As Jonesy had warned, a good old-fashioned summer storm had been brewing during the entirety of the pool party. By the time she calls it a night, the visual portion of the storm is in full swing, lighting the sky as everyone darts from the rec center to their dorms, dodging the steady, but still timid rainfall. Wet bodies shiver in the air conditioning, dripping water all over the floors as they wait for the two very slow and very small elevators to carry them to the safety of their rooms.

Kurt is towel drying his hair when Blaine comes in, unusually quiet, but completely drenched. Kurt is refreshed by it all— the pool party, the summer rain, the adrenaline rush, but Blaine looks shaken.

"Is it your pick tonight or mine?"

"I don't care. I probably won't pay any attention anyway."

Kurt peeks out from under his towel and watches. In the first days at band camp, Kurt has learned that Blaine is as obsessively tidy as he is. His dirty clothes bag is the only sign of "tossing" in the room. Every article of unworn clothing is perfectly folded in drawers. Bottles of hair care and skin care products are aligned in order of use. Their snacks are neatly stacked inside of a closed cabinet and their mini-fridge is as well-organized as that of a professional kitchen. So, Blaine waiting for use of the bathroom by re-organizing and straightening his drill book after a day's worth of abuse isn't necessarily peculiar.

And yet his demeanor, the way his shoulders tense, the way he avoids eye contact and paces as he works, all gives Kurt pause.

"You okay?"

"Y—yeah. I just—" He cups himself and blushes. "You almost done?"

"Oh. Shit, yeah. Sorry. I'll just—change. Out here." Kurt grabs his underwear and steps out of the bathroom. "Sam and Mike were doing the knights-on-white-horses thing letting girls come up first, so they'll be awhile."

"What time's lights out?"

"Midnight. We have about an hour. Might be able to finish Avenue Q."

And they almost do, but Blaine is distracted and fidgety and Kurt is grateful—for many reasons, actually – that they don't share top to bottom bunks because he fears Blaine is going to fidget himself right out of bed once it's time for lights out. Which it now is.

The hallway lights flicker to signal the time and the four boys scurry into the bathroom to brush their teeth, take one final leak and in Kurt's case, add one more dab of cream to a pimple that is insistent on making an appearance. Fucking Ohio humidity.

They offer their sarcastic goodnight, sweetie blessings to Sam and Mike and settle into their bunks. Just as the last shuffle is stilled, the storm—that hasn't been amounting to much of anything—finds its footing and bares down on Hocking College.

Sleep is not an option. Again. The window is at the foot of both of their bunks, so turning to roll away from the light show is impossible. Left side, right side, head under the pillow, flopping back to just submit to the onslaught, nothing, nothing, nothing works.

And Blaine doesn't seem to be faring any better. In fact, after about fifteen minutes, he's pacing the floor which frankly isn't helping Kurt's lot at all.

"Blaine."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Blaine crawls back in bed and begins the process all over again only to get up in another five minutes.

"Maynard!"

Blaine goes into the bathroom and after a while Kurt begins to wonder if he drowned because he's in there for longer than necessary. The storm continues to roll through the hills of south eastern Ohio. Finally the bathroom light goes off and Blaine comes back, sighing heavily as he crawls back into bed.

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"You just seem—"

"I said I'll be fine, Kurt."

Kurt rolls toward the wall. Whatever is up Blaine's ass is Blaine's business, even though not two hours prior he was at the peak of celebration of the monumental chicken fight championship. But, Kurt is now in the business of riding out this storm and getting some sleep. A 6:30am call arrives sooner than he cares to imagine.

But, Blaine's tossing and turning and huffing and puffing are more distracting than the damned storm and his patience is wearing thin. Last night was bad enough, and Blaine's out of bed yet again and they're both exhausted and—

"Oh my god, what the hell is the matter with you!?"

"I'M TERRIFIED OF THUNDERSTORMS OKAY? OKAY? YOU HAPPY NOW?" Blaine yanks the chair out from the desk and plops in it. "Fuck."

And the silence that follows Blaine's outburst is louder than the thunder, louder than their racing heartbeats, louder than any fortissimo the band could imagine producing.

Blaine gets up and crawls back in bed, covering his face with his pillow and then tosses it to his feet. "I'm sorry. I'm embarrassed. I feel like a five-year-old."

"Because you're afraid?"

"Well, yeah. It's stupid. It's a thunderstorm. You're supposed to outgrow crap like this, but apparently I missed that line during puberty."

"Blaine, everybody's afraid of something."

Kurt could see Blaine sit up, the lightning a strobe of flashes in the room, thunder getting louder and louder, no sign of easing at all. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"No. Although, Mike and Sam might have heard you."

"Shit." He flops back again and sighs. "I'm so fucking tired. We slept like shit last night. I'm freaking out. I'm keeping you up and—"

"What do you do at home?"

"What do I do at h—what?"

"During thunderstorms. What do you do to calm down?"

"I turn my lights on and watch the weather online."

"And we can't do either of those things; hall moms will birth kittens."

"And goats. That's why I'm losing my mind."

Blaine rustles in the bed again, his breath hitching with every flash, every crash, every wash of rain that splashes against their fifth story window.

"What do you do if the power's out?"

"I slowly lose my mind."

Kurt sits up and stretches, running ideas through his head until he lands on one that—there is no way. Blaine will freak even more and he's not sure where their friendship— is this a friendship?— stands, but he does feel for him. Being this frightened is awful and being embarrassed about being this frightened has to be worse.

It is worse. He knows firsthand.

"Maynard, do you trust me?"

"I think we established that in the pool tonight."

"Yeah. I really—I had a great time."

"Me too." Thunder continues to rumble around them, vibrating their beds and Blaine takes in enough air on one gasp to deplete the entire room of its oxygen. "Jesus."

"Okay, I have an idea but—I mean this. You have to trust me until it makes sense, okay?"

Blaine rolls onto his back, hissing when another clap of thunder cracks the sky, his voice shaky even in his attempts to lighten the mood. "Well with that introduction, can I change my answer?"

"You can. But then you're still going to be scared and this storm doesn't sound like it's going anywhere anytime soon." They stare at each other's silhouettes in the dark, and then Kurt adds, "My mom used to do this with me when I was scared at night— maybe it'll work for you."

"Okay, hit me. I'm tired of feeling like I'm going to jump out of my skin."

Kurt grabs Blaine's pillow from the foot of his bed and tosses it, as well as his own near Blaine's chest. "Roll toward the wall and curl around a pillow. And don't freak out." He takes one good cleansing breath before continuing. "I'm climbing in with you."

Blaine rolled and then stopped halfway around. "Wha—"

"Roll over, Maynard. This is business, not pleasure. I'm tired too."

"Right. Rolling." So, he does and Kurt climbs behind him into the opened sleeping bag, waiting for Blaine to get settled.

"Okay, I'm going to hold onto the edge of the pillow like my trumpet. Put your hand on mine, like my fingers are the valves." He slips his arm around Blaine's middle and scoots closer to reach the far edge of the bunched up pillow.

Blaine rests the full of his arm on Kurt's and finds his hand, their fingers slipping and intertwining before Blaine's rests his first three fingers on Kurt's as if "playing" his hand.

And then the loudest clap of thunder shakes the room, lightning filling it with golden light, rain pelting the panes of glass with a fury that is beginning to sound more like hail. That one even scared Kurt.

"Blaine. You're trembling." Kurt's voice is but a breath and he finds himself inching even closer to hold Blaine still.

"I know." Blaine's body shakes almost as if proving the point. "Just keep going..."

"Okay. What songs do you still need to memorize? We'll play through them."

"Oh. That's—okay, um...The Fight Song. Alma Mater. I know the show."

"Good. Fight Song. Sing our parts like we do with drill, okay?"

"Yes." And they begin, singing – or more accurately dooting – The Fight Song, Blaine pressing down Kurt's fingers as valves on his horn, getting the fingering of the piece memorized to muscle memory. He fumbles here or there and they giggle, starting back at an easy-to-begin spot and go again.

The storm rages around them, rain turning to hail by the second run-through. But Blaine isn't trembling anymore. Or pacing. Or, from what Kurt gathers, frightened. "Alma Mater?"

"Yes, please."

Kurt sings the words this time and Blaine fumbles more often than before, so Kurt stops. "You okay, or just unfamiliar?"

"I'm—I'm okay. You just have a beautiful voice."

Kurt pulls back a little and sucks in a breath, almost forgetting where he is and what he is doing, lost in the rhythm and familiarity of the songs. "Th—thank you. Um." Blaine's hair smells of chlorine, his pillow of his shampoo. This needs to either end or they need to start a new song. "Are you okay now?" He pulls his arm back as if to go, but Blaine grabs at him.

"No. Another. Please?"

"Gimme Some Lovin'?"

"What?"

"The stand tune, Maynard."

"Oh. Y—yes. Jesus." Kurt chuckles and begins song – one of many the band will play during football games from the stands. He sings the familiar bass line – as bass as he can – and Blaine bites back a giggle because it really is entirely too adorable, and then finally, "How many bars of this?"

"Eleven-ba-da-da-boom. Let's-make-that-the-last-one-two-ready-go." And they're singing the lead trumpet part of the song, fingering the notes – Kurt with perfect precision, Blaine a little more wobbly – but in time, especially since this song is so repetitive – he has it down.

They keep going, back to the Alma Mater, adding in more stand tunes, some Blaine doesn't know at all, but once Kurt gives him the key he can figure things out. And Kurt's amazed at the ear Blaine has. And the musical knowledge. And how warm and firm and amazing his body feels and before he knows it, the room is lighter and Kurt's entire body feels stiff and awkward. He looks up to where the clock is, only he doesn't see a clock because—

"Oh god..." He backs out of Blaine's bed and stumbles to his own, wiping his hands down his face, finally finding the clock from the proper perspective.

6:25am.

"What's wro—what time is it?" Blaine reaches back for Kurt but he isn't there, so he rolls over. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here, Maynard. And it's almost 6:30. Thank god Snix is doing Reveille today. I totally forgot about it."

Blaine nods and sits up, catching Kurt's eyes for a brief moment, but suddenly the air is thick with discomfort and nerves and tension and oh-my-god-we-just-spent-the-night-in-the-same-bed. "Do you need—can I use the bathroom first?"

"Go on. I have to shower though, so go easy on the hot water."

"Like you have room to talk..."

Kurt glances up from wherever he was staring to avoid looking at Blaine only to see his ass bent over the drawer as he picks out clothes for the day. Shit. "Just hurry up, Maynard."

And he does, and Kurt does and somewhere in the midst of it all, Reveille sounds and Sam and Mike sneak in to the bathroom as well, and they need to get moving downstairs for breakfast but not another word is spoken beyond toothpaste, pass me the mousse, and how did I lose a sock?

After the chaos, they're sitting on their own beds tying shoes, avoiding speaking, the tension becoming virtually unbearable. "Thank you."

Kurt looks up and he can't read what Blaine's saying underneath the huge heap of earnest, so he nods and moves to head to breakfast without saying anything at all.

"So, I was thinking... now you owe me a secret."

Kurt stops at the door and his belly twists at how gorgeous this boy is. His skin is sun-kissed in the most delicious natural bronze, his eyes shine in the morning sun – now well-rested and bright. His muscles are well-defined yet not bulky and all Kurt wants to do is curl himself back around him and sleep again. Or. Not sleep.

But, he can't. He won't. They have a job to do and falling for the competition is not part of the job description. "I owe—why?"

"You have something to hold over my head now. It's only fair."

"You want a secret? Of mine?"

"Yes."

Kurt's daydreaming dies a little, the lack of trust apparent. And, he supposes, he can't blame Blaine. Minus these past few days, Kurt's never given him reason to. But, it pinches at him nonetheless. He opens the door to the hallway and offers a sad smile. "My secret? I never would have held that over your head."

~~~**~~~

Kurt is pretty successful in avoiding Blaine most of the morning and even moves Santana to sit between them during full rehearsals inside. He works at not being rude – he just makes it a point to appear busy. Distracted. Otherwise elsewhere.

At first, he can't define why he needs to avoid Blaine, but as the day progresses, his mind keeps drifting back to the morning. To the waking up and the awkward and the fact that Blaine still doesn't trust him. And that maybe it hurts a little.

But, come evening rehearsal, he can't avoid contact any further because things aren't going well. His whole section seems to have left their brains at dinner. He can't get Blaine's attention via eye contact – every time he tries, Blaine's eyes dart somewhere else. Charts they had down are falling apart, music they'd mastered is sounding like they're sight-reading and now Jonesy is calling to start The Show Must Go On. This could only go from bad to worse.

"Sideline your instruments, set 41, Kiki center stage for the solo. In fact – be my eyes down there since you're not moving. Feels like we're unraveling."

"That's because we are."

"Always the sunshine in my life, Kiki. Disco, get us started."

Taking a step back, Kurt has to admit that simply watching from center-of-the-field is interesting. To see how every cog of the wheel works together, to watch the other sections talk to each other just as the trumpets do, in small nods of the head, in glances, in quick counts, in muttered reminders of yard line hits, flanks and spins, section leaders keeping squad leaders keeping squads in line. After the blood, sweat and tears of it all, the team work needed to make it all look effortless is a thing to behold.

But, when they get to chart 48, the cogs start unseating and his focus zooms right to the trumpet section that is missing spins and simple slides while trying to remember chart hits. Blaine isn't talking to them either and with Kurt in his solo slot, that is his job. He bites his tongue for a few bars and then finally he can't remain silent any longer.

"MAYNARD!"

"WHAT!?"

"Lead—" He stops himself when Blaine's anger lands right between his eyes, quite possibly taking out an unsuspecting sax player in the process.

And it hurts.

Blaine's glare eases – maybe realizing he'd overreacted – and Kurt remembers the night before and how with each crack of thunder, Blaine trembled in his arms until he was distracted enough to still and sleep. He remembers that evening in Blaine's driveway before band camp when the secret of his family's pain weighed down his shoulders and dulled the typical brightness in his eyes.

As each memory unseals itself, Kurt slowly realizes Blaine isn't his competition. He is becoming his friend. A friend who he's just snapped at because maybe, just maybe, he's been an ass by avoiding him all day. "Jonesy? Can we—can the trumpets split off for a bit? Get this worked out?"

"Have at it, Kiki. Bring it back perfect."

"We can do that. Okay, trumpets – back field, home end zone. Set chart 44. Use the 20 as the 50 yard marker. Back hash is your sideline."

As they make their way back, he catches Blaine's gaze – less angry, more curious – and offers a simple smile. It seems to appease him, Blaine kicking into a jog to encourage the others to hustle to their new location. They follow willingly; he's a good leader – when he's not trying to be their buddy.

Which, as Kurt starts them, is clearly the problem. Blaine sees the mistakes, it's clear in his intake of breath to make a correction, but then his eyes soften when he meets the gaze of the offender. If he does make a correction, it's more of a suggestion than a direct statement.

"Okay, cut. Go get your horns and run through fingerings and visuals for a minute. Maynard, c'mere."

Blaine dodges everyone as they head off to get their horns and lands in front of Kurt with a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face. Kurt swallows back the urge to swipe it off, realizing Blaine's talking. "Sorry I snapped."

"We're all tired; it's okay." Blaine looks at him as if to say that's not it and you know it, but Kurt continues. "You're being too nice."

"What? I have to be a dick to get them—"

"No, you don't have to be a dick. That's my job. Which—" Kurt shakes his head, removing the amber glow of Blaine's eyes from messing up whatever it is he's trying to say. "Out here, they're not your friends."

"So, why'd you stop yourself from yelling at me?"

Blaine's direct hit sucks Kurt's ready answer straight out of him, leaving him momentarily speechless. At Blaine's cocky smirk, he finds it within himself to continue. "Because I don't have to be a dick either." Blaine nods, seemingly okay with that answer and lifts the hem of his shirt to his face to wipe away the sweat, which is really an unfair thing to do – as friends – in this close proximity of each other. "Can we just—combine the two?"

Blaine's shirt falls to cover his bare abdomen and Kurt swallows to find Blaine's smirk hasn't left his stupid face. "So, friends...with dicks?"

"Stop. Oh my god." Kurt laughs and Blaine laughs and this isn't going the way Kurt planned at all, but the tension is gone and he couldn't be more grateful. "Seriously. You're too charming, especially with the girls. On field? You can't do it. Breaks, outside of rehearsal, at parties, in school – go for it. Charm the hell out of them. Let them think that you're available for them, whatever turns you on, but out here?"

"Wait, back up. You think I'm leading the girls on—like they're into me or something?"

"Oh, honey...tell me you're not that naïve." Kurt blows at the curl of hair on his forehead. "Are—yes. They're into you. Crushes. It happens. Rachel's about to quit flute just to blow your horn. If you don't—" Kurt takes in Blaine's confused gaze and realizes that yes, he really is that naïve. "You're going to hurt one of them and if it's Rachel, you have a pack of people who will clobber you."

"I—I had no—I just thought everyone was really friendly."

"Oh Maynard. I mean, yes. We're a friendly group, but these girls – some of them are just starving for a nice boy to take home to mama and you're so him." Blaine beams and Kurt rolls his eyes but has to smile because he is the most adorable boy to take home to mama – if he had a mama to take a boy home to. "My point, you idiot, is that you're not leading them during rehearsal. You're asking if they might possibly want to do the right thing and given the option? No, they do not. Because if they don't, you might talk to them again."

"And with you, if they do the right thing, you'll leave them alone."

"Basically. Which, upon reflection is sort of sad, but that is not what we're talking about."

"I thought it was."

He's flirting again. Blaine is flirting and Kurt is getting even more overheated than the day dictates, and that is fucking overheated on its own and he really wants to punch the smirk right off of Blaine's face. Kiss. Punch. Probably kiss, but a punch would make a more lasting impression.

Unless he kissed as well as Kurt has imagined and—

"Kiki! Are you guys ready over there? I just see a lot of screwing around."

"Shit. Yes! We're—" He looks at his section and practically begs – a very non-leadership way of motivating but he was distracted. "We're ready, right trumpets?"

"Ready, Kiki. Get up, lazy asses – let's show Jonesy how it's done." Santana smacks Kurt and Blaine's asses as she walks by, graciously saving the moment from utter humiliation.

Kurt bites back his own smirk and side-eyes Blaine as they join the group. "Just, hear what I'm trying to say. Don't break my friends' hearts and stop being so fucking nice."

"Got it. Friends with dicks. I'm on it."