Blaine stood at the base of the archway, staring at the campus around him. It hadn't been so long since he had been here last; he thought a moment, counting back - two weeks and maybe a couple days since his last final. Could that be right? Surely not, not with how much had happened. Things couldn't possibly change that quickly. How had he been standing in this very spot only a fortnight ago, trying not to think about going to his parents' house so he wouldn't start to panic, and now...

"Blaine!" Peter's voice shook him from his thoughts, and he turned to see the boy- his boy, he guessed now - heading toward him. His gait was measured but eager, a spring in his wingtips as he strode across the plaza. "I wondered if I might run into you."

Blaine smiled faintly, his expression nothing compared to Peter's hundred-watt grin. He was dressed formally for the first day back, his blue doublebreasted suit and blue and green tie bringing out the flecks of light blue in his green eyes, and he-

No, Blaine scolded himself. He couldn't start thinking about that here. Not because he wasn't allowed to feel things - he knew better than that now, but...he couldn't around people who weren't like them. If he let himself start thinking about the shade of Peter's eyes or the way his smile lit up the entire quad or what his lips felt like when he leaned over to kiss hello the night before-

A sudden fear gripped him as Peter got within arm's reach. Did Peter understand? Did the boy who lived his life so eccentrically with such pride understand that there were still limits and decorum? Surely he had to, Blaine tried to assure himself, but he couldn't be certain. What if Peter didn't realize that what they did within the safe confines of one of their apartments - or even in a dark corner of a ballroom full of fellow homosexuals - wasn't something they could do in public?

That was ridiculous, Blaine thought as he rolled his eyes at his own lunacy. Of course Peter knew. He was eccentric. He was proud. He wasn't that blind.

Even if it wasn't fair that a party or a bar could be broken up just for touching, let alone kissing, but boys and girls kissed each other chastely hello on campus sometimes. It was a little overly affectionate for public, but it didn't lead to anyone threatening to call the police.

Peter touched his arm, and Blaine stopped breathing for a moment before remembering that was how the young man had greeted him countless times before. He wasn't acting any differently. He understood and had enough of a sense of decorum to not create a state-wide scandal. "Hi," Blaine managed, his smile growing a little. "How's your first day back?"

"Tedious and predictable, I'm afraid," he sighed. "Of course, since it's my penultimate term it's really just a matter of meeting with a handful of advisors to be sure I'm on track to finish on time. How has your day been, my boy?"

Would anyone else hear the term of endearment and know- Blaine shook his head slightly in response to his own question. Peter had called him that for months without anyone finding either of them the least bit suspicious. It was just so strange being outside their protective bubble for the first time in the nine days of their relationship, that was all. He was fine - they both were.

"I'm looking forward to a few of my classes," Blaine replied. "I'm going to meet with the Mendicants in a few minutes to make plans for the next month or two, then I have one more lecture. Are you done for the day?"

Peter nodded. "I was just on my way home. I've seen everyone I need to see and picked up the last few books I've been looking for at the library, and now it's time to bury myself in research. Which is why I'm glad I caught you." He shifted his books to his hip, digging through the stack as he spoke. "A friend of mine sent this down, it arrived this morning." He tugged out a sheet of goldenrod paper by its corner, then handed it to Blaine. "I couldn't believe it. They're never this organized about things like this."

Blaine studied the flyer, eyes wide. In thick black mimeographed letters, the banner across the top read "STOP THE ARRESTS!" Beneath was a sketch of California hall with police cars drawn crudely lining both sides of the corner, followed by detailed drawings of four people. Blaine recognized the ticket-taker immediately, and he swallowed hard. Why would anyone circulate pictures like this except to humiliate the people who were arrested? Who in their right minds would claim they were supporting the people in the pictures while showing it to the world? The police had been taking photographs to embarrass attendees, and at least that Blaine could understand - he loathed it, but he understood what they were trying to do. What could this possibly help?

Or was this another thing they didn't understand because they weren't homosexuals themselves? Like the young woman who had shouted at the police in the ballroom- they didn't understand because they didn't constantly fear showing up in the newspaper and losing everything? He couldn't even fathom that kind of freedom.

"Why did they put pictures?" he asked, blinking. "You would think someone would stop them."

"To show they're not afraid," Peter replied with a shrug. "To bring a human face to the injustice. Like photographs of those villagers in Vietnam whose homes have been destroyed by American pilots. What's more effective: showing an aerial photograph of rubble blending into the jungle, or showing a woman and her child sitting on what used to be their front stoop and is now nothing but a heap of thatch and mud?"

Blaine supposed he did have a point, and he nodded and kept reading. The poster described the events of New Years Eve, complete with the police raid and arrest of four people who had helped organize the ball - apparently the justification they were using had nothing to do with the identity of the patrons but with the obstruction of justice because they had tried to stop the police from entering the party.

At the bottom of the flyer, in larger letters than the story, was a plea:

Show the police we will not be harassed!

There were several dates beneath that - some sort of protest, something about the courthouse in San Francisco - as well as information for how to help with the legal fees, but Blaine couldn't focus on anything but the bold lettering. The audacity of what they were asking for...

Was it really so much? The ability to go to a New Year's Eve party without having it broken up by the police for no legitimate reason- wasn't that something everyone should be able to take for granted?

"Do you know what happens next for them?" Blaine asked, tearing his eyes from the paper to look up at Peter.

Peter gave a half-nod, half-shrug. "A trial at some point. I know they're out on bail."

"You don't know anything else?"

"Law isn't exactly my field, my boy," he pointed out with a playful cuff of his shoulder. "Friends will keep us updated though. There's an informal phone chain for things like this." He paused for a moment, then asked, "What time do you have to meet with your band of singing gentlemen?"

Blaine grinned at the description, then glanced down at his watch. "Five minutes ago," he replied. He hated being late, especially when it would keep the others waiting - plus it was a really bad example for a leader to set-

"I understand," Peter replied. "I'll let you go. But first..." He glanced around at the ambivalent students across the plaza, then dropped his voice as he asked with a knowing smirk, "Do you have any plans for tonight?"

Blaine shook his head slightly. "I know I'll have reading to do, but that's all."

"Want to bring your books over to my place?" he asked with a look that made clear he knew Blaine's answer already. "Research is always more fun when there's company."

The way his gaze was leveled at Blaine, piercing but playful, clearly in control, made Blaine blush just a little and feel as though he was shrugging off a compliment of some kind even though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what praise the boy had offered. "Sure. Around 7?"

"Make it 6:30," Peter suggested. "I had an early lunch, so let's not have dinner too late." He reached forward again to squeeze Blaine's upper arm, eyes bright and intense, and Blaine swallowed hard even as Peter offered, "Now go meet your boys."

It took a surprising fortitude for Blaine to take a step backwards, flash a smile, and turn to walk toward the practice room. He knew the guys were waiting, and he knew he needed to get there quickly, but the closeness and warmth of Peter's touch left him feeling half-dizzy, almost entranced as though Peter were coaxing him out of a basket with a droning flute and he had no choice but to follow.

It wasn't that the feeling was new; it was just new to not want to run away from it as fast as he possibly could. He wasn't really sure how to walk across campus and not rush back toward the boy to spend all afternoon together. He wasn't sure how to stop himself from grinning whenever he thought about spending the evening with Peter, books spread out across the entire living room as the boy he was so fond of tried to pretend he was making headway on his thesis instead of relaxing and listening to whatever music was playing on the turntable.

He knew he should probably tone down his smile, if only because someone was bound to ask why he was so happy, but he couldn't help himself. He couldn't help how fluttery and giddy and light Peter made him feel...and he didn't have to. There was no reason he should have to stop himself, he thought with a note of pride, walking a little taller as he made his way to the group's usual practice room. There was no reason at all he couldn't enjoy feeling this way.

People could stop him from acting - the police could arrest folks for ridiculous things and shut down bars for minor infractions, but they couldn't stop him from smiling whenever he thought about spending the evening with a boy who really, genuinely liked him.

Blaine trotted down the stairs and strode into the room to find everyone else waiting for him. They sat in a cluster off to the side of the piano, passing something amongst themselves, but before he could ask what was going on and how everyone's break had been, Fitz asked, "Hey, Blaine - you seen this?" He held up a flier on golden paper, and Blaine swore his heart stopped.

How had they gotten that? None of them were the activist types, not like Peter's friends, and they probably didn't even have anyone in common who could have passed along the information. He was sure none of them would know about the arrests from being at the party; for one thing, he would have seen them, and for another they weren't like him anyway. The Mendicants spent far too much time chasing and serenading women for anyone else in the group to be homosexual-

But why were they asking him about it? Did they know? Did they know he was there? Had he- He swallowed hard as he remembered the photographs snapping as everyone entered the ball. Had the police gotten a good picture of him, even as Peter tried to keep his body between Blaine and the cameras, even with the fedora? Had someone in the group seen them somewhere? He hadn't heard anything about the photographs being in the newspaper, but then he didn't have access to any of the San Francisco papers except if one of Peter's friends mailed him one a week after the fact for some reason...

Blaine paused a moment, thinking. If the guys knew, he doubted their way of telling him would be to show him a flier that was almost innocuous. None of them were looking at him oddly or watching him, and if they knew he was sure there would be more of a reaction.

Swallowing hard, he tried to play the question off as cooly as he could. "What do you mean?" Fitz passed the paper to him, and Blaine was barely able to suppress a sigh of relief as he realized it wasn't the same sheet Peter had shown him earlier. Where the flier had demanded in bold letters that the police observe basic rights, this page didn't look nearly as obtrusive.

He skimmed the typewritten notice but made it only a few sentences before Ted piped up, "Selective Service is giving exams this spring. If you take it and score high, it'll count for a deferment."

"I thought we got deferments automatically as long as we were in school," Blaine replied, confused. He'd been under the impression when he applied to graduate school that, among other benefits, it would keep him out of the draft for at least two years.

"Kind of. They keep guys with good grades deferred but may start drafting guys who don't do as well. But Stanford's a lot harder than some podunk college in the middle of nowhere, right? So they're giving a nationwide test so it's standardized."

"Great, another test," Jerry groaned. "Right before midterms, too."

"It's not mandatory," Blaine pointed out, reading the explanation in front of him. "It sounds like more of an insurance."

"Exactly," Ted confirmed, nodding. "A C here is like an A- in the rest of the state. Take your chances they'll have enough D's and F's across the country and you'll be safe, or take the test and move up the ladder a little. Not a bad option if you aren't joining the Guard or running off to Canada, if you ask me."

"It's not gonna last long enough to matter," Tommy shrugged. "You all get alarmed over this war stuff like it'll still be going on in a couple years."

Blaine wasn't so sure that the concern was exaggerated. Maybe it was just because Tommy was the youngest in the group and had at least 3 years before he would have to worry about being out of school with a few years left before he aged out of the draft, but he was pretty sure this was at least worth considering. If anything it seemed like the war was heating up since the Gulf of Tonkin, and a year later they were definitely seeing a lot of news stories that looked pretty gruesome. He didn't want to have to think about being sent over there, and if he could manage to stay in school until he was considered too old to be drafted...

His grades were good, but there were probably a lot of guys going to college and graduate school to avoid being drafted, so maybe it was a good idea to take the test. It couldn't hurt anyway.

He held up the flier and asked, "Does anyone need this back?"

"Go ahead," Fitz replied with a wave of his hand, and Blaine folded the sheet to tuck it into his bag to read over later.

"Should we start?" Blaine asked, and the guys rearranged their chairs without protest, forming a ring to begin the rehearsal. "It's good to see all of you again," he began, smiling; with the exception of the days he had spent in Ohio, wishing for anything that would bring him closer to home, he hadn't realized just how much he had missed the group of boys sitting around the room with him. "We did a lot of great things last quarter, and I can't wait to get started on some new songs." He paused, then transitioned, "But first..." He wasn't sure how he should bring up the idea, but as he glanced around the circle and saw the eager looks on his fellow Mendicants' faces, he decided to forge ahead. "There's a concert coming up in March. I know a lot of you have performances in it, since so many of us are in the Music Department," he added and saw several heads nodding in acknowledgement, "but I thought it would be really neat if we - the Mendicants - performed. Small groups are allowed, I asked my advisor this morning, and it would give us a chance to show the school we aren't just boys who sing in dorms or the arches. You guys are really talented, and I think we should show that off."

"So we're your Masters project?" Jerry smirked, and that stopped Blaine. He hadn't thought of it like that, and he wasn't sure he was comfortable with that idea. They were a team. He loved leading them, he really enjoyed arranging music for them and thinking about whose voice would suit which parts, but he never wanted them to be about him. Identifying the Mendicants as something he was doing to show off his degree progress, however informally, rather than as a group he was honoured to be part of, felt vain. He was their leader, yes, but he didn't want to send the message that he thought they were his followers or backup singers.

"I wouldn't say that," he began uncomfortably. He looked around at the circle of- what had Peter called them? Singing gentlemen? - and tried to judge their reactions to Jerry's description. Most grinned, nudging and sharing their own jokes back and forth, which of course made Jerry smirk widely at the success of his own joke. But Ted simply shook his head, rolling his eyes, his irritated expression one that had made a frequent appearance the previous year. Blaine still wasn't sure he understood the bad blood between Ted and the Mendicants' founder, Hank, but he knew at least part of it was over song choice because Ted has looked sullen every time a new song was announced.

Was he becoming that kind of leader? Was that even such a bad thing, considering how much success Hank had had in forming the group out of nothing?

"Oh, sure you would," Fitz grinned. "They could announce us as 'Blaine and the Crickets."

"Blaine's Blainets," Kevin tossed out.

"Blaine and the Vandellas," suggested Tommy, and that brought the teasing to a halt in a flurry of eye-rolling.

Blaine forced himself not to ask what was so much more ridiculous about Tommy's suggestion than Fitz's or Kevin's, his gaze returning instead to Ted, whose expression had gone from sour to bored and ready to work. "C'mon, guys, let's get started," he urged. "Or we won't have anything to perform on our first Thursday back." Surely enough, the fear of not having the opportunity to impress the girls on-campus was enough of a deterrent for the boys to buckle down and pay attention, and the rigors of a good rehearsal were enough to hold Blaine's attention rather than dwelling on whether he was really the next Herman...or Martha.

* * * * *

Blaine had to admit, there was something about Peter's apartment that felt like the sort of place a person was meant to study. He wasn't sure if it was the bookshelves lining the place, or the fact that it was on a much quieter street than Blaine's apartment so there were fewer undergrads running around getting ready for a party just outside the door, but as he sat at the roll-top secretary desk he couldn't help but feel productive.

Even if he was spending most of his time glancing over his shoulder.

Peter perched in the wingback chair, three books strewn across his lap and an additional half-dozen open on the nearby coffee table. His legs were crossed, argyle socks visible ever since he had kicked off his shoes an hour or so ago, and his jacket was draped neatly over the back of the couch. He hmmed to himself and paused to run his finger under a phrase in one of his books; the motion emphasized the thick vein running from his wrist up beneath where the folded cuff of his shirt sleeve scrunched in the crook of his elbow. After a moment, he shifted his attention to the notebook propped unsteadily on the narrow arm of the chair and began to write, murmuring the phrase of interest under his breath as his fountain pen scratched out the words.

He could be played by Gregory Peck, Blaine thought with a faint smile as he turned in his chair to watch the young man. He was twenty years and a pair of spectacles from Atticus Finch, right down to the commitment to undoing injustice and insistence on tolerance for the misunderstood.

"Peter?" he asked before he could stop himself, and the boy looked up, blinking as his eyes focused. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you, it can wait-"

"Go ahead, my boy." There was something so different about the way he said it now, as though even though the term of endearment was the same one it had always been, it had gone from meaningless drivel to a shibboleth holding the secret to eternal happiness. Peter's tender smile made Blaine blush a little and look away bashfully for a moment.

It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that.with girls, it had been so...single-minded. They wanted something from each other. This...Peter looked like he would take any scraps Blaine would give him but secretly wanted the entire world.

"I was just wondering...why you dress the way you do." There was a flash of hurt in the young man's eyes, covered by a quick rigid smile, and Blaine's eyes widened as he realized the misunderstanding. "I like it," he said quickly. "I love the ties, and the way you wear the fedora...I could never pull it off like you can. And you look so distinguished in your suits- It looks great on you." Peter studied him for a moment with a withering look, like he wasn't sure whether to believe Blaine's compliments, but after a stiff silence he seemed to recognize the boy's sincerity and relax a bit, nodding for him to continue. "I just meant that you have all these modern views, but you dress like someone our grandfathers' age. You don't dress like anyone else who seems to feel the same way you do about things - at least not that I've seen on the news, most of them look like they haven't showered in years. And I know it's not about trying to hide how you feel," he added, and Peter grinned at that. "I know you said it's not just about jazz music, but I still don't think I understand...?"

"Why I don't wear black turtlenecks under tattered sport coats and let a beard grow in?" Peter supplied with a teasing smile. Blaine tried to picture it for a moment - Peter, his Peter, dressed like one of the young men who handed out fliers for weekly protests against the War and literary readings at tiny bars and off-campus apartments - and was filled with a mixture of horror and uncontrollable laughter at the thought. "There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose. It's newfangled in a way that implies that equality and decency are something new, something we've just discovered, like they've just figured out that the world isn't fair even though it's never been fair - and like they think they're the first ones to fight for change when they're not even close. But there's nothing wrong with shunning sartorial rules as a sign of...shaking off the rules and expectations of generations past." His hand circled vaguely, pen held easily between his first two fingers. "I just prefer a stronger look."

"So it's just about liking a tailored jacket and...wide pants being comfortable?" Blaine asked.

Peter thought a moment before explaining haltingly, "I think, perhaps...well. I should say that the wardrobe predates most outward displays of feeling differently. You understand where I grew up, it probably wasn't so different from your own town. Everyone feeling the same, speaking the same, acting the same, glossing over everything that made them uncomfortable or indicated they might have an original view? Love of God and Country from a bunch of men too tied down by family to serve in the Great War anyway?" Blaine nodded to indicate he understood, and Peter continued, "In ninth grade, we studied American History. I had this teacher who didn't just want to stop at World War I like the other classes, you see, her husband had served in the Marines in the Pacific and she was quite proud so she wanted to be sure we understood just what he had done. Perfectly fine, all it meant was that we didn't spend quite so much time on 19th century rail travel, and no one complained about that chapter being cut short. Anyway- she realized that we couldn't simply skip from one war to the other, so she tried to cram the interim 20 years into a week. We studied Prohibition, but I couldn't understand why the government had been so adamantly opposed to a man doing whatever he wanted in his own home. I had never seen anyone actually go to a bar to drink, of course, I only knew how much alcohol was served at your average dinner party." Blaine had to chuckle at that one, because he had never thought about just how unbearable such a party would be without something to distract the adults every so often.

Or maybe it would have been better, he realized suddenly. Without alcohol to smooth everything over, his mother might actually try to have a conversation about something besides upcoming fundraisers and the neighbour's begonias. She might be able to feel something again, no matter how angry that would make his father, and she might...she might be a person instead of the robot in the elegant Dior party dress.

"So the next day I rode my bicycle to the library and started looking at every book I could find on the era. I thought maybe I had just missed something since we were going through an entire decade in only two days, and that if I could find enough information I could understand why the entire country had been so wrong about something. Maybe my teacher had just left out the reason - maybe the entire world was like a-...well. Like you last fall," he offered, and Blaine looked away for a moment despite the clear teasing in Peter's voice. "That would be enough reason to try to ban alcohol. I never did find a reason that made sense to me, but I found so much else. Stories of men - and a few intensely strong women - who risked life and limb to disobey a law they thought was nonsense. And I thought about protests going on in the South against segregation - they were tiny, but they were large enough to make newspapers in Chicago, and to me..."

"...it seemed like the same principle," Blaine filled in, and Peter grinned, glad Blaine understood.

"Precisely. So that was where it began. But in my quest to better understand the era, I came upon all the ex-patriot writers. Men who left their homelands in search of culture and a sense of freedom and...meaning. I felt like I was the only young man in all of Illinois who wanted to leave and never go back. Even if my interest in Chicago did pique around the time I read about Al Capone."

"But that ended horribly," Blaine pointed out. It was what had bothered him since the last time Peter had talked about loving the Jazz Age. "Everyone died - there were violent shoot-outs, massacres, and...and jail sentences. And then the Great Depression came and even the opulence of the people who managed to keep their hands out of the bloodshed went away. Most of them drank themselves to death by 40."

"Well, yes, because they didn't have me," Peter joked. "They weren't as lucky as you, my boy. And ultimately they did win. Prohibition died, but great literature lives on - and gives birth to a new generation of visionaries. But this time, they understand that money is nice but principles and the ability to change the world through their work are far more important. If they didn't, would they be wearing such ratty sportcoats? The Fitzgeralds never would have. Hemingway, maybe," he added with a twinkle in his eye. "Not that the clothes are the point anyway, it's about the freedom to express one's self - to dress precisely the way you feel and say...or sing, or write...precisely what you think." He paused, then admitted with a shy grin, "Though I do like a nice tailored suit. Vanitas vanitatum and all. What about you?"

Blaine wasn't sure he knew what the question was, but he replied, "I think you look great in a tailored suit."

Peter laughed heartily, head falling back as his grin lit up the room. "No, no, my boy. Though I appreciate the compliment. You don't dress quite like your classmates either, was what I meant."

Blaine shifted a little as he thought about it. He had never really thought about why he liked the things he did - why he liked bowties instead of long even though they were less common and seen as a bit too old and old-fashioned for a boy his age; why he favoured cardigans and sweater vests where others might wear either blazers or shirtsleeves; why he refused to give up on bucks even though no one wore them anymore and hadn't since he'd still been in uniforms. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess wearing school uniforms all the time meant I'm not used to dressing as casually as a lot of the boys around here, but I don't want to dress like I'm at my parents'?" He wasn't sure if that was the right answer, but Peter smiled and nodded.

"That does sound more sensible than what I initially thought."

"What was that?" Blaine asked, curious what theory Peter might have had..or precisely how much time the gentleman had devoted to thinking about why Blaine dressed a certain way.

"I thought you were just trying to show off your shoulders and slim waist. You know, to tease all the rest of us."

Of all the answers Peter could have given, that was the last one Blaine would have expected; he choked slightly, coughing and swallowing to try to get his breathing back to normal. "You- I. Well, you see-" he tried, unable to determine what should come next in the sentence. How did someone respond to something like that?

"Oh come now, Blaine, you can't be that stunned by the compliment," Peter chastised lightly, smile warm. "You must know you look fantastic. With that figure...those hands...those eyes..." his voice got quiet and breathless for a moment, like even the thought of Blaine's gaze made him weak in the knees, and Blaine swallowed hard in a preemptive attempt to keep from choking again.

Was he-...did Peter find him...attractive like that, like...like that?

Blaine wasn't sure which idea was more ludicrous: that a boy thought of him with that awed tone of voice, or that the way he thought about Peter was mutual. He knew on some level he should have expected that was a possibility - if they were boyfriends, he guessed at the very least Peter should like him as much as he liked Peter, but at the same time... The lovestruck expression his boyfriend wore sometimes was shocking enough, let alone the idea that he found him quite so attractive.

Seeing the stunned - and perhaps slightly panicked - expression on Blaine's face, Peter reached over to cup his hand gently. "Don't worry, my dear boy. I may be ahead of my time in some respects, but I am always a gentleman." Blaine wasn't sure how to respond or what exactly that meant he should do now, but the touch of his boyfriend's hand was warm and comforting in and of itself; he managed a faint smile of appreciation. Sensing the need to back off, Peter straightened up a bit and suggested, "If there's nothing else, shall we go back to the books?"

"Sounds good," Blaine replied with a smile that was perhaps a bit overeager. Peter flashed him a grin, then set to rearranging his books to continue his work. Blaine turned back to his own text, but his efforts to study were thwarted by two competing images: young, adorable Peter romanticizing impossibly violent rum-runners and idealizing writers who had to flee their own country to find freedom; and his boyfriend dreaming of him in the same way he dreamt too often lately. Neither image made it easy to concentrate.