Blaine and Kurt drag in from the useless, pointless, really-was-this-necessary bandcamp dance and flop on their beds face first, without grace, dignity, or even a little bit of finesse. "We could have been sleeping, Kiki. Sleeping. And instead—"

"We sat along the wall like the pimple-faced girls with bottle-bottom glasses."

"And no cute boys even asked us to dance. That blew."

"We are the cute boys, Maynard." Kurt rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling, laughing at Blaine who's unsuccessfully trying to toe off his tennis shoes.

"Why didn't we just get up and dance?"

"Because we've been on our feet for 72 solid hours? Because dances suck. Because the pool was empty and we were protesting."

"Because—" Blaine groans, rolls onto his back, flails himself to sit and finally yanks his shoes off with his hands. "Because our shoes are glued to our feet with sweat and dried on grass and..." he brings his left shoe to his nose and jerks back with a grimace. "...teen spirit."

Kurt laughs and Blaine balls up his sock as if to throw it at him, but pulls back as Kurt's laugh stops on a dime and turns into his ever-familiar threatening glare. "Don't you even—"

"I wouldn't dream of it. And how dumb is it that I'm not even remotely tired?"

"It's the pinball syndrome."

"Excuse me?" Blaine's on his back again. The ceiling is really...dull.

"Pinball syndrome. Mom said I used to get it all the time when I was overly tired. I'd refuse to stop moving and would just bop around the house, bouncing off everything in my path, never really getting anywhere."

"I wonder if there's the 50,000 point basket anywhere in here?"

"In the hot shower. Of which I'm entirely too exhausted to strip down and climb into."

"But I don't want to sleep either."

"Tomorrow is going to blow. Worse than that infernal dance."

"When's lights out?"

"Fifteen."

"Shit. Will we ever get a decent night's sleep?"

"Here? Are you kidding me? No. Maybe tomorrow – we'll be half dead."

They rest in silence for a few more moments, not even caring that the hall lights are going to flicker them into forced darkness and inactivity. "Did I see Rachel making out with both Finn and Puck?"

"I believe you did. And didn't she lean in to you during Grenade?"

"I'm trying to forget that, thank you very much. I finally told her I'm gay. She thinks I'm lying."

"She does not."

Blaine finally sits up and does the best Rachel Berry imitation this side of the Ohio River. "If you didn't want to dance with me, Blaine Anderson, you should have just said as much! There's no reason to lie!"

"Maybe we should start making out in front of her."

Blaine freezes. Kurt freezes. "I'll. Just. Go brush. First. And. Stuff. Maybe more pizza rolls?"

"Y—yeah. I'll get those started. So my mouth is full and I can't talk anymore."

Blaine steps into the bathroom and finds Mike standing at the sink, brushing his teeth. He's never been so happy to see the guy since they met. He slides the door closed behind him and leans back against it. "I'm not going to make it this week."

Mike spits and looks at Blaine through the reflection in the mirror. "Is everything okay? You look pale."

"Yeah. I'm—I'm good." He grabs at his toothbrush and loads it with toothpaste, shoving it into his mouth and pulling it back, dry and gross without water. "Yeah. I'm great."

Mike takes the toothbrush from Blaine's limp fingers and runs it under water before handing it back. "Sure. I'm next door if you need anything."

"I need a girl for a roommate is what I need." Mike's eyebrow shoots up and a knowing smile spreads across his face and Blaine thinks he might have to kick him in the nuts. "Stop. Just—no. Go to bed. You didn't hear me say a word."

"This entire conversation never happened. 'Night Maynard."

"Get out of here...I gotta piss."

~~~**~~~

They meet on Kurt's bed again and down pizza rolls in the dark. Kurt falls back onto his pillow in refusal to "do the dishes."

"I did them last time."

"And you can do them again. I'm already comfortable."

Blaine scoffs because Kurt doesn't look even remotely comfortable, cocked peculiarly against the wall with one hand thrown behind his head for a pillow. He tosses the paper plate back onto the desk and crawls up next to him, flopping on his back. "That was exhausting."

"You're so full of shit."

"No, remember? That was band camp last year. Mrs. Guth took care of that with her magic puke-inducing Metamucil cocktail."

"Mmmm. Yes. I remember now." Kurt hikes onto his side, leaning fully against the wall giving Blaine plenty of room. To sniff Kurt's pillow. Or. Whatever it is he's doing in Kurt's bed. In the dark. And not being asked to leave.

So he doesn't.

They are quiet for a while, listening to the hallway noises as everyone shuts down for the evening, their iPod softly playing various Broadway tunes interspersed with Queen's Greatest Hits and Ohio State University Marching Band music.

Blaine wants to ask if he should go to his own bed. But he doesn't want to risk an answer. He wants to ask why Kurt made such a grand effort at ignoring him all day. But he doesn't want to risk that answer either.

He wants to ask where he takes private lessons. But he doesn't want to talk shop. He wants to roll to his side to face Kurt, to let his eyes get used to the dark so he can see the outline of his eyelashes and the moment his cheeks lift and fill as he smiles. But if he moves, he is afraid Kurt will decide the bed is too small for two for a second night in a row, so he rests there, hoping Kurt will talk. Or snore lightly. Or lean over and break the tension with a kiss.

"I'm afraid of vampires."

"What?" That is not on his list of ideas at all.

"You wanted a secret. And bats. I'm afraid of vampires and bats."

"Vampires aren't real, Kurt."

"But the fear is." Kurt moves his hand to the fitted sheet between them and starts to draw swirls into the striped design. "What scares you about thunderstorms?"

"I...don't know. I'm afraid of losing everything? I hate the sounds and...I guess when I was little – before I even have memory of it – I was standing at our back door watching a storm roll in. I had the screen door in my hand and a huge gust of wind came through. It yanked the door from my hand and from its hinges. Blew it right into our neighbor's yard."

"Oh hell, that'd do it."

"It's the only concrete thing Mom and I can attach to it. Well, that and my dad's shitty reaction whenever I cowered. Buck up. Be a man. It's just a storm, son."

Kurt's quiet for a minute and Blaine worries that maybe he agrees with his dad – that he should man up. It is just a storm after all. "Be a man. My favorite expression ever. Like there's one definition for a man – they all look and act and talk and think alike."

"Well, if being a man is anything like being like my dad, then I'd just as soon be a giraffe."

Kurt chuckles softly and Blaine takes that risk and rolls to face Kurt as he speaks. "You have some height issues to overcome first, Maynard."

"Short jokes. You must be getting tired – that's too easy."

"I guess I am."

They fall quiet again, humming along with "Popular" from Wicked, hushing giggles when Blaine's voice cracks on the last note. As they settle, Blaine curls into the pillow, his body relaxing into the mattress. Maybe he's more tired than he originally thought, too.

"So, why are you afraid of vampires?"

"Oh. Probably a childhood thing like you." Kurt snuggles in too, and their bare feet brush and quickly yank back with whispered apologies.

"Should I go back to my—"

"No." They both stop breathing and finally Kurt speaks again. "I mean, unless you want—"

"I don't. We can hear each other better this way."

"Yeah." Kurt's eases his foot to the center of the bed and as he continues his story, Blaine relaxes and just lets limbs fall where they may. It's nice. Just like Kurt's voice. "After my mom's funeral, I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a few days. My uncle was—he always thought I was a bit of a pansy – his word, not mine – and took great pleasure in trying to toughen me up. So, that particular visit he got all these horror movies to watch. And I liked some of them. I thought they were funny – even in elementary school I knew you should not go in that cabin. Down to the basement. Into that super dilapidated house. And they always did. And then they died. Because they were stupid. Those I liked."

"I always loved the moron who called out Is anybody there?"

"Yes! Why don't you just put a target on your forehead?" Kurt rolls onto his stomach, hugging his pillow underneath his head, close enough that when he so much as chuckles, Blaine can feel his breath on his face. This is probably a really bad idea, but he can't bring himself to move. "But, the vampire movies freaked me out. And it's the stupid ones with capes and fake-assed teeth and goony laughs that I hate. The most ridiculous ones to be afraid of."

"So Twilight..."

"Team Jacob. Or...team Taylor Lautner, if we're being particular."

"Can't argue that choice."

"So, my uncle played those dumb movies and then that night, the bastard came into my bedroom dressed like one. I had just fallen asleep and I wasn't at home and my mom was dead and—"

"Oh my god. That's an awful thing to do to a kid."

"Yeah. I wet the bed. I hate vampires."

"Vampires are stupid."

"Thunderstorms suck."

They're quiet for a few moments and Blaine keeps wanting to bring up how he'd felt all morning when Kurt ignored him after the storm. How he worried that maybe Kurt really did think it was stupid, or childish, or that maybe he'd regretted helping or staying with him like that all night. But when he takes in the full picture, the dark room, the way their bare feet have sort of, as if on their own, intertwined under the sheets, the soft way Kurt's voice fills the small space between them, he knows he doesn't need to worry about anything. Whatever was going on in the morning has certainly been tended to now. Because this moment? This moment is perfect.

"Thank you for helping me last night."

"Any time, Maynard. Maybe, if the weather is freaking you out in rehearsals—we should come up with a signal or something."

"What could you even do about it?"

"I don't know. You'll just know I have your back."

"I could start screaming and running around in circles."

"That'd be perfect. Subtle. A thing just between the two of us."

Blaine chuckles and says a prayer of thanks that the room is dark because he is pretty sure he's visibly swooning. The two of us – as if there is such a thing.

The silence is awkward again and Blaine finally decides, "Maybe if I just catch your eye. Look up. You'll know."

"Yeah. Just connect with me, okay? It's August in Ohio – there'll be more storms."

"Should we worry about bat infestations?"

"In that damned barn at your house – that's the first thing I thought of when I saw it."

"You know, I've never been in that thing? God...there probably are bats." Kurt shivers and Blaine reaches out to soothe at his arm. "Harmless bats, I'm sure."

"They're rats with wings. Big, transparent, taloned creepy-assed wings." Kurt shivers again and this time grabs Blaine's hand before he can pull away. "I hate bats. I hate the thought of bats."

"No bats in the dorm room, Kiki."

"No thunderstorms tonight either."

"That's right. Everything is okay tonight."

~~~**~~~

The practice field McKinley uses at Hocking College is on lower ground than the dorms. It's a good five- to ten-minute walk and you have to cross a tiny, rickety footbridge to get there. As Blaine crosses it this early morning, he has to smile, remembering Kurt's words from yesterday warning him to watch his charm with the girls. The footbridge is where a certain kind of girl thrives – squealing and tip-toeing across as though man-eating gators wait for their next meal in the trickling brook that barely flows under it. It's attention-seeking and Blaine has taken the bait every time. Maybe it's time to let the girls fend for themselves – it is only a 3 ft. bridge after all. And last he checked, gators do not reside in Ohio creek beds.

This morning, the journey down to the field is delightfully silent, absent of squealing girls, posturing boys, and demanding band directors. The sun begins to peek over the hills of Athens County and the grass dampens Blaine's ankles with cool dew. He marches a perfect 8-to-5 step out to his spot for chart 55, eight steps off the hash, half-way between the 45 and 50 yard lines. He does a slow four-point turn, bringing his horn up and begins the silent drill, quietly keeping time with a soft, "Hup, hup, hup."

His thoughts when he unexpectedly awoke at 4:30 am, were noisy and scattered and made the single bed with two teenaged boys snuggled together feel cagey and cramped. To avoid waking Kurt, he took his leave and headed to the practice field where he now stands.

He hasn't felt this focused, this tuned-in since the move from Wapak. Landing in Lima felt abrupt – as though he never really grasped the idea that he and his mom were leaving before he was in Jonesy's office auditioning for a band three times the size, with three times the reputation, and – if he is honest with himself – three times the opportunity for musical fulfillment.

In a matter of weeks, rehearsals began and his hopes were no bigger than wanting to fit in, make some new friends and for once, be a part of a successful band program. Instead, he was met with one Kurt "Kiki" Hummel. Kurt, whose biting tone rang in his head for hours after rehearsals, and worse, whose blue eyes and full lips and perfectly toned arms painted his dreams, both day and night.

But now, the cacophony of the last six weeks of his life has disappeared and he is alone with the morning air, the surrounding nature, and his thoughts fixed solely on the charts, the steps and the music that plays in his head.

He's working on the closer, knowing it will be the focus of the day's rehearsals. He wants to get it right. He wants to show Kurt, his section, Jonesy and yes, even himself, that he can be an effective, caring and firm leader of his band. But, if he doesn't know his steps, if he can't march them with precision, he'll lose credibility and the season will continue with Kurt as the grumpy, yet irresistible leader and Blaine as the sensitive new-age pretend boyfriend/best buddy of the trumpet section.

He finishes the set, and marches to his beginning mark again, conscientiously taking each slow step for the ballad that begins the song – what will hopefully be Santana and Mike's duet. The tempo picks up and he begins the tricky drill, hitting each mark, moving along the expanse of the field. He notes where his section might have issues, stopping and going over specific points to get his muscle memory down pat. Congratulating himself for nailing the slide in measure 24, he extends his stride for the upcoming company front, precision more necessary here than anywhere else in the show. He hits the hash on the 20 yard line, forward-faces on a four-count turn and—

"Horns to the box!"

He snaps his horn up as if shooting sound to the press box and smiles behind his mouthpiece.

Solitude is overrated.

Kurt stands in his own spot eight yards away and they march forward with a kick-step, horns angled perfectly, their unified, "Hup, hup, hup," ticking off the tempo as they bring their two-man company front to its climactic end, spinning off into the last routine before the final push to the end of the show.

As designed, they lower their horns on a slow four-count and snap to attention as if waiting for the off-field cadence. Blaine doesn't move but a smile spreads across his face.

"What are doing down here, Maynard?"

"I suppose I could ask you the same thing." Blaine finally relaxes and walks off-field to wipe down his ankles from the morning dew.

"I reached for you and—" He stops and Blaine looks up to find Kurt blushing. Kurt motions for Blaine to toss him the towel, not doing a very good job at hiding the pink on his cheeks and ears. "You were gone. I got worried." He wipes down his ankles and sneakers and goes to toss the towel back. "How'd you bypass the hall monitors anyway? I practically had to sacrifice my left nut to get down here."

Blaine catches the towel and laughs, motioning to the first aid station where Mrs. Lopez is sitting quietly reading a book.

"You charmed a band mom."

"She was easy." At that, Mrs. Lopez looks up to the boys and waves.

"You, um—you looked really good...m—marching, I mean. Your drill was dead on."

Blaine's not sure what to do with Kurt's sudden shyness, but it's disarming him. He marks his spot for another run-through as he speaks. "Thanks. We've all struggled since we got it Sunday. But it's the end, you know? It has to be perfect." Blaine turns to the sideline where Kurt stands and opens his arms in invitation. "Start with me this time?"

Kurt smiles, but shakes his head. "Why don't we reset one. Top to bottom."

"Alright. Full show. Then, I have Reveille."

"I sort of like waking up this way instead." Kurt takes in his surroundings and smiles as he marches to his opening spot. "This is nice; just the two of us."

And there it is again – the two of us - but instead of trying to call attention to it, make sense of it, probably make more of it than Kurt intends, he lifts his horn and ticks off a four-count to begin.