Blaine approached the apartment complex hesitantly. Unlike his own building, this one was single-story with rows of apartments all opening toward the sidewalk. It looked older and more run-down than his own complex but seemed to be populated mostly by slightly older students - at least, judging from the ones he saw milling around on their way to and from running errands. That made sense, he supposed as he triple-checked the slip of paper in his hand against the address over the first door. This was definitely the right place...not that the knowledge did anything to calm his nerves.

What was he doing? This was dumb - there were no circumstances under which this could go well. He was placing himself in harm's way, and for what? What did he think could come of this?

He shook his head and turned to leave, but his curiosity once again got the better of him. Why would Peter give him his address? Why had he- and when? Because Blaine certainly didn't remember it, but he had to acknowledge that wasn't the best barometer for anything these days.

His need for answers growing, Blaine seized on the moment and strode to the apartment door, knocking before he could change his mind. He rapped on the door twice and for a moment hoped he had everything wrong. As embarrassing as it would be to have the wrong apartment - or for the apartment to actually belong to a girl he'd flirted with on Thursday - at least then he wouldn't have to try to create an excuse for why he'd come to see someone who left him so vulnerable to a relapse.

This was foolish. What exactly was he going to say when the door opened, anyway? Ask why he had this address? Apologize for throwing up on Peter the night before, because while he couldn't remember if he had, there was a better than even chance? Thank him for taking out all the trash? He had no idea what to-

Before Blaine could talk himself out of being there, the door opened to reveal Peter. He was dressed in what Blaine imagined was supposed to be casual clothing - a Fair Isle sweater vest in reds and blues over a starched white shirt, with wide-leg grey trousers. He looked surprised a moment, then his face broke into a wide smile. "Blaine."

Blaine fumbled for what to say - for which question to ask first - but what came out instead was the product of too many years of social training. "Peter. I hope this isn't a bad time - I should have called first."

"Nonsense. Come in," Peter urged, stepping back to let him in. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Coffee would be great if you have some."

"Of course, it's no trouble," Peter replied. "Go ahead and have a seat." He gestured toward the right off the tiny entryway as he veered left into the kitchen. Blaine stepped into the living room slowly. The conversation was odd, much more like one he'd have in Ohio instead of at school. Most boys he knew considered "hospitality" the act of tossing a beer in the direction of whoever had just walked in. Peter's polite formality was an unnerving change...but he knew in a way he should expect nothing less from someone who dressed as the man did. Even so, it only increased his feeling of needing to get out as quickly as he possibly could before he could be sucked into a world of cocktail parties and fake smiles and rote questions.

There was a middle ground, he reminded himself, between the looseness of a fraternity party and the icy rules his parents lived by. Some of the best times he'd ever had were meals with the Warblers, where a group of well-mannered boys in blazers and ties could gather around a table and both be civilized and joke with one another. Manners and hospitality were not a reason to bolt.

Even if he did seem to be desperately looking for one.

Blaine looked around the living room slowly, studying it as he waited for Peter to return. The room was small, maybe 10 feet on each side, but he didn't see a bed which led him to conclude there was a separate room - unlike his own studio and his old dorm and pretty much every other space near campus that was rented by a single student rather than a group of friends. The space was further limited by the bookcases that lined the walls - from floor to about a foot below the ceiling, everywhere except where the doors and windows made that impossible. The couch sat against a large built-in bookcase that allowed books to continue further up the wall but didn't require seating to block any reading material. In one corner sat a wingback chair with a lamp pointed over the back; in another corner, a beautiful old gramophone rested on a dark oak table, its bell gleaming in the mid-afternoon sunlight that streamed through the living room window.

Blaine wasn't sure he'd ever seen so many books outside a library in his life. His father's study, like most he'd seen, had several bookcases full of professional references, but that was nothing compared to the thousands of tomes before him. He took a few steps toward the shelf nearest to him, browsing through the authors - Hemingway, Joyce, none of them in the least surprising given Peter's apparent obsession with the era. But those authors comprised only a small portion of Peter's collection. Blaine could see entire cases crammed with books on ancient civilizations - Greeks, Romans, a smattering of others like Egyptians and Babylonians and old Chinese dynasties...

"Getting them all here was a nightmare," Peter offered from the doorway, and Blaine jumped, startled. He turned to see the dapper man carrying a silver service tray. He set it on the side table and asked, "How do you take it?'

"Black, two sugars."

"And strong after last night," Peter supposed. Something about his tone made Blaine uneasy. It wasn't quite judgmental, nor was it entirely understanding, and the note of worry made him even more uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly, forcing a faint smile, and thankfully Peter moved on. "Like I said, it was hellish getting them all back here," he stated as he added two spoonfuls of sugar to the cup, giving it a cursory stir before handing it to Blaine with a saucer. The set was old and at one time Blaine was sure it looked elegant and expensive. Now years of discolouration and a few nicks gave the set a distinctly secondhand appearance; still, they were certainly nicer than the thick ceramic mug he had at home. Peter began to fix himself a cup of tea with cream. "Most of them are from before I went abroad, so those were easy enough to get out of storage and bring here. But I picked up so many books over there - there was a lovely used bookstore in Oxford, and every time I went I found at least a few I needed to read. Of course, sending them all back would have cost more in Airmail than I spent in two years away, so I convinced every classmate I had who was coming to the West Coast to stuff as many as they could fit into their luggage. It worked well, except it meant having to drive up and down California collecting them," he reported, smiling, adding, "Well, and the batch that Rudolfo is still holding hostage in West Germany. A friend of his planned to start at USF this year but ended up going to monitor elections in Alabama instead."

"Did he do Freedom Summer, too?" Blaine asked. "Or did he just start in the fall?"

Peter lit up at Blaine's question. "He went in September. His course didn't end until August. I wanted to go so badly, but I barely had to time to move and get set up here as it was. To be part of something so important?" He looked far away for a moment, as though picturing himself down in the rural South, single-handedly bringing justice to people who had none, and Blaine had to wonder just what kind of hero complex this guy had. Was that what all this was about - with the note and words of wisdom and taking him home? "Did you go?"

"No," Blaine replied. He had thought about it - and he had wanted to on some level, but there was something about it that felt too dangerous. Not just because of what he would have been fighting for and how much active resistance there was to it, but-...

He knew on some level it was dumb. No one could tell the things about him that made him different. No one would know that he should technically be "coloured" there - right? Did they consider Oriental or Malay or whatever crude term as separate down there? Maryland certainly did, he remembered that much. And no one knew he was sick there, either, which was good because it was a felony. Giving in to his illness would land him in jail for years, and he didn't want to think about having to call his parents to tell them...bad enough to be imprisoned for defying societal norms and trying to change people, but that...
Stanford had sent a large contingent. Blaine could picture at least three buses pulling off-campus back in June, filled with eager young students determined to fix things. He wondered if they came back brimming with pride at what they had accomplished, or if they were too changed...like how the Warblers were never quite the same after giving up Nationals. Or like the feeling he never quite shook after that drive-in was raided. Being confronted with that kind of hatred did things to people, leaving them with an irrepressible sense of wrongness, of anger and indignancy but also resignation. People were truly awful...and he should have known that.

Maybe it was different for those students, Blaine realized. Maybe it only felt like that to people whose own secrets were lurking too close to the surface, or who were very clearly impacted by those laws. All he had known was that, while he wholeheartedly admired the idea of Freedom Summer, the reality wasn't something he wanted to experience.
But he couldn't say that to Peter, who looked so fascinated by it all, so he simply replied, "I had to take care of things. The Mendicants don't run themselves." The lie went unquestioned as Peter sipped his tea, looking him up and down.

"So last night," Peter began without hedging or mincing around the topic, and Blaine swallowed hard around his mouthful of coffee. "Obviously I don't know you very well-"

"I'm sorry," Blaine stated unequivocally. "I shouldn't have needed you to help me get home, and even though I appreciate you cleaning up, you didn't need to-"

"Those were a lot of bottles."

"I could have-"

"Blaine, I'm pretty sure Zelda Fitzgerald didn't clean up that many bottles." The obscure reference didn't surprise him from anyone with the nickname "Gatsby," but Blaine wasn't sure exactly what to say to that. Peter took advantage of the pause to add, "I wouldn't say anything. I'm certainly no teetotaler. I understand you like to have a good time - so do I. But of four times I've seen you, you were too drunk to see straight. And you obviously drink alone, and you aren't a tortured writer, so-"

"Four times?" Blaine repeated, counting them up in his head. The first party, the first day of class, last night-...and Thursday, when he had given him the address. It had to be. What other time- "What happened Thursday?" When Peter didn't immediately answer, he added, "Why did I have your address in my bag on Friday morning?"

Peter stirred his tea absently before replying simply, "I gave it to you. I ran into you at a bar my friend Lucy took me to, and you didn't look so good. I hoped you might come talk sometime because I know how hard it must be for you."

Blaine blinked. That didn't make any sense. Peter knew virtually nothing about him. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly, eyes narrowing.

"Feeling...different," Peter offered with a vague flick of his wrist and a pointed look. "Not being able to just fade into obscurity like the rest of your classmates. Trying to deflect attention by getting all the eyes in the room and pointing them toward what you want them to see. Feeling...wrong all the time." Peter's look grew more pointed again, and Blaine froze, sitting so stiffly upright on the couch that he was afraid his shoulders might lock into place like that.

How did he know? Did anyone else? Was he so obvious that- he tried not to let any of his symptoms show. Had he made a mistake? Said something? Or- oh God, done something - he was too drunk to remember that let Peter in on his deepest secret?

"I don't-" he tried, mouth and throat dry as cotton balls.

"Blaine. Of course you do." Peter's patronizing tone might have been infuriating if he hadn't been so terrified.

His fingers clutched tightly around the handle of his teacup as he tried to figure out what to say. He did know what Peter meant - of course he did - but how in the world could Peter know he was sick? He hadn't relapsed, he hadn't-...had he said something while he was drunk? Tried something last night that he couldn't remember? But instead of fearful questions, what came out was defensive. "You can't go around accusing people of that," he stated sharply, glowering at the man in the wingback chair with all the contempt he felt for himself for being in such a position in the first place. "It's a serious problem - do you know how much an accusation like that can ruin a person's life? How would you feel if someone went around saying that about you?"

The question surprised Blaine as it flew out of his mouth, but that was nothing compared to Peter's reaction. The man set down his cup, face neutral with just a hint of defiance - Blaine assumed pride in not rising to the bait of the question - and sat back in the chair, legs crossed to reveal a strip of blue and red argyle sock before the top of his loafers. "I am," he stated, his voice quiet but clear as he looked Blaine in the eye. "People are free to say anything about me as long as it's true. So let them say that all they want."

Blaine froze, staring at him in disbelief. Did he-...did Peter know what he was letting himself be called- and not just that, but what he was admitting to? Did he even realize what that meant for him? What people would say that, while apparently true, would be far from flattering?

Even Kurt had the good sense to sound nervous the first time he admitted his illness. Blaine could still remember- in his car, on the drive back to school after the most tempting, torturous weekend he'd experienced up to that point, sleeping in the bed of a boy who was so kind and smelled so nice...he'd been terrified when Kurt had asked if he was-...and that was right, Blaine pointed out to himself, justifying even the memory. It was supposed to be uncomfortable to admit to something like that. People didn't brag about being murderers or kleptomaniacs, either. Uncontrollable urges to do what was wrong should be treated, should go away, and shouldn't be tossed about so casually like they didn't even matter - or worse, like there was nothing wrong with them at all.

Kurt was that way by the end. Wanting to celebrate it and keep living that way, and that was why it had to end. He couldn't be around someone who didn't even care about his well-being...and certainly not someone who wanted them to both remain so sick. Even Kurt hadn't been quite as cavalier as this, though, so nonchalant...

Which meant Peter was even more dangerous to his health.

Blaine's eyes widened and he swallowed hard, gaze darting to the exit as though, if he were to disappear quickly enough back through the door and toward the safety of his home, he could erase this entire afternoon. Maybe if he left as soon as he could, he could keep from being too late - he could keep from being influenced by someone who so clearly didn't want to get better. No one who admitted it so casually and freely could be anything other than a difficult case.

...He wasn't the only one, Blaine knew that too well. There were men, even ones his father saw, who didn't think there was anything wrong with them. They were forced to get help by their families because they were too far gone, too deranged, to even realize that they were hurting everyone including themselves. They were the hardest cures to find; anyone who didn't want to get better would be hard-pressed to be convinced otherwise. And Peter...

His eccentricity should have given him away from the beginning, Blaine realized with a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He should have known this would happen, should have known exactly how sick he was. Clearly the man didn't care what people thought about him, walking around in the clothes he did, showing up at parties for programs that weren't even his own-...there were things a person didn't do, and Peter clearly thought nothing of those conventions.

For someone who had been well longer, or felt more stable in his illness, it might not be a problem...but considering how tenuous his grasp was on his condition, considering how much he had wanted-

"I have to go," he said quickly, setting his teacup and saucer on the table with a clatter as he stood.

"Why?" Peter asked evenly.

"Because you're the last person I can be around."

Blaine headed quickly for the door, expecting Peter to walk him out like anyone with that many manners would do, but instead the man remained seated, legs crossed elegantly at the knee, reclining comfortably as he bade in an even tone, "Come back any time, Blaine. I do mean that."

Somehow the invitation just made him feel even sicker to his stomach. He yanked the door open and practically sprinted down the sidewalk, wanting to retreat to the safety and isolation of his apartment as quickly as humanly possible.

By the time Blaine reached his apartment complex, he was breathless, so winded and dizzy he couldn't even contemplate making it up the stairs. He leaned against the wall instead, gasping for breath and trying to steady himself. It felt as though every part of his body were trying to close in on itself while his head throbbed agonizingly in time with his over-pumping heart. And his stomach...He swallowed hard against the rising bile as the organ clenched and grimaced at the burn in his throat.

No. He wouldn't be sick again. He wouldn't.

Blaine drew in a deep breath then swallowed again, managing to only feel a little like he was choking this time. He repeated the calming motion three times more, and by the time he drew in his fifth deep breath he could feel his lungs start to fill normally instead of trying to immediately send the air right back out in a sharp pant. His gut settled from a rolling boil to a slow simmer, nausea still there but the danger of throwing up all over the wall - or his shoes - gone for now. Blaine began slowly up the steps to his apartment, taking his time to be sure each movement of his feet landed squarely on each platform. The last thing he needed, as dizzy and exhausted as he was, was to go tumbling back down to where he had been thanks to one minor yet tragic misstep.

Of all the things he didn't need...

Blaine finally reached his home, turning the key in the lock and almost sighing in relief as he heard the metal click of the tumbler and felt the door give way. Tossing his keys onto the desk, he flopped back against the bed, eyes closed, so tired he couldn't fathom being able to move for at least a few hours.

Why did Peter have to be sick, too? he wondered defeatedly. It was so much easier when they weren't. When the object of his perverted obsessions couldn't ever return them - and would destroy Blaine if he ever knew - it was much easier to keep everything in check. Mutuality was so much more dangerous. If Kurt hadn't been even sicker than he was, he could have stayed a moderate case. And the last thing Blaine wanted was a repeat of that disaster.

He groaned as he caught sight of Peter's note on the nightstand. At a time like this, it felt almost cruel. He didn't have to live like this? He would give anything not to live like this, not to feel so constantly sick and wrong, not to be forever at war with himself and barely one step ahead of a lifetime in a psychiatric hospital. Who wouldn't give up anything not to live like that anymore? But it was hopeless - he was hopeless. The best he could do was try to avoid everything and everyone who might cause him to relapse.

But how? Peter seemed to appear everywhere - every time he went out, at bars, at practically every party on campus... The only way to avoid him would be to stop going out.

...Unless...was that what the note was really about?

Four years of parties had left him completely exhausted, Blaine realized - even moving his fingers felt impossible right now, and not just because he'd run home so quickly. He had been able to run without feeling like he might honestly die at one point, he remembered with a nostalgic smile. And though he couldn't remember it, he was pretty sure there had been a time it didn't hurt to open his eyes in the morning. There was a time before the now-omnipresent headache and queasiness, before he felt like his life must involve being dragged behind a truck every night for how wretched he felt in the morning.

He was pretty sure there was even a time he could remember his entire day instead of being left to wonder what he'd done after about 8 every night.

The parties had been great at first: they had been the best way for him to meet people, especially since the Mendicants weren't around until his senior year, and an even better way to show off for girls. How else was he going to find a way to fit in as the awkward kid from the Midwest hiding a secret he'd had to run across the country to try to get away from? And drinking had been a huge part of that - it made it so much easier to feel normal, which he'd welcomed with open arms. But now...if he was still staring at boys - or a boy, anyway - no matter how much liquor he had in his system, and if he woke up not knowing what he'd done or whom he'd done it with, which put him so badly at risk...maybe being so drunk wasn't worth it anymore.

Feeling physically ill every morning felt like a small price to pay to no longer feel sick. But it didn't make any sense at all to feel both at once.

Besides, he reasoned, if he stopped going out, he didn't have to worry about running into Peter anywhere except on-campus, and it was easy enough to make an excuse to get away from a conversation there. He just had to say he was on his way to class and the boy would be none the wiser. And he was sure he could still find a way to meet girls. He was fairly certain he had the perfect vehicle for that already.

So that settled it.

Pleased with himself and his decision, he settled in with a quiet groan to spend a lazy day nursing his hangover.

* * * * *

By Thursday, Blaine was finally starting to feel normal again.

He wasn't expecting to feel so awful from not drinking anymore. Somehow, though, he'd spent all day Sunday feeling as physically awful as he would have if he'd gone out on Saturday instead of lying around with staff paper and trying to arrange as much of several arrangements as he could with the nearest piano all the way across campus. Mostly he couldn't get past the dreams, though, replete with themes of being swallowed by something much larger than himself: an immense chasm, a toothy creature at least six stories tall, blackness of indeterminate origin...he awoke from each nightmare with a choked-off scream and an unshakable sense of doom that hung over him all day along with the exhaustion that he couldn't get enough sleep to combat. And he couldn't figure out why his hands kept trembling like he'd been throwing up all day; eventually it was bad enough to have to put aside everything but his school reading. By Sunday night and Monday he felt too lousy to even do that, and had to settle for lying in the dark with his record player on quietly in the background. But by Tuesday night, he was feeling less queasy and anxious, and by the time he awoke on Thursday morning, he felt almost good. Not only had whatever was wrong with him apparently passed, but the Mendicants had tentatively planned to debut their new song - and sound - today.

They were ready, Blaine decided as he looked around the group of thirteen eager young men that surrounded him in their usual practice room. As ready as they could be, anyway. He didn't want to over-practice them and lose all the spontaneity - that was part of what made the best performances. It was definitely part of the Mendicants' tradition at this point. Hell, learning a song more than 20 minutes before the first performance was almost too structured for some of the guys. He needed to strike the right balance. After all, it was his call now, as the leader. He wanted to make the right decisions for the group - not just so they would respect him, though he did want that. Mostly he just didn't want to let them all down. They didn't need him causing them public humiliation by taking them out before they were ready.

He needed to do something right, especially this week. And this wasn't just about doing right by himself - unlike everything else - it was about the reputation of a dozen other guys.

"Okay, guys," he said brightly, feeling genuinely confident about their chances for success today. "Let's go make some girls swoon." An enthusiastic cheer went up at that, and Blaine grinned as he led the group out of the music building and onto the Farm. This was a little different from last year; under Hank's direction, they had tended to perform only in the dorms, usually - okay, always -in the girls' dorms during meals, when the largest number of impressable females would be around. But there were plenty of people on-campus who would never hear them that way, Blaine had concluded, so it was time to bring the Mendicants out into the open.

At just before lunchtime on a Thursday, the Main Quad was teeming with students. Blaine raised his hand to shade his eyes from the gleaming midday sun, scanning the area for the best spot between the clusters of students laughing, talking, and pretendnig to study. The three grand arches at the end of the Quad seemed to be a perfect place - easy to see, with better than average accoustics for an outdoor performance, with more than enough room for the group of them to sing and dance their hearts out. Blaine grinned as the two boys who had been standing in the middle of the center arch gathered their books and headed toward the library. With a long, confident stride, he led the group toward his target. He couldn't help but feel a shiver of pride as he felt the crowd part as the line of boys walked through. Even if he knew they had to part for 14 people, it reminded him of the way it had felt to enter a room as part of the Warblers - all heads turned, conversations stopped, and it was so...invigorating.

He turned to help arrange the group on the steps, making sure they were grouped roughly by parts since it was something only a few of the guys would think to do on their own. A couple of them looked nervous, but Blaine couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so relaxed and natural. "Just like we practiced - they'll love us," he stated encouragingly as he pulled his pitchpipe from his front pocket and blew their opening note.

He had forgotten how electric a simple hum could be - starting quietly as each Mendicant picked up the pitch, then swelling into harmony as each found his own opening note from there. In this case, all but two singers began with a five-part chord in the second measure, and as Blaine hummed his own first note there was such a sense of connectedness... The sound grew until it hung around them all, surrounding them, then drifted off into the warm air as the chord faded but the energy remained. The small moment of absolute unity left Blaine breathless but invigorated, and he beamed as he counted them off, then turned to face the growing crowd.

Round, round, get around - yeah
Get around, round, round, I get around
I get around, from town to town
I'm a real cool head, I'm makin' real good bread

Blaine let the music envelope him as he waited to begin his solo. The group sounded fantastic - the way the sound just expanded on the first chord was magnificent, and they were all staying in time and tune, even though the easiest part to rush was the "get around round"s under Jerry's solo. They sounded absolutely perfect, and Blaine couldn't have been more glad he had decided to let them perform today. Even beyond seeing the crowd grow and dance along, he could feel their enthusiasm, and that meant that by the time he was supposed to sing, he would barely even need to reel them in because they would already be eating out of his hand.

When it was time for him to start, he practically bounded out of the gate, more than ready, itching to begin. He attacked each note powerfully, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he sang.

I'm gettin' bugged drivin' up and down this same old strip
I've gotta find a new place where the kids are hip
My buddies 'n' me are gettin' real well-known, yeah
The bad guys know us and they leave us alone

Blaine had forgotten what this felt like. He knew that was ridiculous - he had sung with the Mendicants last year, even if he hadn't sung much lead under Hank's leadership with the more choral repertoire...and he sang at parties at least a couple times a month, but-

...Had it been so long since he'd done this without having a few beers first? Because even though he swore he remembered loving the feeling of performing to a crowd of screaming girls - and impressed, jealous guys - he didn't recall anything feeling quite this incredible in-...wow, in years, if he was being really honest. Performing on coffee tables and staircases and bouncing through kitchens had the same kind of hazy fuzz around them that everything else from parties did: he remembered doing it, he remembered enjoying it at the time, but the actual joyous feeling was dulled a little. It was certainly nothing like this.

He tried to remember when he had last felt this free, like he could just keep singing until he floated away. It was before this group, he knew that, and definitely before all his music classes - he enjoyed them and always performed readily, but it was far more restrained and required a lot more concentration. It wasn't the same as just opening his mouth and letting everything go like this. For this, he would have to go back-...

...had he really not felt this since the Warblers? Had it been that long - five years? - since he'd been able to do this? Dance around and sing and... No wonder he was so miserable.

I get around from town to town
I'm a real cool head, I'm makin' real good bread

The realization hit him suddenly, and he was glad his solo was over by the so he didn't get carried off by his train of thought. But when he thought it that way, it made so much more sense. That was what he enjoyed so much about parties - the heartfelt singing to woo girls, the ability to show off and let himself be a star, to let himself stand out in ways he knew he shouldn't want so much. Everything could just flow out of him when he sang, like all the bits of wrong bottled up inside him could come out and relieve him of the weight. If the only way he'd been able to do that for the past four years...if the only release he'd had in nearly half a decade involved alcohol...no wonder he couldn't remember much of college.

But if that were why...then the solution was simple. The Mendicants were right behind him, and he could easily hop up and sing whenever he wanted. The guys were eager enough to learn a new song every week, and he was willing to bet that as long as he had this every Thursday, he could easily stay away from all the parties on Friday and Saturday - and with it, the drinking, and the boy who wouldn't leave him alone.

I get around, round, get around round round oo
Wa-wa oo

Blaine almost laughed right along with the crowd as Eddie sang the exaggerated guitar part. It looked like half of campus had wandered over, even though Blaine knew logically it wasn't really that many people. And one of those people just happened to be a very attractive girl about three rows back. She listened to them with her eyes half-closed, as though trying to decide whether to risk losing the visuals of the performance to let the music carry her away. He didn't know anyone else who might listen to a group like them that way, but he was instantly taken with the idea...and determined to make it worth her while to keep her eyes open. With renewed enthusiasm, he began his next verse.

We always take my car 'cause it's never been beat
And we've never missed yet with the girls we meet.

He tried to catch her eye on the line, but her head was tilted partway to the side as she listened intently. Frustrated but far from defeated, he turned his focus to the remainder of the throng. Plenty of girls watched him as he clapped along with the group, bopping along.

None of the guys go steady 'cause it wouldn't be right
To leave your best girl home on a Saturday night.

He finally - at last! - managed to get her attention on the last line, giving a playful wink. He expected the same blush-and-smile he'd come to expect from girls when he smiled their way - at least when he was singing. Instead, she rolled her eyes a little. The look would have stung more if she hadn't been smiling - like she got what he was trying to do and found it cute in a patronizing way instead of the way he'd become accustomed to. Nothing about her was like the rest of the girls, Blaine concluded - or, at least, nothing that mattered was like the others, because physically she was on par with plenty of other young ladies in the audience with her shoulder-length brown hair and pale skin. And that just made him want to try harder to win her over.

That wasn't new for him. Hank had sworn that every other Mendicant took any girl that wanted him - and had his pick - while Blaine only wanted the girls who didn't find him charming. It wasn't intentional, not that Blaine could tell consciously at any rate (though he was sure his father would have plenty to say about it anyway). Those girls were just the most interesting. They gave him something to look for, to explore, to figure out...

The extra points he got from the guys when he sealed the deal with a girl who played hard-to-get helped, especially at parties. But really, he just wanted to know what made the girl tick. What interesting things she heard in their music. And what it would take for her to think he was charming. He was at his best when he sang, so if that wouldn't cut it...

I get around, from town to town
I'm a real cool head, I'm makin' real good bread
Round, round, get around, I get around!

Applause and cheers thundered around the fourteen boys as they finished, breathless and triumphant. If the Beatles heard louder screams, Blaine concluded, they would certainly be deaf by now. They had done it: they had managed to make their first performance of the year - and their first out-in-the-open performance ever - a smashing success. Sure, there were kinks they could still iron out: Jerry didn't quite hit a few of the highest notes cleanly, though Blaine was confident no one else would notice because he managed to make it sound stylistic instead of a vocal failing; Matt still lagged a bit, while Craig rushed the bass line going into the "wa-wa oo"s. But it had been a great performance.

And so much fun. He felt like he could breathe again - really draw a full breath and feel it fill his whole body. He'd needed this, even more than he had realized. The freedom, the way he felt so much lighter - and, best of all, an afternoon free of any signs of illness. He'd be fine as long as he could keep doing this all the time. Better - he'd be perfect.

The crowed began to break up when it became clear that there weren't more songs coming. Some wandered to class, others headed off to get food. A healthy number of girls stayed to talk to - and flirt with - the group of ecstatic boys behind him. Blaine slipped past several girls who were clearly trying to get his attention, bounding over to where the girl he'd noticed stood talking with her friend. He needed something cool to say to start the conversation, something that would win her over in a way that the song evidently hadn't. "Hi."

She looked up, giggling at something her friend had said. "Hello," she replied dryly with a faint smile.

She didn't respond to the winning grin, but Blaine was undeterred. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I thought you were pretty sure of yourself considering your first tenor slid onto every high note and your bass rushed the break," she replied with an easy, matter-of-fact tone.

That wasn't the answer Blaine had been expected. "You know your stuff," he stated with a note of appreciation. She really had been listening when she looked like she might get lost in the music. "I haven't seen you around the Music Department."

"I've only been here a week. I just transferred from Berklee."

"A lot of trouble to move about 50 miles, isn't it?" Blaine asked, and she laughed. She lit up, Blaine noticed, feeling like he could swoon at the way her entire face brightened.

"No - the 'other' Berklee. In Boston."

"Oh - the school of music, not-"

"Yeah," she smiled, nodding.

If she'd been appealing before, the knowledge that she would understand the same language he did made her even more incredible as far as Blaine was concerned. "My name's Blaine," he said, holding out his hand, and his heart leapt as she took it.

"Evelyn Hoff," she replied.

For years, he'd been trying to figure out how to feel the things everyone else felt when they looked at girls; he couldn't be sure, but was pretty sure the fluttery nerves in his stomach were a good sign - and so was the fact that he couldn't help but smile whenever he saw her. "Can I take you to dinner, Evelyn?" he asked. When she hesitated, he added in a rush, "It's just rare to find a girl who appreciates music as much as do, and I thought-"

She grinned slyly as she observed, "You sing much more confidently than you speak."

It was true, of course, but he wasn't used to anyone else noticing - let alone commenting on it. "Music's just easier sometimes," he admitted, hoping she would understand. Most people didn't, even within the music department...even within the Mendicants. Most of them just enjoyed music, it wasn't something so all-consuming as it was for him.

To his relief, she smiled more broadly at that as she replied, "Almost all the time." She paused in thought, then replied, "Yes. You can take me to dinner." In a smooth motion, she pulled a pen out of her notebook and turned Blaine's hand to write her phone number across his palm. "I have to get to class. It was nice meeting you." She tucked her pen back into her spiral notebook and hurried off with her friend while Blaine stood in place and watched her go.

See? Who needed parties and drinking when he had music to get an incredible girl like that?