Mike [08-04-11 3:21am]: So, how pissed off will you be if we post this video on youtube?

Blaine [08-04-11 3:25am]: You're texting me at 3am. What video?

Mike [08-04-11 3:26am]: It's a band thing. The video from lunch the other day.

Blaine [08-04-11 3:27am]: Of me trying to pop & lock? I'll castrate you.

Mike [08-04-11 3:28am]: Hmmm. This might need further contemplation.

Blaine [08-04-11 3:29am]: Good plan. I'm going to sleep now. Again.

~~~**~~~

Blaine's beginning to wonder if Kurt is bipolar. Not in the true clinical sense, but in the I-can't-fucking-keep-up-with-his-moods sense. One minute he's nice and blue-sparkly eyed with that swoosh of hair over his forehead, laughing right alongside him being the most beautiful boy Blaine's ever seen, and the next minute he's angry and ragey and stompy and basically the ugliest thing Blaine has ever seen in boy form.

It's the morning of the last day of home band camp, the week everyone has told him would be the hardest week in marching season. Now that he's almost done with it, he can see how that's most definitely true. Making matters worse, he's not slept well for two nights, visions of the past week's events spinning wildly in his mind.

Mid-week rehearsals seemed to go okay, but shortly after the music for Show Must Go On was passed out, everything shifted. Rachel had started making googly eyes at him which sort of made his stomach feel gross, and last night Sugar, one of Nini's color guard assistants, saved a potentially tragic flag mishap by doing a very ballerina-esque roundhouse kick to a projectile flag pole.

But it was Kurt's impatience that rang in his ears like the gong of a grandfather clock striking twelve, over and over in constant loop.

Maynard, you're bumping the curve. Your steps are still too big on that transition!

BONG.

I'm sorry Jonesy, I couldn't hear you over the brass explosion that continues out of Maynard's horn after you call "CUT!"

BONG. BONG.

Maynard, pianissimo, for the LOVE. It means stop blasting like a fucking fog horn.

BONG. BONG. BONG.

Did anyone teach you how to blend with your neighbor?

BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG!!!

And then there was the look on Kurt's face after they accidentally agreed to room together for next week's bandcamp at Hocking College— an intensive week, but away from home, twelve-hour days, no home-cooked meals, no familiar bed to fall into at the end of the day – and to add spice to the mess – roommates.

They had been standing at the window of Jonesy's office with the room sign-ups, Kurt holding the pencil that was strung to a suction cup on the glass, already looking resigned to having to room with someone like Nate. Or worse? Andrew, the chimes player from pit who had an overbite big enough to fit a baby carrot between his top teeth and his bottom lip.

"So, I talked to Mike to see if he wanted to room with me, but I guess he already fixed it up with Sam." Blaine pointed up at their names scribbled by room 520B. "Who are you rooming with?"

"I have no idea. Just so it's not Finn, but I'm pretty sure he's going to be with Puck."

"Don't want Nate either."

"Oh god, no. Or Andrew."

"Maybe they should room together."

"That would be best for all concerned." Kurt sighed and looked over at Blaine who offered a shy smile. "I'm just going to put in with Mike and Sam's suite and get who I get, I guess."

He watched Kurt sign his name with extra curly queues and swirls, "Kurt E. Hummel."

"E. What's your middle name?"

The pencil faltered on the last swoop of the l in his name and Kurt let the pencil dangle from the string. He saw stress in Kurt's brow that made little sense— how complicated is a middle name?

"Well, I tell people it's Elizabeth. For my mother. I—I told you about—right?"

"Yeah, yeah, you did." He hoped his eyes conveyed his true concern – a cruel joke the world plays when it takes a mother from her child. "I bet she'd like that."

"Probably, but it just set me up for more torment. It's really Elliott."

"Which is a good name, too. Mine's Devon."

"Blaine Devon Anderson. It has good rhythm."

"Yeah, I'm kind of fond of it."

They stare at the list again and Kurt sighs heavily before pointing to the blank under his name. "If you want, go ahead and sign your Blaine Devon with me. Mike will still be in our suite."

"Do—do you mind? You sure that's okay?"

Kurt shrugged in the most non-committal, non-give-a-damn way that Blaine wondered if maybe rooming with Nate wasn't such a bad gig. "It's not like we're in there for more than sleep anyway. Whatever." He turned and started towards the instrument room but stopped before disappearing inside. "Auditions for the solo are Sunday night. When you get it, thank me for reminding you."

And it was that look. A look of resignation. Of I really sort of hate you. Of I wish you'd never moved here that haunted Blaine overnight the most. It was a look that wasn't one to keep tucked under his pillow at night, but there it was, poking at him and waking him every time he dared to slip under sleep's spell.

So, he starts the final rehearsal of home band camp completely exhausted. Everyone is exhausted because one solid week of eight hour days, marching around on a black-topped practice field in Ohio's August heat would exhaust the most fit of athletes. It's partially why marching band counts as a physical education credit. They work their asses off. But, add a few nights of sleeplessness because of one Kurt Hummel – who incidentally is already riding your ass about doing half-assed crunches – well, it's going to be a longer eight-hour day than usual.

Jonesy is cranky.

Beaman is crankier.

Ms. Sylvester seems to have her megaphone glued to her mouth.

Brittany is sidelined with a heat headache before 10 am. "I think my head turned into a balloon. Filled with bricks."

Two of his four squad members barf after lunch because they eat too much too fast and haven't properly hydrated all day. Blaine has to do laps for letting it happen and he has to do them with Kurt watching, no— scowling at him with every step.

It goes from bad to worse to horrible and when 5pm finally rolls around. Rehearsal is finally over and all he wants to do is get in his mom's car, find swim trunks and dive into their pool and float. For hours. Until he prunes. Or evaporates. Whichever comes first.

So, when he hikes his gig bag up over his shoulder, waving to Rachel and Tina as they wheel out of the parking lot and his phone buzzes with a message from his mother, he's not feeling very happy.

Janet [08-05-11 5:09pm]: Hey sweetie. Change of plans at work. Can you find a ride home? Love you!

He looks up at the student parking lot and there is one car left with one boy getting into the car.

Kurt.

Fuck me sideways.

He shoots a text back to his mother hoping maybe, possibly, maybe—

Blaine [08-05-11 5:10pm]: Mom you're telling me now that rehearsal's over? Everyone's gone. Can't you come get me and go back to the office?

Janet [08-05-11 5:11pm]: No. Actually, the boss has taken some of us to his country club for dinner. It was last minute.

Blaine [08-05-11 5:11pm]: Thanks. Mom. That's...wonderful.

He shoves his phone in his pocket and sees Jonesy's car by the building, but that sounds worse than walking the almost-two miles in the scorching heat. He plops himself down on the curb and buries his head in his hands as he tries to figure out what to do.

"Maynard? You okay?"

He looks up to see Kurt's car idling next to him, window down. "Yeah, I'll be fine. See you Sunday."

Kurt slowly pulls forward and stops again, backing up. "Miss your ride?"

"No. Sort of. It's not coming. I'll—I'll get Jonesy to take me home, I guess."

"Get in."

"Kiki, I'm fine. You live in the opposite direction."

Kurt doesn't move. After a few moments, Blaine hears the door locks click and he finally stands. Kurt is staring at him, blowing air on his forehead, lifting the ever-present swirl of hair up and back down again to stick to his sweaty skin. "You have 10 more seconds, Maynard. The a/c isn't doing its job with that window open. Stop being so fucking stubborn."

At that Blaine has to laugh. "You're calling me stubborn?" But, he puts his pride away and opens the door, sliding in with a bashful smile and a sigh of relief when the cool air hits his face. "Yeah, okay. This is much better than standing out there finding the nerve to ask Jonesy."

Kurt pulls forward and rolls the window back up. "For the record, she'd have taken you. Probably only complained once about how far out of the way it is. Even if it isn't."

"Thanks."

"You'd do the same for me."

Blaine angles the air vents to his neck and leans back against the headrest. "Yeah, as much as you piss me off, I would."

~~~**~~~

"It's that driveway right past Brittany's."

"Oh! I didn't even—" Kurt turns onto the gravel drive and frowns. "I didn't even know there was a house back here."

"Yeah, it's sort of hidden. You don't hear the road noise, which is nice."

Blaine's house is along a fairly busy street, but all of the homes are set back from the road, each having a full acre of property surrounding it. His, however is far back off a winding gravel drive, hidden further by trees and ornamental bushes.

They make the final turn toward the sprawling ranch home. Blaine's house is set upon acres of perfectly manicured land extending behind the property of each of their neighbors. The house itself is large enough to fit two of Kurt's homes inside and there's an outbuilding with what looks like a mother-in-law suite on its second floor.

It doesn't fit on this road.

It most definitely doesn't fit in Lima. And Blaine knows it.

Kurt gapes at the virtual estate before him and puts the car in park. "Holy shit. This is an enormous, beautiful home."

Blaine chuffs quietly and bends to pick up his cooler and gig bag. "It's not a home. It's my father's absolution."

The silent beat before Kurt speaks is uncomfortably long and Blaine goes for the car door handle to just end it. He said more in four words than he ever really wanted to, especially to Kurt. But, just as he grabs at the door, "He must have fucked up—considerably."

Blaine chuckles and sits back in his seat, dropping his belongings and taking in the vastness of the property, the house itself, the utter ridiculousness of it all. "Well, if the pretty blonde and two small children currently living in my house in Wapak have anything to do with it, yeah. I'd say so."

"Oh. Damn. I'm—I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry I said anything. You don't need to hear my family shit." He watches Kurt mull things over, watches his brow furrow and relax, watches him start to say something and then stop himself. "It's partially why I wasn't prepared for the start of the season. It's just me and mom now and while we have the house and furnishings, we don't have much of anything else. He paid his penance and sort of left us on our own."

Kurt looks to him, brow slightly furrowed and concern in his eyes. "I really am sorry, Blaine. I had no idea."

"Would it have made a difference? You'd still hate me, wouldn't you?"

The furrow in Kurt's brow smooths as his eyebrows raise and his mouth falls open – and then Blaine regrets saying anything. They're both exhausted and there probably isn't a worse time to be asking the questions he's been wanting to ask since he met Kurt a week and a half ago. But, the question is out now, pooling between them like a green smelly ooze.

Kurt turns his attention back to his steering wheel, his shoulders slumped. "I don't hate you. In fact, while I'm loathe to admit it," he looks back up to Blaine and sighs. "I don't even dislike you. Much as I want to."

"Why do you want to dislike me? I mean, I'm sorry I showed up and screwed up your plans for your senior year? It's not like I really wanted to be here anyway."

Kurt rolls the windows down and shuts off the engine, the pained look still firmly in place.

"I know I'm hard on you and probably entirely too demanding, but she put you in a leadership role and you have to know more than your squad, be better than your squad. Better at everything, not just hitting higher notes than their dogs can hear."

"Am I at least improving?"

"You're doing fine – for the most part. Your marching is still—" Blaine could swear Kurt was asking permission to be honest.

"Just say it."

"It's still sloppy. In motion, it looks great, but your steps are uneven, your spacing is uneven. And those chart hits have to be exact."

"Okay, that's all fine and good— and you're right— but it just feels so much more personal."

"I know." Kurt looks down at his steering wheel and picks at a stray thread on the leather cover.

"Look, I didn't come here to unseat you. Or anyone. And—and maybe that's the problem? I didn't even know you existed."

"You would have no way of knowing I existed. I was just another trumpet player in a band three times the size of yours." Kurt sighs and moves to fuss with a thread at the hem of his shorts. "I've been waiting for this year since I was a freshman. I was going to lead and I was going to—" Kurt lifts his chin defiantly. "I had plans. And then you show up and I'm shoved right back in the shadows."

"You're—Kiki, you are not in anyone's shadow. I'm not even sure that's possible."

"It feels like I am. It just feels like Doc all over again."

"Okay, who is this Doc dude? I hear his name whispered like some dark band secret and—"

"Lead trumpet 2009 – 2011. Larger than life – in sound, in personality, in...everything. He was a first rate ass. He finally graduated. It's supposed to be my turn."

"Okay, but see, I'm not Doc."

"I'm slowly figuring that out, which is why I don't hate you." Kurt looks back up at the house and blows out a huge puff of air. "But, now I sort of feel like a first rate ass myself."

"What's going on in my family life really shouldn't make any difference. And if you think you should have expected less of me because I have some broken home crap going on – which probably half the band has anyway – then maybe you're not the leader you think you are."

"Maybe not. But, I'd like to think I can be a compassionate person. And I really have steamrolled you."

"I can take it. And I came in with the wrong attitude – just assuming there wouldn't be any competition here just like in Wapak."

Kurt smiles this time. "Surprise."

Blaine chuckles. "It's alright. I'm kind of getting a kick out of having to work harder to get less. And I don't enjoy pity, so—"

"Then I'm still going to ride your ass."

They share a smile and Blaine decides to take another risk because when Kurt smiles, Blaine sort of forgets any horrible things he might have said to him during rehearsals. "Look, my mom? She, um. She makes the best lemonade. Do—do you want to come in? And maybe take a swim? We have this huge pond/pool... thing in back. I've been looking forward to diving in since Chelsea missed barfing on me by only a foot."

"Yeah, that was a special sort of Technicolor, wasn't it?"

Blaine shivers at the memory and looks back to Kurt, his eyes asking one more time. Because this might be a good time to wash off the last few weeks of stink between them and start over. Before they're bumping into each other in close quarters at bandcamp wearing nothing more than underwear and morning hair. Before Blaine's stuck in a room looking at Kurt's long pale legs and dreaming about his mouthpiece-swollen lips. Basically, before Blaine combusts from pent up attraction, anger and confusion. "So, lemonade?"

Kurt starts to answer and stops himself, checking the clock on his dash. "I—I'm sorry. I can't. Not tonight."

Blaine nods and makes for his door handle again, mumbling to himself. "One step too far."

"No, Blaine look—I would. It sounds great, but my dad has this thing for Friday night dinners, and since I'll be missing 10 weeks of them with football season—"

"You've got a good thing with your dad, huh?"

"Yeah. I do."

Blaine fidgets with the handle on his gig bag, tamping down jealousy and disappointment and the swirling thoughts that are clouding his brain. Like Are you just being nice because you feel sorry for me now, because that would be pathetic and awful so please don't, or I wonder what you'd do if I leaned over and kissed you right now. Instead he says nothing, grateful when Kurt speaks again.

"Maybe after football season's over, you can come over one Friday. Join us."

"I wouldn't want to intrude on a family thing."

"It's not an intrusion if you're invited."

Blaine held Kurt's gaze for longer than he ever had since they met, trying to find the catch in Kurt's invitation, but couldn't see further than the softness in Kurt's eyes – the blue-gray color on the puffed edges of sunny day clouds. "Seems so far away from now, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, the season feels like it goes on forever, but it's always over in a flash."

They sit in silence again until Kurt fidgets with his keychain and Blaine snaps out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry. Go, have a good dinner. And I'll see you Sunday." He finally succeeds in opening his door, but as he slides out—

"Maynard?"

"Yeah?"

Kurt has his phone out and is offering it to him. "Put your number in there. In case you need a ride— or whatever."

"Oh, I can just have Brittany get me—"

"Oh. Well, okay. I just thought—"

Blaine mentally kicks himself and reaches for the phone. "No, you're right. With only one car, it's bound to happen again." He takes the phone with a shy smile and punches his number in. "Text me so I have yours."

"I will as soon as I get home."

I really wonder what you'd do if I leaned over and kissed you right now. "Okay. Thanks for the ride."

Fifteen minutes later, Blaine's phone buzzes and he considers hunting online for a picture of Kurt to put in place of his name on his caller ID but then thinks better of it.

Kurt [08-05-11 5:41pm]: Here's my number. And Finn invited Rachel tonight. I should have defied my dad and stayed for lemonade.

Blaine [08-05-11 5:42pm]: Oh no! Do you have invisible ear plugs or something?

Kurt [08-05-11 5:42pm]: Ha! I wish.

Kurt [08-05-11 5:43pm]: Thanks for calling me out tonight.

Blaine [08-05-11 5:44pm]: Well, I figure the section will work better if you and I get along.

Kurt [08-05-11 5:45pm]: It will. Don't practice too hard for the solo.

Blaine [08-05-11 5:46pm]: Keep dreaming, Hummel. You're going to have to earn this one.