Finn: [07-30-11 3:14am]: I think Rachel is sneaking around on me.

Kurt: [07-3-11 3:16am]: You're in the next room. You couldn't come next door for this? At 3 am?

Finn: [07-30-11 3:16am]: I didn't want to interrupt anything...not that you ever do...that.

Kurt: [07-30-11 3:17am]: Here's the difference, Finn. I'm aware our walls are paper thin. I make sure it's not a community event.

Finn: [07-30-11 3:18am]: Sorry?

Kurt: [07-30-11 3:19am]: Is this going to be a warm milk conversation?

Finn: [07-30-11 3:21am]: Yes. With nutmeg, please.

Kurt: [07-30-11 3:24am]: Give me a few minutes.

~~~**~~~

It's the first morning of all-day rehearsals and Kurt is visibly upset about something. He won't tell anyone what it is, but he's been making phone calls and disappearing into the instrument storage room, back out, down the hall to the bathroom, texting frantically and dismissing inquiries from even his closest friends with a flick of his wrist.

He glances up at the clock and sighs heavily, chewing on the inside of his cheek, scanning the room for someone. Anyone. Well, anyone other than the only one he sees. The one who might be able to help without shaming him in front of the entire band like Santana would. But, he'd be shaming himself if he has to ask Blaine for help.

Not yet. It's too soon. The final evening rehearsal from the previous week had been long and tedious and exasperating, Blaine not only finding the need to try to teach some of the trumpet players his amazingly obnoxious Frank Minear method of warming up, but also drawing the attention of every straight female in the band while doing so. At one point, he was afraid Rachel was going to drop her kulats right there on the 50 yard line.

As if the idea of a 17-year-old wearing kulats in 2011 wasn't nauseating enough.

Kurt spent the weekend practicing like a fiend. Scales & arpeggios to stretch his range, last year's show, last year's concert season music, last year's solo & ensemble solo of which he'd received a "Superior so superior there should be a higher rating available," by the judge. The judge every trumpet player in Ohio dreaded because he was so impossible to please.

He practiced until his lips continued buzzing hours after he was finished. And then, he'd go at it again making Finn storm out of the house and his dad finally asking him to give it a rest.

So, he ended his weekend mania by cleaning his rehearsal horn within an inch of its life, removing the valves, the slides, soaking it, snaking it, leaving no spot untouched. He soaked his mouthpiece and brushed the inside and finally shined the silver lacquer until it looked almost new. Well, minus the rehearsal-made dings. But, that's what a less expensive rehearsal instrument was for.

He was sick of Blaine's shiny Stradivarius flashing in the sun. Sick of the notes that came out of it when he apparently needed a little extra attention. Sick of the way the girls in the trumpet section – hell, in the entire band – followed him around like hoard of pre-pubescents stalking Justin Bieber.

But, at the moment, 10 minutes before the longest week in marching band season begins, he is desperate. And a little humiliated. And most definitely irritated at himself. So, he shoves his pride down to his toes, straightens his back and walks over to Blaine who is reclining in a band chair, legs splayed out in front of him as he casually runs through the opener in soft, half-tones.

Before he loses his nerve, he sits down next to him and stares straight ahead waiting for Blaine to stop playing. Which he does instantly.

"Can I help you?"

"I need a favor. And I'd like no one to know I'm asking you."

Blaine sits up and follows Kurt's gaze straight ahead, solidly focused on the white board in the front of the room. "Wait. You want not only a favor – from me? But, you also want it to be some sort of secret favor?"

"Don't be a dick."

Kurt feels the heat of Blaine's gaze as he side-eyes him. "What, you need a condom or something?"

"Just forget it." Kurt gets up and starts scanning the room for another potential rescuer. "You obviously don't have the maturity to handle a simple request from the one person who could, if he so chooses, make the next three months of your life a living hell."

Blaine lowers his head and chuckles, patting the chair next to him. "Sit down, Kiki. You are wound up so tight I'm surprised you don't spin away."

Kurt reluctantly sits back down, staring forward again. "I left my mouthpiece at home."

"You only have one mouthpiece?"

"Yes, with this horn." He finally looks at Blaine who is bent over digging through his gig bag. "How many does one need?"

Blaine sits up and hands over a small leather pouch. "Well, I seem to need only one this year in marching band, but come jazz band and concert season," he nods toward the pouch for Kurt to unzip it where he finds four shiny silver mouthpieces, "I use two or three depending on what we're playing."

"So you cheat."

"Excuse me? Using the best mouthpiece for the sound you want is not cheating."

"It is completely cheating." Kurt pulls out one of the mouthpieces and rolls his eyes. 7C. Basic. What he uses. This guy truly is all flash and no substance.

"What other hobbies do you have besides music?"

"What?"

"Just answer my question. I'm making a point."

"I bake. And sew some of my own clothes."

Blaine sits up straighter and turns his full body to face Kurt, resting his horn in his bag. "Really?"

"Yes reall—" Kurt shakes his head and closes his eyes. "You had a point?"

"Yeah, I just—you're a pretty complex person, aren't you?"

"Your point."

"My point, okay— sewing. My mom used to sew. She had like four pairs of scissors and my brother and I weren't allowed to touch any of them."

"Snips, fabric shears, all-purpose shears and I have a pair of applique scissors for when I cut layers, but only want the top one."

"Right. Are you cheating when you chose one pair over the other?"

"No. I just use whatever tool works—oh." He pulls out another piece and finds the size. "Okay, so do the higher numbered ones really help you hit the high notes?"

"The cup is smaller, so it spins the air faster. It helps a little. You still have to have the chops and the breath support."

"You still have to know how to sew to make a garment."

"Exactly. What do you normally use, and please do not tell me a 7C."

Kurt doesn't answer, pushing his finger into the cup of the 10C and then a 3C he also finds, noting the difference in shape. "Can I play with your 10 today?"

Blaine's right eyebrow shoots up and a smile spreads slowly across his face as Kurt realizes the words that just tumbled out of his mouth. And then he throws his head back and barks a laugh loud enough to draw everyone's attention in the band room.

"You can play with my 10 any day you'd like, sweetheart."

Kurt blushes at Blaine's overly affected deep voice, still giggling and trying to collect himself. "Oh shut up. Your 10 is probably more like a 3 anyway."

"Yep, that's me. I play loud and high to make up for a lacking dick size." Blaine takes the pouch from Kurt and hands him the 10C piece.

"Thanks. Can I make a suggestion? Because I'm not totally ignorant with these things – my teacher just swears mouthpieces don't help."

"Yeah, I'd be happy to take suggestions from you. You're good."

"Thank you." Kurt, unable to make eye contact, instead watches Blaine zip up the pouch and plop it back into his bag. "Even after I return the 10 today? Try sticking with the 7 for a bit? I know you think it's a beginner mouthpiece, but it'll round out your sound."

"I've been harsh?"

"A bit. Even mid-tone. I mean, at least for marching band. You can use whatever the hell you want in jazz band."

Blaine pulls the 7C out of his case and swaps it out with what he already has in his horn. "Done. And your secret moment of irresponsibility is safe with me."

"As is the secret of your 3-inch dick."

~~~**~~~

"Aw, look. Our little rookie is fitting in with the big kids."

Santana slips onto the floor next to Kurt and dumps her paper bag lunch of goodies, cursing as the apple rolls away. "I know. Mike has been trying to teach him how to pop-and-lock for about 20 minutes. It's comical at best."

"Better than you'd do it."

Kurt shoots her a glare and steals a potato chip as soon as she rips the bag open. "Shut the fuck up. I've never claimed to be a dancer."

"I'm hoping he never does either because I'm thinking he might be having a seizure." She peeks over at Kurt's assortment of lunch foods and frowns. "No more snickerdoodles?"

"Ate the last one last night." They sit and eat, watching Mike, Brittany and Blaine goof off while Tina, cymbal crasher extraordinaire, takes video on someone's phone.

"Maybe he'd better stick to the trumpet. This dancing thing isn't going to work for him."

"Uh, no. But, he's sounding better this week – not so tinny."

"He changed mouthpieces. And maybe he's not trying to so hard."

"What'd you do to him, Kiki? Did you scare the poor child?"

"No. I did not. We just—I had to—we had a talk. Monday. And, have you noticed anything different with my playing at all?"

"No. Still fucking perfect and I hate you every time you play because I'll never be anywhere near as good as you."

"Oh please. Your only problem is breath control, Snix. We've been over this. Take lessons."

"Give me money."

"Jonesy's cheap. Take from her."

"I see enough of her butch ass all week. I don't need an extra hour that I'm fucking paying for."

"Nice. Great support—"

"Don't start lecturing me. I'm not going to go any further with music like you are. I don't see the point in paying for lessons. I'll keep my airy sound, my amazing sight-reading skills and stay perfectly prone to your cunning leadership."

Kurt turns toward her and pulls the sandwich from her mouth before she takes a bite. "Okay, you're never that complimentary. What do you want?"

"I want you to admit that you're jacking off to Maynard in the shower."

"Oh my god." He lets go of her sandwich and turns back to his own food, unable to eat it. "Why are my masturbatory habits suddenly of interest to you?"

"Because he's hot. And you're hot. And you need to get laid. And I'm thinking he probably does too."

"Okay, let me rephrase. Why is my virginity suddenly of interest to you?"

"Your virginity has always been of interest to me. Everyone's is. No one should go longer than necessary without experiencing the amazingness that is sex and orgasms and that blissful feeling of being freshly fucked."

Kurt simply stares at her, watching her lips curl around her bottle of pop, her tongue sneaking out to lick at a stray drop. "I don't know whether to walk away from you or make out with you."

She leans over and plants a wet, pop-flavored kiss square on his lips. When she speaks, her lips brush his, making him shiver in spite of himself. "Go make out with him. I'll sit here and watch."

"As amazing as that sounds," he pushes her back and crawls across the floor to get her apple, tossing it to her and staying as far away as possible, "you're going to be sitting and waiting for a very long time."

"What is your problem with the guy? I mean, he's amazing, but he doesn't have your finesse. You know that, he has to know that. Why are you so threatened by him?" She takes a bite of her apple and chews, stopping with her mouth half full. "Don't tell me you're having Doc flashbacks."

Kurt leans his head back against the concrete wall and sighs. "I have no idea. I mean, the showing off is enough to annoy anybody and yes, it's bringing back a bit of Doc."

"But, Kiki – the only person he's annoying is you. Doc annoyed everybody."

"Jonesy doesn't like it. And she loved Doc."

"Jonesy doesn't count. She didn't even laugh when the percussion section did their instrument line-up in the shape of a penis yesterday."

"Maybe you need to be more focused on her sex life then, because that was fucking hilarious. It's a rocket ship, Jonesy. What a big bag of dicks."

"My point is that he's doing really well."

"His marching isn't that well and if you aren't seeing that then you aren't paying attention."

"Okay, so he's bullheaded with that. But, you're being nasty with him and that's coming from me, babydoll. He was off by maybe half of a step on the Nate chart and you were on his ass before he even landed and had a chance to adjust."

"We don't have time to adjust on the Nate chart. And how in the hell does the disgusting mouth-breather get a chart named after him?"

"Because we all hate it. And we hate him."

"Ah. Of course. God, this entire band is a big bag of dicks."

"Well, that'd be your wet dream come true, wouldn't it?"

"I'm sort of fond of dicks that are actually attached to men." Kurt gets up on his knees and brushes the floor dust from his ass, gathering the flotsam from his lunch. "Look, I'll try to be nicer. He just makes it really, really difficult."

"Because he's so hot you can't see straight?"

Kurt levels his gaze at her and sits back on his feet. "That sure as hell isn't helping anything."

~~~**~~~

Kurt isn't sure what link in the this-band-is-a-family chain broke to get him to the point of saying, "Hey, Jonesy. Are we going to rehearse today or just watch the bloodbath about to take place on the 45?" but he's said it and everyone's attention is now focused on the 45-yard line.

Finn and Puck are the cause of his statement. They have yanked their instruments off of their bodies, Puck wiggling out of the twists of his sousaphone and Finn, even in a state of fury, cautiously lifting and resting his huge tenor drum kit to the grass. But now, the idiots are posturing like a couple of pissed-off gorillas, grunting and trying, Kurt assumes, to sound threatening as they chest bump and poke.

Straight men are idiots.

Just before Jonesy finally snaps out of her zone to see what's going on, Rachel hands her flute to the nearest band member and runs toward them, screeching and flailing like an angry cat. "Noah Puckerman, you leave him alone! It's not his fault I wouldn't let you put your hand up my shirt last night!"

"What!?"

"What?"

"WHAT!?"

"Oh god, someone save me." Kurt plops down on his charted spot on the 38-yard-line catching Blaine's confused expression and laughs because, well, what else is he supposed to do? "Welcome to McKinley Marching Titans."

"I—wait. I thought she was dating Finn?" Even though they're too far away to actually be caught in the cross-fire, they both duck when Puck swings. Finn swerves and Rachel throws herself in between the two of them.

"I think Finn does too. When he's not making out with Q-bert anyway."

"A love rectangle? Eh, go big or go home, I guess."

"Stick around long enough it'll be a fucking hexagon. In fact, give me a few minutes and I can probably figure out how it already is."

Beaman lands on the field after clomping down the tower's steel stairs, and Santana is on her feet ready to throw down someone, but it's clear she can't figure out where to start. Jonesy's strapped on her microphone. She has had it.

"Rachel, get back to your section. Snix, you too. Puck and Finn, sideline your instruments and give me five laps. If I hear one complaint, it'll be ten. Everyone else, reset chart 28. And? I don't ever want to hear what goes on between any two – OR THREE – of you when you're not under my direct supervision. Do you understand?" She sits down and mumbles, "I'm going to have nightmares for a week."

Everyone gets into position while Finn and Puck take their laps, Beaman's ever-glaring eye on them not stopping them from verbally assaulting each other at every opportunity.

"Do not watch or feed the zoo animals, ladies and gentlemen. They're currently in mating season and could probably use some privacy. Disco, start us up!"

Rehearsal is finally underway and all things considered, it goes well. Until it stops. Going well.

The breakdown starts when a color guard member steps on the flag of another member, ripping the practice flag and causing the second girl to bean herself in the head. It would go unnoticed if it weren't for Sue, the advisor, and her insistence on giving commands from a megaphone.

"You'll pay for that flag out of your mother's welfare money!"

Jonesy calls for a water break and then bags it for an early lunch break because after that outburst, no one is really in the mood to cooperate with their fellow band members.

Well, no one but Blaine, who seems to have taken it upon himself to woo the girls in the band— led by none other than Rachel Berry— with his charming humor, dashing good looks and honey-hazel eyes. Kurt thinks he might puke.

There's new music waiting for them to grab and while Kurt loves the process of sight reading, he takes it and his lunch and his horn to a secluded spot in the shade to look it over. It's the ballad portion of the production – the song Kurt has been waiting for since he found out they were performing Queen.

He lets out a squeak when he sees the title and sits down to dump out his lunch. The Show Must Go On. He has always dreamt it would be a trumpet feature but figured, at best, it would be a 4 or 8 bar solo. The song is made for a trumpet solo. So, because this is how things always go for Kurt, the arranger would decide to give it to a sousaphone. With a kazoo feature.

But, as he scans the music and sees trumpet solo marked on bar 16 – and then continue to the end of the piece – he almost chokes on his sandwich. "SNIX! Holy SH—get over here!"

"Are you trying out? Of course you are. Kiki, this is made for you. I bet Jonesy had them write it with you in mind. Look at this thing. It says Kurt Hummel all over it."

"I kn—I mean, you know. It's open auditions and—" Kurt looks up and her and smiles, tossing his sandwich back into its container. "This thing is fucking mine."

"Play it. Play it right now. God, I cannot wait to hear you—Kiki, you are going to blow the house down."

Kurt takes a swig of water and stands back up, leaning against the brick of the building and hands Santana the music. "Be my flip folder." He plays the introduction with only half effort, getting the key in his head, imagining what the other instrumentation will be as it begins. As he continues on with the heartfelt solo, the lyrics run through is head, even though they'll never be heard. If he does it right, they'll be felt.

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
The show must go on
The show must go on
Inside my heart is breaking
My make-up may be flaking
But my smile still stays on

The solo continues and he's standing straighter, focused completely on the score in front of him, playing it with musical arc and a touch as one who has been playing it for years. He stops to check an accidental and puts his horn back to his lips to begin again, but the song has continued from somewhere else in the practice area.

He looks at Santana; it occurs to them simultaneously. "Maynard. Fuck."

Kurt drops his horn to his side and rests his head back onto the rough brick behind him. "Of course he'd—I'd be a fool to think otherwise."

"Well, yeah. He lead their entire show last year. He's going to want to shine again."

"I won't beat him. He has at least a G."

"What does that have to do with anything? It only goes up to a C. You've got this."

"Maynard has this." Kurt yanks the music out of Santana's hand and tosses it with his abandoned lunch.

"Who the fuck am I listening to right now? This thing is written for you. Not Rookie McWailypants over there. This is not his song."

"It is if Jonesy gives it to him. Doc got everything; why should it be any different now?"

"One, Blaine isn't Doc and two, he didn't get the solo our sophomore year. Last I recall, that ballad went to one Kurt Hummel."

"It was four bars of middle school level music."

Santana steps into Kurt's personal space bumping his chin up with the mouthpiece of her horn, waiting until he stops rolling his eyes long enough to meet hers. "Ballads are yours. No one can compare. No one should ever try."

Kurt pulls her trumpet from her hands and kisses the tip of her nose. "Your delusions aren't making me feel better this time."

Blaine's solo continues and as Kurt and Santana peek around the side of the building, he goes off page and ad libs the ending, other band members gathering around to hear him work his magic. It's high, sailing and showy – gasps and squeals of glee from his adoring fans puncturing Kurt's hopes yet again.

Just like with Doc.

"I'm not delusional, Kurt. I'm right."

If only he could believe her.