

He makes his way to the 45-yard-line to stand in front of Kurt, trying to ignore the swirl of chestnut hair that hangs in the middle of his forehead as he turns his back to him. He remembers a poem his mother used to say when he was younger about a girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. Of course, she changed it to 'boy' while tugging at the ringlets that dangled down from his own hairline.

There was a little boy,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of his forehead.
When he was good,
He was very good indeed,
But when he was bad he was horrid.

He wants to tug at that loop of hair, asking Kurt if he is good or if he is bad. And then he wants to punch himself in the face because Kurt has made it abundantly clear – he is bad. Horrid even. Pushy. Demanding. Impatient. Stunningly gorgeous, quick witted and yes, Blaine needs to punch himself in the face.

"Left foot on the yard line, Blaine. Did they teach you anything at Wapak?"

"They taught me how to be polite, for starters."

"Polite doesn't win competitions."

Blaine adjusts his position, more angry with himself than Kurt. It's a rookie mistake, but he's not paying attention, more focused on the sweat dripping down his own back and that Kurt is behind him probably being grossed out by it all. If anyone can sweat gracefully, it's Kurt. Naturally.

Artie, the field commander, counts off and they begin. Blaine is confident with this portion of the opener. It's quick and staccato, their marching emphasizing the rushed pace of the song, a bit of a challenge getting the fingering right while also hitting marks with the marching formations. But, he's better now than he was three hours ago and knows that by this time tomorrow night, he'll be even better.

"Too far to the left, Blaine."

He rolls his eyes at the sound of Kurt's voice and adjusts.

"Sloppy, trumpets. Keep it staccato."

Seeing as that correction is from the tower, he simply buzzes his lips, flips his fingers over the valves and nails the next few measures with precision.

"Shift forward on the 40, not two steps before it."

Jesus – he's relentless. He fights his urge to step directly into Kurt's path, deciding instead to frack a note right into his ear as they spin off to go in opposite directions for a new formation.

"Control, trumpets...control."

Do they miss nothing?

"Okay, take your last water break, then we'll do one final run-through."

Blaine makes his way over to the trumpets' water jugs, tossing a few blue ones aside until he finds his own.

"If you'd put your name on it, you could find it easier."

"Yes, I'm aware. I just got the thing today, remember?"

"Mmm."

Blaine's plan was to follow his mother's advice and kill-him-with-kindness, but at the moment, he just wants to kill him. Fortunately, Kurt isn't in a social mood and after taking a long pull of water, he takes off to annoy someone else. Thing is, whenever he approaches other people, no one seems annoyed at his presence.

"Don't let him get to you. He really does mean well."

Blaine spins around to Santana's smiling face and can't help the eye roll that follows. "Apparently, I am not the Kurt Whisperer."

"No. And don't expect to be. You're sort of trampling his garden of marching band dreams."

"I'm showing up to rehearsals and doing my job." When Santana's only answer is a non-committal shrug, Blaine changes the subject. "So, I seem to have a knack for finding the people I need to avoid. Tell me who's cool around here."

"Who do you need to avoid? Besides Chelsea."

"Kurt. Obviously. And um...the flute player over there? Rhonda? Robin?"

"Rachel?"

"Yes! She is—"

"Harmless. And one of us. And yes, a royal pain in the ass. Just remember that she's completely incapable of realizing that most people don't care about the same things she cares about, you'll be good."

"Noted. And, Artie? Disco? He seems cool."

They look together up at the first level of the tower where Artie sits in his wheelchair discussing the next round of torture for rehearsal with Ms. Jones. "Disco is the best. That lift we got for him to get up on his stand there? Massive band fund raiser last year. We raised over two grand just because we wanted him to be field commander this year."

"He's good, too. Our field commanders were just for show. Flapped their arms in time with that weird corps style motion. If we ever followed them, we'd fall apart."

"Follow Disco. Always. He's the center. He's the one in charge once Jonesy and Beaman are done with us."

"Right. Okay, who else?"

"Let's see, no more flutes, clarinets suck, as we previously discussed." She does a perfect blow job motion with her hand and continues. "And the only other woodwind in our group is Mercedes. The lovely lady in purple playing sax."

"Didn't she have a solo last year? You guys did Wicked, right?"

"Yeah, and she rocked the stands every time."

"I remember her."

"We remember you, too. And that's part of Kiki's problem."

"Sorry?"

Santana continues the introductions, pointing out their closest friends, who is dating whom, who has dated whom and of course, who she is dating.

"I know Brittany – she lives next door. She's—" Blaine screws his face up trying to come up with a good, semi-polite yet accurate word.

"Mine. Nini's mine. So, watch how you finish that sentence."

"Oh. I'm—I didn't mean. Well. Actually, I did mean." He watches as Brittany works her flag, running through a set from the opener. She has finesse and strength and grace, and her skill outshines how dim she appeared at their first meeting. "But, I apologize. Is she head of color guard?"

"Yep. With Q-bert and Sugar. Our guard takes top honors at every competition."

"Disco, Q-bert, Nini, Kiki." Blaine shakes his head trying to keep it all straight. "So, Snix, what's a guy gotta do to get a kickass nickname around here?"

Santana smiles and pats Blaine's cheek, somehow making it feel more like the kiss of Judas than a touch of encouragement. "Around here? We earn it."

~~~**~~~

"Atten-HUT!"

"HUT!"

"Reset from the top. Let's do the opener in one run-through and get out of here." The band starts to reassemble, a new energy radiating through them knowing this is the last five minutes of a four-hour hell. "Oh! And use your music! No one knows it well enough to go without yet."

Blaine scoffs and takes his place on the 40-yard line, music tucked into the side pocket of his gig bag. After eight hours of rehearsal and a little practice at home earlier, he knows it. Fat Bottomed Girls starts in F, eight measures, transitioning to Breakthrough in C, the repetitive staccato pattern is firmly under his fingers. I've got this.

The show starts with a full brass sound, trumpets on a rich, harmonizing lead and they nail it. Drum corps perfect.

About three measures into Breakthrough, a low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky and shakes Blaine just enough that he forgets a low brass break, setting his memory of the song off into a tailspin. Naturally, it happens just as his line is crossing Kurt's and he tries to divert the oncoming glare to get his momentum back.

"If you'd have your music..."

"Fuck off." He knows this, he knows. He waits until the next downbeat to bring in the staccato rhythm as the woodwinds take the melody, only he's a measure early. He drops his horn, checks the sky to guess at how far away the storm might be. He keeps up with the marching formations and decides to wing it, knowing the chord structures well enough to ad lib.

Now his timing is perfect, his melody is close enough and as he regains his confidence, he's sailing above the rest of the trumpet section with a counter melody that harmonizes so perfectly it's as though it had been written.

No one stops him. Artie is still directing to the end of the closer. And once they get there, Blaine is kicking out the full band's staccato pattern perfectly harmonized above the rest of the trumpet section. As soon as the last note sounds, Blaine popping off the G6 he'd hit during warm-up, the entirety of the band explodes with whoops and hollers, loving the new addition to their sound.

"Take a bow, Mr. Anderson. That was lovely." So, Blaine does, except the applause has silenced and Jonesy's tone is anything but grateful and appreciative. "Now, we'll all stand here and wait for you to go to the sidelines and get your music."

The grumbles and complaints are almost as loud as the applause had been, as loud as the thunder is becoming. Blaine glances up at the sky and shifts his footing, a fight or flight swirling around him. "I—I don't have a lyre. I thought I had it memorized."

"You don't. Get your flip folder, hold it in your hand and meet all of us back at chart number one. We run through from the top, band." Groans fill the practice field, with a few Oh Come ON! outbursts. "Also, this is a great opportunity for any of you who seem to think you have this down after two days to get your music. That sounded like crap."

Three or four others join Blaine on the side lines, digging through their belongings to get their flip folders while everyone else shoots daggers out of their eyes. Parents begin to arrive for pick up, the skies continue to darken and everyone's energy is zapped believing they would be done by now.

"Go ahead, Disco. Let's get this show on the road."

This time, this time, Blaine nails it. Well, except for that 5-step backwards march where he tripped over his feet after a bolt of lightning cuts into his view, but musically anyway, he nails it. He focuses on his music, his marching and not, most definitely not, the threatening storm.

The whoops and hollers at the end of this run-through are most definitely not for him, but for the reality that they're finally done for the night.

"Come hither! Quick! Quick! Beat the rain!"

Everyone gathers at the foot of the tower, impatient to leave, Blaine simply wishing the ground would swallow him whole. Or, you know, swallow the whole of the band and save him – either option was better than huddling up close to the people who wanted his head. At least he was able to steer clear of Kurt who surely would have a few choice words for his showboating. "And what did we learn tonight, Mr. Anderson?"

"To have my music and stick to the score."

"And, go buy a damned lyre. Your Strad is fitted for one. Band, rehearsal at 5pm tomorrow evening. Jugs with water, not pop Mr. Hudson. Mr. Puckerman, you need to wear shorts, not jeans. I will not have you ruin a sousaphone by passing out from the heat. I'm sure I can stand the sexiness of your legs for a few hours every day. And for the love of god, clarinets, go replenish your reeds from last spring. Dying geese will be sidelined. Beaman, do you have anything?"

"Percussion needs to be here by 3:30 as usual and I think Sue wants flags here at 4."

"Dismissed! Get the hell out of here."

Avoiding Kurt at this point is futile. Their water jugs are in the same pile, their gig bags and cases are near the same yard line. He is going to be eviscerated. Just in case he's lucky, he keeps his head down. At this point, and with the reminder of another crack of thunder, he just wants to get home.

As he steps off-field and reaches for his bag, Kurt shows up and grabs his wrist making him look up into one of the sharpest glares he's ever had to endure. "Never tell me to fuck off on the field. Even if I'm in the wrong, I'm the leader of this section and you will not speak to me that way." Blaine tries to wiggle his wrist free of Kurt's grip, but fails miserably. "Off field, you can get your rage out, but that's not going to happen again on the field, do you understand?"

Blaine holds Kurt's glare and tries to wiggle free one more time. "Just. Fucking—let go of me."

Kurt looks down at their hands and blinks, releasing his wrist but continuing his rant. "For reasons I'll never understand, Jonesy's deemed you worthy of leadership here. But, in my section, we do not showboat. We do not ad lib and we most certainly to do not defy a direct order, which if you missed it tonight, was to have your fucking music for the final run-through."

Blaine is angry. And he's embarrassed. But mostly he's angry. Angry that he's embarrassed. But, he's going to hold Kurt's gaze if it kills him because he'll be damned if this self-appointed King of the Band is going to get under his skin. Even if the angry flare of his eyes shoots blue sparks into the center of his gut and makes his heart skip a beat. Or three. "My most humble apologies, Your Highness."

Kurt steps back and shakes his head. "You know, I was going to compliment you on the improv skills, but your attitude sort of makes me want to puke." He bends over and picks up his jug, along with Blaine's. "Hey, Jonesy! You got a Sharpie up there?"

"I can put my own name on my thermos." Blaine reaches out for it, but Kurt yanks back when Jonesy tosses the marker down. Thunder rumbles around them and Blaine grabs again. "Come on. I want to get home."

"Snix said you wanted a nickname."

"I don't think I really want it to come from you—"

Kurt starts writing along the white edge of the top of the cooler and grins, looking at his handiwork. He hands it back to Blaine. "I don't think you'll mind this one."

Blaine reads and bites back a smile. "Maynard? Is that a compliment? Coming from you?"

Kurt smirks, a bolt of lightning flashes behind him and Blaine wonders if he's just entered another dimension. "Yeah. It is. Don't make me regret it."