There was very little to think about sometimes, living in Western Ohio.

It was an odd establishment, part piano bar without the bar atmosphere, part homestyle restaurant with a side of jazz club and not particularly known for its menu. Technically they weren't meant to be allowed in until they were 18, but Rachel's mom went there all the time and knew everyone, so the owner conveniently looked the other way on the half of them who were still 17.

They'd been going for at least the past two years - not often, usually just right after competitions to let off steam. Rachel had suggested it, pointing out that they never got to sing together anymore...and Kurt did miss that. He missed getting up and singing with them in a way that wasn't precise and planned and technical, even as much as he enjoyed the challenge of singing with the Warblers. And if he missed singing, and he had an outlet, he could only imagine how the rest of the group was feeling.

He wondered if Rachel was staking out there every weekend to give herself performance opportunities. It would absolutely not surprise him.

"So your parents are actually letting you out of the house two nights in a row?" Blaine asked Sam as they walked across the parking lot. "That has to be a first."

"Yeah. I can't tell if they're trying to make up for being jerks the last like decade, or if they think they're giving me enough rope to hang myself. I guess I find out tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" Kurt asked.

"Didn't I tell you? They're insisting on driving me back so we can talk about what's wrong with me. I'm just hoping that means a side trip to Columbus to set up appointments or something and not them meeting with the Dean of Students to talk about my immediate withdrawal so they can stop paying to send me somewhere I'm never going to succeed."

"So it's something they can fix?" Blaine asked.

"Kurt thinks so."

"Really?" Blaine looked amused at the thought, as though Kurt being the master of diagnoses was...adorable. Endearing or something. Sweet but misguided. One of those anyway, Kurt wasn't 'sure which one.

Kurt stood a little straighter and gave a short, defensive, "Yes," then softened a little and allowed, "Doctors have been doing tests and studies where they change the spacing between letters and words and things. No one knows what causes it, but that's not really the important part. Aside from the fact that it's not Sam's fault - which all of us knew, but in case his parents or teachers didn't - it doesn't matter why. It's all about what to do now. Coping mechanisms, study strategies. Doing more things out loud or typing a separate copy that has more space between letters. Or writing it in Elvish," he added with a fond smile. He still didn't understand Sam's affinity for the fictional language, but it was easier for him to read than English so if that would help him, why not?

"Aglar," Sam replied, and judging from the enthusiasm that meant something along the lines of 'cool.' Kurt wasn't asking beyond that.

"No one knows why?" Blaine asked.

Kurt looked at him curiously, eyebrows knitted together. "No," he repeated slowly. "But that's not the important part. Why does it matter why Sam sees things the way he does? We know there's nothing he's doing wrong, there are other people out there like him, and he's not crazy or screwed up or wrong - it's a natural condition, and there are people out there who can help."

"But if the entire point is to be able to fix him- If we knew why, we could have known earlier," Blaine stated, frustrated. "Because in the meantime, he's had to feel like- like it's his fault for not working hard enough, for not succeeding no matter what he did. If we knew what caused it, it could be fixed in the first place and he wouldn't have spent the last four years feeling like everyone around him was doing something right and he just couldn't make himself do it no matter how hard he tried." Because he knew that feeling - he knew it too freaking well. He knew what it was like to lie there at night and wonder why everyone else around you could be normal and could do normal things like liking girls and no matter what you did or how hard you attempted-

Even Kurt was normal. Even Kurt could please his father - he'd spent all morning sitting at Hummel Tire and Lube watching the two of them work on cars together while Finn was at church with his mother, and the two of them looked so effortlessly happy together. Even though Kurt was the most feminine man he'd ever met and should surely have been sick like he was - sicker than he was...even though he didn't play sports or spend time hanging out with the guys in town the way other Warblers did...Kurt could still stand there with his dad (whom he didn't even call 'sir'!) and build engines?

Maybe he should try that. Maybe he should try taking up better hobbies - not getting rid of music, of course, that was the only thing that kept him from going completely crazy and it wasn't a girls' extracurricular even at his old school. There were plenty of manly singers out there, and when he was up on stage was the only time he felt human, like an actual person instead of like someone who was disturbed. But running wasn't the most masculine of sports, he supposed, and there was none of the team-building the same way. He should take up football...except he would be the smallest guy on the team by a good 50 pounds and the season was mostly over. He liked to jump around, maybe he could stretch and learn to play kicker or something. That was a good, solid, man's pasttime, right? Football? He certainly enjoyed watching it, maybe if he played it he could-

Or maybe Kurt could teach him about cars. After all, if hoisting tires onto a 58 Corvette could make Kurt normal, there had to be hope for him.

Maybe that was the option he should be pursuing. His father had mentioned doctors who were working on treating sexual perversions with behavior modification therapy - quacks, his father claimed, with a 25% failure rate. His practice boasted a much higher success rate than 75%.

But 75% was better than what he had now. A lot better, actually.

"Blaine?" Kurt was looking at him curiously, and he realized he'd been quiet and tense for the past few minutes - and they were standing aimlessly in front of the door without entering the establishment. "Are you okay?"

He recovered quickly, pasting on a smile. "Yeah," he replied easily. "Of course. I just know how hard Sam's been working and how much of a struggle it's been. How painful."

"Seriously, guys, I'm fine," Sam pointed out. "But ask me again after being stuck with my parents in a car for over two hours," he joked and opened the door.

The club was about half-full, which for a Sunday night wasn't bad; there were a few more people because it was a holiday weekend and a few more people than usual could come out to spend the night singing to a house band in honour of Christopher Columbus and his mandated day off. Rachel had snagged a table for them already, near the stage and dead center, and Kurt was surprised to see the rest of the gang already there - Sandy on Puck's lap making out with him (not at all surprising), Finn and Quinn sitting side-by-side with hands intertwined. And Brittany staring off into space, also no surprise there.

"Looks like we're the last ones," Kurt offered.

"Mercedes isn't coming?" Blaine asked.

"Oh, no way," Kurt laughed, then saw the look on Blaine's face and quickly explained, "Because it's Sunday. She's not allowed out anywhere except church, even in the evenings. Family day is a big deal at the Joneses'. No, she's been here before - quite a bit. Don't worry."

Of all Blaine's worries for the evening, that wasn't close to being any of them.

"So who's up first?" Rachel asked brightly when everyone had taken a seat and ordered the first round of beverages - alcoholic for Finn, Puck, Sandy, and Brittany, which Kurt guessed meant Quinn was driving.

"You don't want one?" Finn asked, tilting his beer in Blaine's general direction. "You're same age as us, right?"

"There are very few ways to get kicked out of Dalton - drugs and excessive alcohol are at the top of the list," Blaine stated gravely.

"Even if you're 18?" Puck asked, staring, as if that was the worst rule a school could possibly impose.

"Yeah, they're serious about it," Sam replied. "Warblers crack down even harder than the administration, too."

"Yeah, make Wes tell you that story the next time you need a good laugh," Blaine instructed Kurt with a wicked grin. "Never has a house party sounded so much like a full-scale invasion of Normandy."

"Oh no," Kurt laughed.

"You know how he gets, right?" Sam checked. "With the stories and the history-"

"I was there for the one about the French delegation. And the off-campus performance-"

"I can never keep a straight face for that one," Blaine stated, almost laughing even at the thought. "The look he gets-"

"And his tone," Sam added helpfully.

"As though he personally witnessed the death of those guys. And when he says-"

Sam modulated his voice up a little and affected a mournful air as he imitated, "Welcome to Ohio, Lucky Lindy" and all three burst into laughter. It was a horrible impression but that almost made it funnier because it was so ridiculous.

The rest of them looked at the three Warblers like they were crazy. "What the hell are you three laughing about?" Sandy asked. "You're so loud you're distracting my man."

"Sorry," Blaine replied, not actually apologetic. "Wes is the head of our Council."

"Council?" Finn asked, confused.

"We don't have a director, it's all run by members of the group," Kurt explained.

"So Wes is your guys' Rachel?" Puck surmised, ignoring Rachel's indignant huff. Kurt only barely restrained his laughter at the image of the hellfire that would rain down on them if Rachel were ever given a gavel.

"Can it, Puckerman," Rachel replied angrily.

"So how's this work?" Blaine asked, looking at the stage where a girl was singing a not-so-great rendition of "Who's Sorry Now?" by Connie Francis that was whiney and tended to go oddly sharp. It had been too long of a weekend already and wasn't over yet; between dealing with his family, meeting Kurt's entire family, all of Kurt's friends, and generally spending the previous two and a half days feeling like he was winding himself tighter and tighter in an effort not to appear at all unhinged, he needed to let loose tonight. And if he couldn't drink (which he didn't think he wanted to anyway, since even though it looked like his mother was certainly not bothered by mundane things like human emotions, he didn't particularly want the zombie thing going either), then it meant there was absolutely no other choice but to turn to his preferred outlet: Putting on a show. Getting up there and singing and dancing and letting everything else just melt away until it was him and emotion and the music.

"Just go up when people are done. Sometimes there's a line or stuff, but you can see if anyone's waiting," Finn pointed off to the side of the stage. "And there's not too many people - not like last time when it took like half an hour before even Rachel got to sing anything, and she's pretty pushy about it." She shot him a glare and he added, "Y'know, in a good way or whatever."

"Is there a list of what they know, or...?"

"Oh, they know everything," Rachel stated. "Just tell them when you get up there what song and if you prefer a particular key. Sometimes you don't even have to tell them the song, just start the first few lines and they'll catch up."

"Yeah, they're kinda amazing like that," Finn agreed. "They even know that weird negro music Puck likes."

"It's Chuck Berry," Puck replied, like Finn was an idiot to not recognize either the songs in question or that the guy was talented. "Have you heard the guy play? He's fucking amazing. But yeah, they know everything," he added in Blaine's direction. "Even Rachel's Broadway crap."

Sam knew the look on Blaine's face. "Need backup?" he asked.

"Not on this one," Blaine replied. As the girl finally ended her song to meager applause, Blaine stood and strode to the front of the room, hopping up on stage before anyone else had even meandered in that direction. After quietly giving his song choice to the bearded piano player who was dressed all in black, he stood centerstage and carefully unwound the microphone cord, trying to ensure he could move as much as possible without tripping himself (or the band) before placing it back on the stand. He glanced over at the table and flashed a smile in Sam and Kurt's direction, then glanced over at the irritated-looking pianist and nodded. The drummer counted out four, then the song started.

Well, it's Saturday night and I just got paid,
Fool about my money, don't try to save,
My heart says go go, have a time,
Saturday night and I'm feelin' fine
I'm gonna rock it up, I'm gonna rip it up,
I'm gonna shake it up, gonna ball it up,
I'm gonna rock it up, and ball tonight.

By the time Blaine reached the first chorus, he was already starting to feel better. The crowd was into it, and while he was used to that response - especially around school, where the Warblers really were kind of campus superstars - he wasn't used to it being just for him. For his performance instead of for the institution of the Warblers and a hundred years of history as retold by a boy clutching a gavel. He was used to it being applause and cheers for a team effort, for something practiced and voted on and planned.

This was free. This was spontaneous. This was raw release of energy and emotion in a way he'd forgotten could feel this incredible.

He could take liberties with a few notes if he wanted. Who would care? If he did a bit more of a slide on that note than he'd planned on, who would be hurt by it? Not like singing in tight group harmonies, where one change could throw off the entire chord. This was entirely selfish music - music for him and him alone and not worrying about who needed him to sing which notes and when and how.

This was what he needed right now.

Not all the time. On Tuesday he would go back to his well-regimented songs, singing with the Warblers, and he would enjoy that fine; he enjoyed any time he got to sing, especially in front of people, but this...he needed more of this in his life.

Less thinking. More feeling. More singing like Judy would sing - just pouring whatever was in his heart at that moment into the song. And right at that moment, what needed poured out was frustration. Defiance.

He was going to freaking enjoy himself. He was going to express himself and make a spectacle of himself and revel in how good it felt to stand out. What did his father know, anyway? His father, who had never felt like this- Blaine could guarantee the man had never let go of himself for five seconds, for even close to long enough to get a taste of this feeling.

Got me a date and I won't be late,
Picked her up in my 88
Shag on down by the union hall,
When the joint starts jumpin' I'll have a ball,
I'm gonna rock it up, I'm gonna rip it up,
I'm gonna shake it up, gonna ball it up,
I'm gonna rock it up, and ball tonight.

Kurt couldn't stop staring at Blaine.

It was hard enough not to look at him during an ordinary conversation, but he had trained himself into having that kind of willpower. He could look at Blaine only when it was appropriate in the grand scheme of who was speaking and what they were saying and whether Blaine's reaction should have been important to him (because it always was, whether it was meant to be or not).

When Blaine sang, that was another matter entirely. When he sang, he was captivating, and Kurt had been chastised on more than a few occasions by Wes or Thad for being too busy watching Blaine and forgetting his own choreography. But he couldn't help himself - Blaine had stage presence in spades and an incredible light about him when he performed. He could sing a lullaby and be entrancing, Kurt suspected, let alone when he sang something he enjoyed.

But tonight...

This was something even more intense than usual, and Kurt had no idea what it was but it was a whole other side of Blaine. Unrestrained. Untempered. Excited, almost punchdrunk, and the grin on his face was so wide and bright...

He couldn't look away. Couldn't bring himself to see if anyone else was just as hypnotized by Blaine's performance, because that would require ripping his gaze away and he couldn't bring himself to do it. He felt a kind of giddy smile crossing his features, the blush start in his cheeks and work its way down across his neck and chest, but he could blame that on it being hot in there if anyone asked.

But honestly, if they were watching the same performance and could think to ask about Kurt's rosy cheeks, clearly they weren't actually paying attention. Because anyone who was really seeing Blaine like this had to be watching just as intensely, he was sure of it.

'Long about ten I'll be flying high,
Walk on out unto the sky,
But I don't care if I spend my dough,
'Cause tonight I'm gonna be one happy soul,
I'm gonna rock it up, I'm gonna rip it up,
I'm gonna shake it up, gonna ball it up,
I'm gonna rock it up, and ball tonight.

The instrumental break was a welcome change, allowed him to move around and get out more of the tension. He was used to performing either in the Commons or occasionally outside on campus, or on the stage at competitions, never with microphones, never with cords he had to worry about, and while he had been able to dance a little bit during the verses, this was better.

He hopped off the front of the stage, dancing his way across the front row of tables with a little half-skip-step , then jumped back up onto the edge of the platform rather than taking the stairs. The "ooo!" he heard from a few patrons spurred him on - they liked this, they all did, they liked him and that was always an incredible feeling. With a quick step onto the piano bench, he was up on top of the secondhand baby grand. He felt like the king of the world...until the guy playing glared at him over his glasses. Okay, fine, maybe he had gotten carried away a little bit, but he couldn't help himself. He hopped down swiftly, not even coming close to falling or toppling into any of the other musicians, then took a running start to slide on his knees across the stage, stopping in front of the mic and scrambling skillfully to his feet just in time to start the last verse.

Well, it's Saturday night and I just got paid,
Fool about my money, don't try to save,
My heart says go go, have a time,
Saturday night and I'm feelin' fine
I'm gonna rock it up, I'm gonna rip it up,
I'm gonna shake it up, gonna ball it up,
I'm gonna rock it up, and ball tonight!

The crowd applauded wildly and he heard more than a few boisterous shouts of encouragement from further back. He gave a quick bow, then hopped off the front of the stage again to make his way back to the table. His breathing was quick and shallow, his grin so broad it almost hurt, but he didn't care - he felt like he could do anything. Like he could be anything and anyone and just- Just be incredible out there. Like he could quit school tomorrow and just do this for the rest of his life. He didn't care that it was a ridiculous idea or that his father would hunt him down and kill hi (if only his father were capable of that strong of an emotion); he felt amazing. He was amazing.

He flopped down into the seat beside Kurt, who was grinning from ear to ear. "Nice job," he said smoothly. Kurt had this way of understating things that seemed really cute and sweet and like he was trying to avoid sounding too genuine even when he was actually impressed, and Blaine was starting to recognize it pretty well. "I'd offer to buy you a Coke, but somehow I doubt you need any more caffeine," he added, teasing, and Blaine laughed softly.

"You've gotta get up there and sing something - the crowd's great, it's fantastic."

"In a few minutes, maybe," Kurt allowed, nodding towards the stage. "Sam's going up now."

"No kidding?" Blaine glanced and saw for himself. "Any idea what he's singing?"

"None whatsoever," Kurt replied. "You finished your song, I looked over, and he was making his way up there." He didn't want to admit that Sam could have been up there for a solid two minutes before the song ended and he wouldn't have known. For that matter, Sam could have told him what song he was going up to do and Kurt wouldn't have heard him. He was too preoccupied watching the insane jumping boy on top of a piano and singing his heart out up there, turning a mediocre song in a style Kurt never particularly found endearing, into a performance Kurt would gladly watch every day for the rest of his life.

"Huh." Blaine nodded, still grinning as the rush of performing began to slowly ebb away. As the opening notes began, he listened for a moment. Realizing what song it was, he offered, "I wish we'd known - he's gonna need backup on the bridge." When Kurt gave him a blank look, Blaine added, "On the 'da da ta da-dum' section in the middle?" Kurt blinked, and Blaine smiled, nudging his shoulder. "You'll see when he gets there."

Maybe baby, I'll have you
Maybe baby, you'll be true
Maybe baby, I'll have you for me
It's funny honey, you don't care
You never listen to my prayer
Maybe baby, you will love me someday

It occurred to Kurt that he'd never actually heard Sam sing by himself before - only ever with the Warblers. He knew they sang similar parts, usually Sam was one part down but occasionally they merged or intertwined depending on which one of them had a countermelody, but Sam never even got a chance to play the guitar in their room because he was usually so busy focusing on schoolwork. Hopefully that could change now, Kurt thought, because Sam did have a really good voice. Less twangy than Buddy Holly, but in a way that really worked for the song.

He glanced over at Blaine to ask if Sam - or any other Warblers, for that matter - ever got solos, but Blaine looked worried. The ecstatic grin was gone, replaced by something a little more grim. "What's wrong?"

"He's got it bad."

Kurt's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Look at the way he's staring at your stepbrother's girlfriend - he's got it bad."

"How can you tell?" Kurt asked. Yes, Sam was looking intense, but Sam looked intense most of the time - usually intense over a book, sure, and trying to figure out what a question was asking, but this was hardly a strange-

"See how he can't stop looking at her?" And it was true; Sam hadn't taken his eyes off Quinn since he got up on stage. Kurt glanced over to see if there might be anyone else Sam was looking at, but no - not unless he was looking at either Finn or Puck, and the look wasn't lecherous enough for him to be staring at Santana's ass. He was definitely staring at Quinn.

The good news was that Finn didn't seem to notice.

"That means something?"

Blaine looked over at Kurt like he was more than a little dense, and Kurt bristled. "Yeah. That's a surefire tell. When a person can't take their eyes off someone, it means they like them. Or there's something stuck in their teeth," he added jokingly at the end.

Oh god.

Kurt swallowed hard and tried not to let it show how much stiffer he was sitting in his chair. If the inability to look away was an automatic, universal, obvious sign that a person was head over heels for someone, a sign that any fool could see-

Then he had just announced himself and his natural-but-still-not-acceptable attraction in front of an entire bar, including every friend he had in this town, his roommate, and the object of his affection.

An icy panic settled in his stomach, churning nervously. Had anyone else noticed? He had no idea - he hadn't been able to look away, for all he knew the entire table was staring at him staring at Blaine, watching him watch the beautiful boy onstage. They could all know right now and he would have no idea. Blaine could know.

...probably not, he reminded himself. If they knew, they would be staring at him now, looking at him like he was a freak the way that they did when he wore something particularly theatrical or selected a song none of them (except Rachel) had heard of. If Blaine knew, he would have said something or hightailed it across the building by now. Decided to spring back to Westerville to get awawy from the unwanted affection.

Or told him it was reciprocated, if Kurt's lingering suspicions about Blaine were correct.

He just needed to not stare anymore, he concluded. Better safe than sorry. Just because no one had noticed this time didn't mean no one would notice next time. There were already boys at school who had noticed how often he stared at Blaine, meaning the Warblers already knew or they didn't know the universal signal for attraction. Knowing which boys had commented on his staring, he guessed they just didn't know what the sign meant. But he had to be more careful - just until he knew if Blaine was in a position to reciprocate.

He carefully trained his eyes on the stage, staring at Sam's shoes. He didn't hate Sam's shoes, but he wasn't in love with them either. It seemed safest.

Well you are the one that makes me glad
Any other day that makes me sad
When someday you want me
Well, I'll be there, wait and see

Maybe baby, I'll have you
Maybe baby, you'll be true
Maybe baby, I'll have you for me

It was in the middle of Sam's serenade of the blonde girl - who, Blaine had to admit, was incredibly attractive and would be the source of many a fight at Dalton if she were dating one of the guys there - that he realized the real problem with feeling invincible onstage:

It made you do really stupid shit sometimes.

Because here was the thing: he could tell that the girl (Quinn? Lynn? Cin? Something that rhymed with Finn, he remmebered that much because he had found it amusing the night before. Quinn. That was it.) was uncomfortable. She was sitting stiffly in her chair, looking incredibly irritated by the song, gaze narrow as she practically shot lasers out of her eyes at the boy singing his heart out. She moved the hand that was holding Finn's to her lap, squeezing Finn's hand tightly and raising her eyebrows as if to say "Taken? See?" But Sam was undeterred and kept singing.

The worst part was, it wasn't his fault he couldn't see it. Blaine knew that. He'd just been up there and knew how unstoppable he'd felt. How confident and attractive and winsome he'd seen himself as in that moment as he was jumping on top of a piano. (Oh god, had he really jumped on top of a piano? Who did that? That was a bit much even for him, and he'd been dancing around on top of coffee tables in the Commons for as long as he could remember!) Sam was feeling the same thing up there, and that was why he was still serenading this girl who was sitting there with her damn boyfriend of at least three or four years.

That was the problem with performing like this. With spontaneity. With feeling unhinged and free: You did ridiculous, idiotic things like sing a love song to a girl you'd just met who had a longterm steady, in front of the steady, who was easily six inches taller than you. You made public declarations that would put a drunk to shame.

You did things like announce your psychosis in the middle of a crowded restaurant. He hadn't done that tonight, but he could have - oh god he could have in that moment. He could have jumped off that piano and off the stage and danced over to the table and told Kurt-

told everyone-

No. Oh no.

And he wouldn't have realized it until practically now if he had, either. He would have been so high on the feeling of being up there with everyone loving him and the feeling of complete and utter freedom that he would have announced his perversions to the entire room and not even paid enough attention to try to cover it until a good five minutes later.

This was the problem with deviating from the script.

Scripts were horribly constricting, but they were useful. They prevented disasters like this. They kept order in a world that was otherwise nothing but chaos, and they made sure people behaved properly and did what they were supposed to - not like this. The script would never have called for this.

And as horrible as feeling constricted was, the feeling bubbling in his chest like he couldn't quite breathe and was going to choke on his own lungs...it was surely better than the kind of mortification and humiliation that would ensue otherwise. And while he had never had shock therapy, he was pretty sure that suppression of himself, even as horrible as that felt, was better than having electrodes strapped across his body.

Because that was what happened to people who announced they were crazy in public, who had giddy, euphoric meltdowns in bars, wasn't it? It was what his father would do, he knew that much, if his father got the phone call about a person he was responsible for.

Order had to rule the day. Otherwise things like that would happen, and he couldn't go there. He wouldn't.

Well you are the one that makes me glad
Any other day that makes me sad
When someday you want me
Well, I'll be there, wait and see

Maybe baby, I'll have you
Maybe baby, you'll be true
Maybe baby, I'll have you for me
Maybe baby, I'll have you for me.

Sam finished his song with a flourish and a proud lopsided grin and made his way back to the table. He tried to get a smile from Quinn, but she pointedly looked away as he approached. Oh. With a dejected look, he flopped down into his own chair. Blaine reached over to rub his shoulder encouragingly and offer a "Sounded great," but they both knew it didn't help.

Puck was smirking a little too much as he made his way to the stage, especially in Santana's direction, and Kurt knew this couldn't be good. Surely enough, it wasn't.

Got me the strangest woman
Believe me, this chick's no cinch
But I really get her goin'
When I take out my big ten inch-

He paused for dramatic emphasis, grinning as he saw eyes widening (Kurt's and Sam's among them). Surely he couldn't sing about that, could he? Singing about getting a woman in the mood by taking out a large penis?

...Did Kurt even want to think about whether the song was autobiographical? Probably not. Though from the way Puck was smirking at Santana and she was grinning right back, he had a feeling it wasn't too far from the truth, and that was not a thought he ever particularly wanted.

Maybe he wasn't actually attracted to men after all - if he was, he would be enjoying that thought, wouldn't he?

-record
Of the band that plays the blues Puck concluded, low chuckles echoing from people who knew the joke already and a few louder laughs from people hearing it for the first time who appreciated gutter humour.

"That was really cool," Finn stated, glancing down to the other end of the table where Sam was still looking disappointed. "Him singing that song to Brittany and everything?"

Quinn stared at him. "Are you an idiot?" she snapped.

"What?"

"You-...you honestly don't-...oh-" She stood and shook her head, storming out into the chilly October night.

"Quinn!" Finn raced after her, catching up quickly with his long legs. "What?"

"He wasn't singing to Brittany, you moron! She's at the other end of the table and the only person in this group more oblivious than you! He was singing it to me!" She huffed and started pacing, her arms crossed tightly beneath her chest; her jacket was inside, and it was cold out here, her breath making little puffs of steam in the light of the streetlamps.

Finn blinked, not at all happy about that prospect, but stopped. "Wait. Shouldn't you be mad at him, then? What'd I do?"

She spun to face him. "You see a boy singing to me and you think he's singing to Brittany? What are you going to do when our child is born, Finn, huh? If he comes home with a black eye and tells you he walked into something, you'll probably think there's no way he could have gotten into a fight because he would tell you. If he comes home drunk you'll believe when he tells you that he didn't know there was alcohol in his drink and he thought he was drinking lemonade. If she comes home and tells you that no, she just ate a really big lunch today, she's not getting bigger because she's having a baby - you'll probably believe that, too, won't you?"

"Quinn-" He reached out to try to pull her into a hug - that had worked last night, it usually worked pretty well to just let her kinda cry things out and eventually she either stopped being mad or started making sense (usually the first one), but she pulled away.

"No!" She stepped back when he moved towards her, so there they stood several feet apart in a half-full parking lot. "What are we going to do, Finn? You and I, we can't raise this baby together. We can't-"

"We need to tell someone," Finn insisted quietly.

"No," she stated firmly. "We can't. Because if my parents know, they-...we can't. They can't know about this, no one can."

"But aren't they gonna know sooner or later? I mean, your stomach's gonna get all big and stuff, and there'll be doctors..."

"Do you know what people are going to say about me?" she hissed. She could hear it already - she was easy. She was a harlot, a whore, a hypocrite. The picture of a decidedly un-Christian woman. She reached up to finger the cross necklace she had gotten from her father. He would be so disappointed - she had always been his little girl, and now...now, just a few months before her Debutante Ball, when she was supposed to bring such honour to the family- "No. We are not telling anyone."

"But I-"

"I'm right, you're wrong. I'm smart, you're dumb. Got it? Besides, you promised." She straightened up and held her head a little higher, her hair swaying against her shoulders as she did. "We're not going to do this, you and I. We're not going to tell anyone."

"Then what are we gonna do? Because if you're saying you don't think we can raise it, I don't know what else we can..."

He kept asking as if she had any answers. Was he blind as well as being stupid? Did she look like she knew what they were going to do? She could barely take care of herself and keep herself fed, how in the world was she going to feed and clothe and raise a child? And Finn would be less than no help, and even if she could tell Puck - which she couldn't - what was he going to do? Mow their lawn? Steal the occasional pack of diapers because he was really good at being a thief? That wouldn't actually do anyone any good. "You figure something out," she instructed harshly as she turned to go inside.

"Do I-"

"You figure it out," she repeated, yanking the door open and breezing through the restaurant to the table where she slid elegantly into her chair as if nothing was wrong.

There was very little she could control, but appearance was always one of them.

Puck was finishing up his song, with his full-on charming grin that always got him whatever he wanted - Quinn remembered that grin. It was all that grin's fault. If he hadn't smiled like that, she could have resisted what he offered. She could have stayed away from temptation but for that damned grin that got exponentially more powerful when he sang. She was just glad he didn't have a guitar in his hands or every woman in the place would be rushing the stage as soon as he finished.

My girl don't go for smokin'
And liquor just makes her flinch
Seems she just goes for nothin'
Except my big ten inch...
Record of the band that plays the blues
Band the plays the blues
She just loves my big ten inch...
Record of her favourite blues!

Finn dropped heavily into his seat beside her and leaned in to whisper, "When you said I've gotta figure out what to do, did you mean-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," she whispered back.

"Yeah, but did you-"

"We're done talking about this."

Finn settled back in his chair a little, seeming none too happy and still more than a little confused, and Rachel made her way up to the stage.

"Hello everybody," she said with a big cheesy stage grin that had everyone at her table rolling their eyes. "For my first song of the evening, I would like to sing about my perfect man."

Finn leaned back over to whisper, "So should I-"

"Hush," Quinn admonished. "I need to mock this."

Rachel drew in a slow, deep breath, eyes closed, then gave a tiny nod as the band began to play. ((Begins at 2:50))

My white knight
Not a Lancelot, nor an angel with wings
Just someone to love me
Who's not ashamed of a few nice things

Her voice was stunning, everyone knew that, but there was a quiet chuckle spreading as she sang. Most of the people who met Rachel found her intolerable at best, insufferable at worst, and the idea that she could ever want something simple was as ridiculous as it was laughable. Her mother obsessively doted on her and showered her with every lesson, soundtrack, show ticket, and opportunity a Broadway-obsessed girl could want, but nothing was ever enough for her. She got the lead in every play and the solo in every song and yet still acted like she was the downtrodden, maligned, would-be star but for some unforeseen force keeping her down. Usually she claimed that unseen force was the director (whoever that poor soul might be) and was compensated for her trouble with exactly the solo she would have gotten anyway, sometimes with the added bonus of a solo that might otherwise have gone to one of the girls.

Never to Kurt, of course, though the two of them had a similar vocal range prior to sometime junior year when his voice started to slip down just a bit, but their ranges were still close enough that he should have at least gotten a shot at a few of the songs she was automatically handed. Not that he was bitter or anything, but the idea that just because he was a boy he couldn't sing the girl songs was something he was starting to resent more now that he was at Dalton and there seemed to be strange rules about when girl songs were or weren't okay. His rendition of Over the Rainbow, for example, was lauded; his suggestion that they sing Rosemary Clooney, not so much.

She wasn't so bad when she stopped trying so hard, was the most frustrating part. In fact, when it was just the two of them discussing productions and a mutual affection for Mary Martin and Ethel Merman, she was actually kind of fun to talk to. If one could get past her clothes. And her disturbingly pink bedroom. But as soon as there were other people around, she started trying to prove how talented she was to anyone who would listen, and when no one would listen she essentially tried to fix it by just being louder instead of by lightening up a little.

Which was why the mocking was spreading.

He had engaged in it a time or two, he couldn't lie that much, but that was at McKinley with a 'kill or be killed' mentality. At Dalton, where they didn't do this kind of petty crap and just existed and he saw how nice that could be? He felt a little bad laughing at her. Especially because he knew how frustrating it could be to not have a true creative outlet, and she had to be going crazy this year without anyone to tell her how great she was. So he kept his snickering to a minimum - unlike the former Cheerios who were practically guffawing over there.

My white knight
What my heart would say if it only knew how
Please, dear Venus,
Show me now

She was staring at him.

He wasn't sure why, but she was definitely staring at him as she sang, aiming gestures in his general direction.

...No. No, she did not like him. She was not singing a song about 'her perfect man' to him.

For one thing, she was not that stupid. For another, he might have to hurl himself from the roof of the tallest building he could find, and since this wasn't even as big of a place as Lima, that roof would barely be two stories tall and that would just cause an awful lot of scars but not nearly enough bodily injury to get the job done.

But that wouldn't make any sense, Kurt concluded. He and Rachel had gotten along for a couple years and they did well enough at teaming up occasionally for duets, and they were friendly-ish, but she had never flirted with him the way she flirted with Finn. Not even close. She had spent the better part of sophomore year trying to convince Finn to dump Quinn and date her, never with any success, and Kurt was under the distinct impression she had dropped that after she started dating that boy from a rival school who broke her heart. Now she was staring at him and singing to him? No. There was no way she was singing him a love song.

He just had no idea what that meant she was doing instead.

She slipped the microphone from its stand and pulled out as much cord as she could, then began to descend the stairs as she sang, still looking too emotional for the song.

All I want is a plain man
All I want is a modest man

She walked directly for their table, her eyes not leaving him the entire time. He was in her sights now, he didn't know where this was going but he didn't like it, and he put his hand up to his forehead to try to shield himself somehow from her view. After all, if he couldn't see her and couldn't make eye contact, that meant she wouldn't be looking at him so much, right? That she would get that she was to Back. Off. Immediately. and would move on her merry, overly-emotive way, right?

Wrong, of course. This was Rachel Berry, she didn't understand these things.

A quiet man, a gentle man

She stopped directly in front of him, then narrowed her eyes and glanced sidelong at Finn as she sang
A straightforward and honest man

before looking out over Kurt's head with big, wistful eyes as she pictured her little fantasy world.

To sit with me
In a cottage somewhere in the state of Iowa

She placed her hand reverently over her heart as though she were from Iowa (and not Ohio, which while it sounded similar and might confuse Brittany was not by any stretch of the imagination the same place), then began gesturing dramatically as she sang the next long notes.

And I would like him to be
More interested in me-

Kurt couldn't quite keep himself from laughing at that one. Of course Rachel's dream man would be more interested in Rachel than in anyone else. She looked irritatedly down at him, then glanced back over at Finn with the same annoyed glare she had earlier.

Than he is in himself

She looked down at Kurt, despite his repeated attempts to make himself invisible, and reached down to grasp his hand in hers. His eyes widened and he looked helplessly to Blaine for help. Blaine looked amused, the jerk, and Sam looked mildly concerned and everyone else was busy just laughing hysterically at how badly Rachel was making an ass of herself with this song and he was stuck there unable to get away.

And more interested in us than in me
And-

She met his eyes with a meaningful look, the first actual sincere thing he'd seen from her while singing in a long time. Probably since one of the times she tried singing an ill-fated love ballad to Finn. He didn't like the idea of being in that category.

If occasionally he'd ponder
What makes Shakespeare or Beethoven great
Him I could love 'til I die
Him, I could love 'til I die!

She turned and made her way back to the stage, singing as dramatically as ever, and Kurt only barely managed to keep himself from practically falling over in relief.

My white knight
Not a Lancelot or an angel with wings
Just someone to love me
Who's not ashamed of a few nice things

My white knight,
Let me walk with him where the others ride by
Walk and love him 'til I die
'Til I die!

She ended the song with a long arm-raise, beginning with her palms up in front of her and ending with her hands over her head, eyes squeezed shut as though there was too much emotion leaving her for her to bear to see it go. Kurt knew that face; he didn't believe a second of it. It was her overly dramatic "I'm in such pain as I sing" face, always brought out for a supposedly-moving performance though he had yet to be swayed by it even under the best of circumstances, like when she had sung a song he particularly enjoyed and had sung it well and hadn't tried to proposition him in the middle of it.

The applause varied in enthusiasm, from the dutiful - Rachel's former choirmates and the regulars who were kind of tired of her obsessive solo-hogging on nights when she came by - to the enthusiastic - everyone else. She beamed proudly, then descended the stairs to the right of the stage and made her way quickly back to the table, pausing to gush to the few patrons who told her what a great job she'd done.

Rather than retaking her seat, she stood in front of Kurt, staring down at him; it was an unusual position for her, being taller than someone, and Kurt kept his bemused smile at the thought just barely concealed. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Kurt asked, blinking.

"What did you think?"

Rachel never asked people what they thought without an agenda. He would have assumed it was a desperate plea for compliments, but they had known each other more than long enough to know that wasn't going to happen. She may have been single-mindedly obsessive about her talent and how fantastic she was in her own mind, but she'd been subjected to harsh comments almost as often as he had in school. It wasn't as though the two of them were particularly friendly when it came to evaluations of each others' performances, either.

And he wasn't so wild about how much of it had been sung at him.

"I think if you're expecting someone to talk about Shakespeare and Beethoven in Iowa, clearly you're going to be looking awhile," he replied smoothly, his eyebrow raised skeptically as he tried to figure out what her angle was.

"I know you know that song - you were talking last night about the footbridge scene being romantic. I meant about the performance. And the sentiment behind it, because you as much as anyone I know respond to music on an emotional level."

Kurt fought the urge to roll his eyes at her enthusiasm. "What are you looking for, Rachel? Because clearly you're fishing for something, and I'm not sure-" Rachel glanced over at their friends at the rest of the table, then grabbed his hand and pulled him from his seat with a surprising bit of strength, and using his shock-induced pliancy to her advantage. "Okay, have you lost your mind? This-"

She pulled him quickly down a hallway where Kurt seemed to remember the bathrooms being, then through a door off to the right that led to a room about the size of a cloakroom with several racks of old costumes and stagewear lining the room. The only light came from a dim bare bulb at the ceiling, and the look on Rachel's face was one of enthusiastic determination.

Oh dear god. She was going to try to make out with him, wasn't she? Because first she sang him a love song, a song about finding her ideal companion, and then she shoved him into a costume room and-

He had to get out of there.

He tried to step past her, but she stood in front of the door. "Rachel, what are you doing?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Given the circumstances, you'll understand if I don't believe that's what you intend to do right now," he stated, his voice tight and higher than he would have preferred as he tried to figure out just how to get past her. He couldn't hit her or shove her, she was a girl and a lot smaller than he was, and while he was fast the room was cramped and their position awkward enough that he doubted he could get around her to the door without slamming her accidentally into something. And even if that something was just a rack of fabulous hats from the 1920s and a rod holding several Andrews Sisters-style decorated uniforms, he couldn't do that. She was a girl.

That really was the root of all his problems at the moment, wasn't it?

"I think we should date, Kurt. I think I should be your girlfriend-"

"Oh my god," he mumbled, rolling his eyes. He was hoping that when he looked her in the eye again, she would be smiling, making it clear she was joking, that she was just trying to distract him while she did something ridiculous. He didn't even know what he was hoping the excuse would be, but anything would be better than-

...She was serious. The determined set of her jaw, the earnest look in her dark eyes, the slight purse of her lips when he didn't immediately agree...she had actually meant it. She wanted to-

"Rachel, I...I say this with all possible affection and in the spirit of whatever friendship we have - however competitive and at times acrimonious it may be. I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not?" she asked.

The way she was staring him in the eye was making him incredibly uncomfortable - or was that just the fact that he was trapped in a tiny room with a pixie who had gone completely crazy? Because that could absolutely be the reason. That and the fact that he had to find a nice way of telling her he wasn't interested without telling her why precisely he wasn't interested, because everyone knew she couldn't keep her mouth shut to save her life. If it weren't for her incredible voice, he would have suggested taping her mouth shut years ago - and he was one of the people who halfway liked her, as opposed to Quinn or Puck or any number of other people they knew.

If he was being entirely honest, this shouldn't have been the first time the issue came up. Considering how many girls were always around, how all of his friends were girls and they all talked about how he would make such a great boyfriend if ever they broke up with the boyfriends they already had...it had come up exactly once, actually. Brittany had tried to tell him they should make out, he politely informed her he was allergic to the wool sweater of the Cheerios uniform, and that had been that. That had been before he knew why he wasn't interested, but he'd always known that he didn't feel any particular desire to kiss the pretty girls the way Finn or Puck did.

Not that he was necessarily saying Rachel was pretty, he didn't actually know. He knew she was talented and driven and a compulsive overachiever who needed to ensure that everyone knew how talented and driven she was. He knew her clothing made him want to light her on fire - okay, or at least her entire closet.

And he knew that he did not under any circumstances want to be her boyfriend. Or anyone's boyfriend.

...Unless boys could have boyfriends, in which case he might reconsider. He didn't know if that was something people did. If that was how the strange-sounding "homosexual marriage" thing that Man #16 and a few others in the report had...started. After all, Finn was Quinn's boyfriend and then they would get married, so theoretically that would mean that boys could have boyfriends and then get...homosexually married? Whatever that meant.

But that was another question for another day. Right now, the much more important question was how to get Rachel to back the hell off and let him out of the damned closet before either he suffocated or she did something stupid like try to kiss him.

"Because I don't like you that way," he replied as nicely and politely as he could muster. It wasn't her fault he couldn't be interested, after all, and if he liked girls, maybe...maybe it would work. Probably not, he would probably want to throw her off the top of a very tall building after approximately twenty minutes judging by her generally over-controlling nature and obsessive need to be right, but she wasn't inherently horrible once a person got used to her, and he kind of had. A little bit, at least.

"And what way is that?" she asked, but she didn't sound...annoyed. More like she was trying to get something out of him that he wasn't about to give.

"Like a boy should like his girlfriend," he replied evenly, but the intense look on her face had gotten worse even just in the past three minutes and he found himself adding, "It's not you, I don't like another girl that way either-"

"Kurt. You're never going to find 'the right girl.' I- I know that's what people say, and you're talented and attractive, but you're not going to find 'the right girl.'" She reached out to grab his hand in hers, then added more quietly, "I know what you are, Kurt."

He froze, his heart racing so fast he could barely catch his breath as he stood ramrod straight among a sea of sequins and silk velvet and faux-fur. No. She-...no. He must have misheard that, or misunderstood. Because if she could guess, and she was not exactly the most observant person in the world (she was barely a step above Finn sometimes, which was downright sad), then did that mean everyone could guess? Just because he wasn't crazy didn't mean he wanted everyone to know, not yet, not until he knew what it meant and how to- how to deal with any of it better. Just because it was apparently something semi-normal in the world and the animal kingdom didn't mean it was normal enough in the scale of things that were acceptable in Lima for him to-

Maybe she was talking about something else, he realized suddenly. She could be talking about any number of things, after all, or maybe she was trying to trick him into revealing information and thereby making her job easier. What job? he wasn't quite sure. Blackmailing him for...something. It wouldn't be the first time she'd tried. He wasn't sure what prize she might be trying to win from him now, especially considering he spent most of the time 2 hours away at a separate school with no solo opportunities she could usurp, but regardless he wasn't going to reveal anything. Not until forced.

"And what is that?" he asked evenly, his jaw so tight it was almost difficult to speak.

It was the first time he ever heard the word 'homosexual' aloud and somehow it did't sound like he expected. Less frightening than in black and white print in the middle of a medical textbook, but horribly loud and echoey and hollow in a way that made it sound as though she were shouting even though he was fairly certain she had actually lowered her voice. It felt like every person outside that door, every person in the entire club, could hear what she said about him.

Could hear what he was.

He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to curl in on himself and disappear somehow, but her hands on his forearms stopped him. "It's okay - so is my father," she stated. "He lives with his homosexual lover, a negro man, near Cleveland." He wasn't sure what in the world to do with that information (or her word choices, honestly). "I'm not supposed to know that's why he and my mom divorced, but neither of them are great at keeping their conversations quiet. I've known since I was seven."

"Why would you think I-"

"Kurt." Her voice was equal parts admonishment, pity, wishing he would just say it already, and wanting to chastise him for thinking it wasn't obvious. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to figure out some way out of this situation with his dignity - and his secret - intact, but he couldn't come up with any and it felt like everything was so- "It's okay," she repeated quietly. "I won't tell anyone. I...I just thought if we dated, it might-"

"What?" he laughed bitterly. "It might what? Make me not be anymore?"

"No. I mean, I wouldn't complain if you weren't - you're certainly handsome, even if you do use strange things in your hair and dress in such a way that no one will ever see your skin." His eyes narrowed at the accusation, but she continued. "But I'm under no illusions that it would change you."

"Then what's in this for you?" he asked, his tone icy. "We both know you don't do anything out of the goodness of your heart, everything you do is so you'll get something out of it. What does being my fake-girlfriend get you?"

She withdrew for a moment, looked thoughtful, then offered, "Out."

"Excuse me?"

"You and I both know what happens to most of the people in this town, Kurt, to everyone - they marry the person they date in high school, they settle down, the men go to work at some job in town and the women get pregnant and- and have kids? That's all anyone has around here. That's all most people want around here. But I'm too talented for that. I refuse to waste my voice and my abilities on singing lullabies when my true passion lies out there, on a stage with a thousand people watching me." Her flare for the dramatic was back in its finest form, and the way she looked off to the side Kurt swore she was actually seeing a cheering crowd as she spoke. If he wanted to, now would be his chance to get past her and out, while she was lost in her fantasy...but he didn't run. He was almost intrigued. "You understand that," she added. "You're not staying here, I've heard you and Mercedes talking about leaving, going to New York, pursuing creative careers...you're the only boy in this town who won't try to tie me down."

"So you want to date me so you don't have to get married and have kids," Kurt repeated dryly, skeptical. "Did it ever occur to you to just not date anyone? Then you'd be free to leave when you want, find some guy in New York."

She blushed, looked away, and rolled her eyes at herself. "It's not-..that's the biggest reason, but it's not the only one," she allowed. "Just because I know you're not my real boyfriend doesn't mean everyone else would know that, and I could certainly use the boost in reputation that would come with dating someone."

"Really."

"It would help your reputation, too," she replied defensively. "This isn't just for me, it benefits you, too."

"No one likes you enough for it to help me." This was ridiculous. Completely absurd. She was out of her mind if she thought he was seriously going to consider helping her that much. He started past her to the door, but her next statement stopped him.

"No, but they wouldn't be able to say the things that are starting to-"

His hand froze on the knob and he turned back to face her. "What things?"

"About..." She looked him up and down as if to say 'exactly what we've been talking about.' He wasn't sure when it had started, when it had turned from 'wimp' and 'sissy' to...to that. He wondered if Finn knew. Probably not, right? Finn was oblivious to pretty much everything going on around him. "If you had a girlfriend - especially one who is notoriously horrible at keeping secrets?"

"So you would be my cover," he surmised, still skeptical.

"And you would be mine," she added. "No pressure on either of us. I wouldn't have to stay here, and you would have a girlfriend who would never pressure you to do anything except hold hands and maybe kiss in public every once in awhile if people get suspicious." She hesitated, then added, "I meant what I was singing. I know the...sensual side of relationships are important, but frankly I'm less interested in that than I am in everything else. I want someone I can talk to, someone who...who doesn't treat me like I'm horribly irritating."

"You are...but only sometimes," he added quietly, and both knew there wasn't harshness behind the words - not like there ordinarily would have been.

"You know about everything I'm interested in, and you like talking about it. Where else am I going to find a boyfriend like that? Certainly not in Finn."

She would find it in Blaine. If Blaine was interested, and he didn't know yet. Because it would seem like they were the same, but then Blaine would get kind of flirty with Rachel or talk about musicals with her instead of with him, or ask about being alone and never mention anything about feeling the way that he felt, and it was all so....so murky. And the idea that Blaine might not be like him was too much to contemplate, too isolating - really did make him the only one in the world except those thirty-some guys out there somewhere in the US that he would probably never find. So he bypassed his first response and went with his second. "Is this some ploy to get to hang out at my house and stare at my stepbrother?"

That worked. That was snarky. Snarky was a lot safer than asking if she was going to try to date the one and only boy he'd ever felt this way about when he didn't know which of the two of them Blaine would choose.

"No. I just-...I'm over that now," she replied, but he didn't believe it for a second. "He's with Quinn, and I know they're going to get married as soon as we graduate, and that's...that's what's right for him. Can you imagine him in New York? I mean he would go completely crazy. So maybe this..."

It occurred to him suddenly that, for all he had seen Rachel's overly dramatic "I'm singing all of my feelings and they're too big and sad for one person to contain" face over the years, he had never actually seen her sad. Not like this. Not like she hurt but was trying to do the right thing anyway. It unnerved him a little, made him feel like he couldn't predict what would come out of her mouth next.

Though, to be fair, that was a recurring theme in the course of this conversation, wasn't it?

The moment passed quickly and she had on her 'this is a good idea and thoroughly practical' face that always meant something was a horrible idea. "You're the only person in this town who can match my ambition and talent. Finn could never hope to have your voice - he sounds amazing and is a great male lead, but you...we would sound fantastic singing duets." Kurt wasn't sure if she intended that to sound like a euphemism for something, and he desperately hoped she didn't. "I would have to take the melody of course, but-"

"Let me think about it," he said before she could launch into an entire analysis of precisely which songs they would have to sing in public 'for appearances sake'. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, trying to look inconspicuous as he glanced back at the table to make sure no one was watching. That would be exactly what he needed - for everyone to think he had ducked into a coat closet with Rachel Berry for sixteen minutes and four seconds in something-less-than-heaven. Rachel walked out after him and cast a forlorn glance at the table. Finn and Quinn were back now, Quinn cuddled against Finn and under his protective arm, still looking upset but not so angry with him, and Puck and Santana were making out (no surprise there) and Blaine was talking to Brittany with this look on his face like he found her intriguing-

"Think about it," Rachel instructed quietly. "But since neither of us can have what we really want-" Kurt's head jerked towards her. She knew that secret, too? Did that mean- "-it's the best option so we both get everything else we need."

He never thought he would see the day Rachel Berry sounded sane. But right now? She sounded almost reasonable.

Y'know. If one ignored the fact that her idea was completely crazy.

* * * * *

The house was quiet when they arrived; Kurt had called their parents from Le Chat Noir to let them know that they were leaving but might technically miss curfew, and Carole had told him it was okay and thanked him for calling, then mentioned that his father had been asleep for a couple hours already and probably didn't need to know. After checking that everyone would be safe to get home, she had simply told him to be quiet when they arrived and she would see them in the morning.

There were times he wasn't entirely sure what to do with the relationship. On one hand, having a stepparent who wasn't strict was certainly better than a slew of Disney movies would have him believe was the norm. On the other, it seemed odd to miss curfew and not have her care. His dad had never been particularly hard-nosed about things, but Carole seemed even more lax somehow as though trying to be friendly with him which definitely did not make sense. And he was used to Mrs. Jones as the resident mother figure, and she took no crap from anyone.

Maybe Carole just realized that, now that he was living at a boarding school where they didn't actually have control over him and couldn't really see whether he was obeying rules or not, it was kind of strange to impose rules on him the one weekend he was home. He wondered if she had treated Finn the same way when he was growing up, or if it was just about him. He should ask his stepbrother sometime.

But not tonight.

Blaine made a beeline for the stairs, saying something about being exhausted already and wanting to take a quick shower to get everything out of his hair and the smell of smoke off his skin and clothes - an idea Kurt heartily endorsed - and Kurt was on his way up to begin his skincare regimen when Finn's quiet voice stopped him.

"Hey, Kurt?"

He turned slowly to face his stepbrother, who had flopped onto the couch as soon as they came in. "Yes?"

"You ever..." Finn hesitated a second. He looked sad, Kurt thought, which wasn't a usual look for the boy who generally had the demeanor of a slightly-overexcited laborador - enthusiastic but kind of dim and prone to accidentally screw things up despite having good intentions.

"Mm?"

"You ever feel stuff so deep it's like you can't make it make sense?"

Kurt swallowed hard. Everything these days was like that. Blaine in particular, but missing home and feeling like the unfairness of the world was just so much he couldn't bear it all, and now this thing with Rachel, and trying so hard to help Sam, and all on top of a new environment, with new rules, and new...conditions that he still wasn't entirely comfortable with... "All the time," he replied quietly.

Finn nodded slowly, then asked, "How do you deal with it?"

Kurt blinked and thought barely a moment before replying, "I sing." When Finn regarded him curiously, he explained, "Music - for me, at least - is about expressing things that are too big and complicated for simple words. About letting the emotion carry you through the song. It helps."

Assuming, of course, that one could find a suitable song. He had one for being in love with Blaine - Blaine had found that one himself, made Kurt's job easy. But being in love with Blaine and not knowing if Blaine loved him back or if Blaine would try to have him committed to a psychiatric facility if he knee of Kurt's true feelings...there wasn't really a suitable song for that. Kurt had looked, but even Broadway with its complex storylines and myriad of expressed emotions lacked a ballad complex enough for what he was feeling, for what he feared.

But if there was a song to be found, then yes - it did help.

"Goodnight, Finn," he said quietly before ascending the stairs and wondering if part of dating Rachel would mean access to her soundtrack collection; it was the only one in town more expansive than his own, and she might have exactly the hidden gem he was searching for.

"Night, Kurt," Finn whispered back.

The darkness of the living room felt oppressive, ominous, like it was trying to pin him down and hold him against the couch so he couldn't move or think or plan or fix anything, and he just kept hearing Quinn's voice over and over in his head telling him to figure out what to do. But everything he thought they should do, she kept telling him they couldn't, and she told him she didn't even want to raise the baby with him, but what other options were there? He didn't know how to- What was he supposed to do? He hadn't even known this could happen, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing to fix it, and he couldn't...

...if he wasn't even allowed to tell anyone, how was he supposed to ask someone what he was supposed to do?

Maybe Kurt was right about the singing thing, he thought. Maybe singing would help him figure out what Quinn and the baby - their baby - needed.

What did he know about babies, anyway? He didn't even have little cousins he'd seen growing up - he knew he had some, all on his dad's side, but his mom didn't really talk to any of them after his dad died so he only knew his grandparents and that didn't really help him. He hadn't hung around when Quinn babysat...hey, that meant she knew how to take care of a baby, right? Because he sure as hell didn't. He didn't even know how big or small they were meant to be, he knew people always asked about the size first thing after if it was a boy or a girl, but he didn't know what size was normal.

The baby'd be big, right? Because he was pretty tall and always had been. But his mom was pretty short, so maybe that didn't matter. Or maybe the kid didn't get big until they grew up more.

He pulled himself off the couch and walked across the living room to the bookcase. A blue photo album sat on top of a shoebox, and he pulled them both off the shelf and carried them carefully back to the couch. His mom hadn't had time to put together his baby book when he was little, since she was working all the time and trying to deal with him being awake all night and everything, but now that she wasn't working since she was married, she'd been going through and finally putting everything from the shoebox into the album. So far it looked like she was a little over halfway done, judging by how much lighter the box was than he remembered.

He carefully opened the album to the first page and stared in wonder at the picture of himself as a newborn. He was tiny. Like, smaller than his grandpa's forearm kind of small and the guy wasn't all that huge or anything.

How in the world was he going to not crush something that small?

He knew he wasn't the most coordinated guy or anything, and if he tried to take care of it - to let Quinn sleep or something, or take the kid to the park or a basketball game or something...he would crush the baby.

How was he supposed to feed it?

Where were they supposed to live? Because they couldn't live with Quinn's parents if they didn't even know, but if he didn't tell his mom and Burt the couldn't really live here, either, and he was-

...so fucking scared.

"Sing - it helps," he heard Kurt's voice in his head. It couldn't hurt, right?

He didn't know what kind of song was really good for singing about when he was scared, mostly he just listened to rock stuff or sometimes the country station, but the first song that came to mind was the one his mom used to sing him when he was little and had a bad dream or something. She'd come in and sit on the edge of his bed and just rock him, tell him about how she'd seen the movie the song was from when she was pregnant with him and couldn't stop crying - which he thought was kinda weird, but she said it every time so it was sort of comforting. That story, that song, and cowboy wallpaper...that was what made him feel better as a kid.

One out of three would have to do.

Baby mine don't you cry
Baby mine dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part, Baby of mine

He could do this. Maybe. Something like that. If he had to. And he did have to, didn't he? Unless she just kind of...wanted to do this herself and he'd come over and help or something? He didn't know how it worked if the parents weren't married when the baby was born, nobody talked about stuff like that. Actually, he didn't know how it worked if there were two parents because his dad died when he was like a few months old and was deployed before that because the Japanese attacked and everything? But there were supposed to be parents around, right? If they could be.

But that meant they had to live somewhere, and he had no idea where that was meant to be.

Little one when you play
Don't you mind what they say
Let those eyes sparkle and shine
Never a tear, baby of-

He screamed and jumped as he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Burt towered over him, standing behind the couch and looking at him through confused, sleep-bleary eyes. "Whatcha doin?"

Finn stared straight ahead, trying not to look like he was maybe about to consider crying or anything. "Nothing," he lied unconvincingly.

Burt walked around the couch and sat down beside Finn heavily. His bathrobe scrunched up under his thighs but he didn't bother adjusting it. "You were singing," he grumbled.

"Yeah?" Finn tried to sound surprised, as if he hadn't realized he was. "Sorry, was it too loud?"

"No, just weird," Burt replied. "And my kid's Kurt, so I got a pretty high meter for weird. But singing in a dark living room while you look at baby pictures?" When Finn didn't respond, he asked awkwardly, "Is it a...y'know. You miss your dad?"

"No. Not really." It was true - no more than usual.

"So what's..." Burt fell silent, mouth forming a grim, tight line. "You get someone in trouble?"

He had. He had, he didn't know how but he had and he couldn't say anything because Quinn would kill him, but he couldn't hold it in anymore and it felt like he was almost shaking under the weight of trying to figure out what to do -he didn't know what to do and maybe Burt would know, maybe he- He'd raised Kurt with people around, maybe he knew how all this was meant to work, he'd been a dad, he would know-

"Finn?"

"Uh- uh-huh," he said quietly, the words pushed from his throat in a high tone. He sounded like Kurt. Why did he sound like that?

"Did you-" Burt started to repeat, but Finn just nodded and felt a ragged gasping sob leave him. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know how to- and Quinn was going to-

Burt's hand felt strong on his back, so much larger than his mom's did in things like this, and he tried to pull himself together. He wasn't a little boy, he was a man and he wasn't supposed to be crying like this. He was certain the admonishment would be next. Instead he heard a quiet, resigned question.

"Quinn, right? Not that girlfriend of Puckerman's who...y'know. Gets around?"

Finn shook his head. "No. I mean - yes, it's Quinn, she-...oh god..." He heard Burt sigh in disappointment and somehow that made the words just tumble out of him, like a dam bursting. "She keeps telling me to figure out what to do but every time I try she tells me I'm wrong and I don't know how to- what to do or where we're gonna go, she hasn't told her parents and didn't want me to tell anyone and oh god she's gonna kill me-"

"Calm down." Burt's voice was quiet, steady, not as gruff as Finn was expecting. Calm. Good. Calm was good, calm was...that would help. Okay. Calm. He could do that. Maybe. "We'll tell your mom first thing in the morning, then go...talk to her parents," he concluded slowly, as though trying to pick the words out of a soup of potential phrases in his brain. "We've got enough to scrape together most of a down payment, you can pick up more time at the shop, that should...that should cover enough, but if it's not we can maybe help out. We'll, um." He hesitated, and Finn looked over for the first time.

He looked scared. Like he was trying to convince himself this was all okay but...but like he was still scared.

That was when Finn started to get really nervous.

"We'll take you kids down to City Hall, we can talk to her parents to figure out if it's better to have a...y'know, a ceremony or something. I mean, it'd be kind of obvious why, you two being just 18 and not done with school yet, but it might be important to them, I dunno."

"What do we need to go to City Hall for?"

"Marriage license."

Finn's eyes shot open wide. "Married? I- No way, Burt, I don't-"

"No." His tone left no room for argument. "You're going to marry that girl. And then you're going to find a house, and work your ass off, and raise that child. That's what you do for your family - what a man does." He drew in a deep breath. "Go to bed, get some sleep. S'gonna be a long day tomorrow." He clapped Finn on the shoulder again, then used the arm of the couch to leverage himself off the sofa before padding slowly across the room and trudging up the stairs like a man twice his age, leaving Finn alone in the oppressive darkness of the living room with the baby album still open on his lap.