In retrospect, the snickering from most of the Warblers should have probably clued him in a little bit. As the fact that Sam wouldn't tell him where they were supposed to meet should have let him know something was up. Generally the Commons were off-limits to students whenever the library was closed as a result of a few too many parties getting out of hand with a lack of supervision in the main academic building, and if this meeting was starting at 10:30 - which should have been yet another clue - it seemed odd that they would drag everyone across campus for something that would take less than half an hour. Surely any information that needed to be conveyed in a meeting that short would be just as easily disseminated in one of the Seniors' rooms, or could be given earlier in the evening.

But, he could safely say, he had not expected to be quite this off-guard by it all.

The basement storage room in the library was dusty, half-filled with boxes that under ordinary circumstances Kurt would have been trying to figure out the contents of. But mostly he just knew the basement was freezing.

Or maybe that was because he was clad in nothing but his underwear, tie, and loafers.

He wasn't the only one. There were three other unlucky souls standing beside him - two sophomores and one junior, all apparently fellow "new Warblers" even if he wasn't sure entirely how since he was still the only one taking care of Fleta and he'd been told that was an honour reserved only for the new Warbler. Maybe he was just the newest, that was why. He knew he didn't remember anyone else being brand new his first week.

He should ask someone. Once he wasn't standing mostly-naked in the center of a room full of cheering, raucous boys in period costumes.

Dalton was founded in 1768, which was apparently the inspiration for the clothing choice for the evening. They looked ridiculous, all of them - Jeff with his tricorner hat, Sam in a horrible blue brocade jacket (and where the hell had he been hiding that? Kurt wondered, since he'd never seen it in their room), Nick constantly trying to adjust the ruffles down the front of his shirt. Bill was wearing a gold vest and breeches so tight Kurt swore he could see everything, including a lack of underwear lines.

He was lucky that he could be distracted by the humour of seeing every one of these boys in tights. Knee-length breeches, silk stockings, and Dalton loafers.

If the rest of them looked ridiculous, the Council defied an accurate description. Rather than a more relaxed colonial style, which most of the boys appeared to favour - not that Kurt could tell for certain, his detailed fashion history knowledge generally did not extend too far past Beau Brummell - the Council had gone all out, showing their position as leaders by donning the most ornate Maccaroni style Kurt had ever seen. Silk velvet jackets with braided trim - David's had elaborate pearl beading all up the front, around the back of the neckline, and on the cuffs - with elaborately-patterned vests in rich hues (Crimson for Wes, gold and blue for Thad, emerald green with white and black for David) and breeches. There were pristine white silk stockings and less-conventional shoes, but what really got him were the accessories. Thad had a large white organza-looking bow around his neck and seemed completely unfazed by it, as though it was the most normal, natural thing int he world for him to wear. David had pom poms on his shoes and the bottoms of his breeches. And the wigs...

Kurt wanted to know where in the world he had gotten them, or if possibly these were the very first wigs ever worn by members of the Warblers' Council back in 1772 when the group was formed (how frightening was it that he was starting to think of anything historical in Wes's voice, no matter how sarcastically he thought it?). All three were identical and stood at least two feet tall, a high cone of coarse white hair flanked by large ascending barrel curls. On top of each sat a tiny hat that matched the jacket.

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or be amazed at the detail. He'd never understood before when fashion historians referred to dandyism as a masculine movement, but if this was what had preceded it...

He wasn't into this much beading, but he might really want a couple of the vests.

A card table had been placed at the front of the room, and Wes banged his gavel onto it so hard that everything piled on top bounced and clattered, looked as though it might fall off. "Order!" he declared. "The Warblers will come to order."

It was the loudest Kurt had ever heard the group after Wes had asked for order as, instead of falling silent as they usually did, the boys settled into a sort of hushed, giggling murmur. He would have expected the defiance to be the result of a decent amount of alcohol - despite Blaine and Sam's assertions that the Warblers cracked down on it - but there wasn't a bottle, can, or bag-covered vessel in sight. Maybe the costumes had gone to their brains; he could almost understand that.

Wes accepted the less-than-silent room, which was uncharacteristic. "Tonight, we continue a tradition nearly 200 years in the making: the initiation of our newest brothers - the most recent in a long line of Warblers. Ever since 1778-" Kurt cursed himself for being off by a few years in his personal commentary, "when Thomas Emerson Dalton, nephew to school founder and namesake John Dalton, held the first initiation of what was then known as the Fraternal Guild of Musicians, we have held an annual induction of new members. In 1889, when the Fraternal Guild of Musicians voted to permit the chartering of the Warblers as an affiliate performance group, the bylaws specified that initiation would take place on the eve before the new members' first public performance. Which brings us to tonight." Wes smiled proudly; Kurt found himself trying to glance around to figure out where in this story came the part where they were supposed to take off all their clothes except their ties. Possibly that was where the other Warblers had gotten all their 18th century finery - the first Warblers took off all their clothes, put them in a box, and passed it down from generation to generation.

Not really. Mostly he just wanted to distract himself from the cold air and the sinking feeling in his stomach that things were going to get a lot worse.

It was awkward enough being next-to-naked in front of people anyway, as scrawny and ill-proportioned as Kurt felt. Add in the fact that he was nervous about potentially...revealing his secret in a room full of boys, none of whom he could guarantee how they might react-...and one of the sophomores was much more athletic-looking without his uniform on. He'd had this problem a few times during junior high school, but so had everyone so it wasn't considered quite so bad. now...now, he had a sinking suspicion, it wouldn't be considered quite so acceptable. As if he didn't hate his body's reactions to things like this anyway, the knowledge that he was stuck in front of other boys and couldn't even hide himself without it being obvious- He swallowed hard and stared just above Wes's right eyebrow, trying to fight the urge to steal one of the many fabulously-adorned jackets around him.

"Tonight, as you become the newest members, we-"

"Subject you to the same torture we were subjected to when we joined," Jeff called from behind them, which earned a chorus of laughter. Kurt looked over his shoulder - the boys were still lounging on boxes, draped casually but with a look of interest.

Wes banged the gavel sharply, and Kurt's head snapped back to face front. The Warblers seemed to get his meant business this time and fell into the more customary silence afforded the Council at all meetings and rehearsals. "Now. As I was saying. Tonight, as you become the newest members, we honour that past while looking to the future - to the 181-years of history behind us and the hopefully-longer legacy before us." It was obvious that the Council was moved by Wes's speech, at the very least, even if Kurt found it mostly odd, two of his initiate compatriots looked bored, and one seemed to be trying not to laugh.

David nodded seriously and his wig almost fell off. Okay, now Kurt was trying not to laugh, too, and he may have let a nervous chuckle escape before clamping down on it..

"Junior Warbler Sam Evans: Retrieve the jackets," Wes commanded. There was a moment of rustling, then Sam appeared in front of the inductees, four blazers over his arm. That meant the clothes they had shed earlier in the evening couldn't be too far away, Kurt realized with just a hint of comfort at the thought. They weren't going to be forced to practically streak back to their rooms at the end of all of this - at least, he hoped not.

Sam checked the inside tag before he handed the jacket over, and Kurt was glad to see it was his own jacket and not one belonging to a random other new Warbler - or some Warbler from 1934 for all he knew. It wouldn't have been the strangest thing all night to be presented with a navy frock coat in an Edwardian style with a red-trimmed capelet because that was the uniform worn at the first pre-performance initiation. "Thank you," he mouthed, a little wide-eyed, as he shrugged into the jacket and adjusted it. His fingers fiddled with the button as Sam stepped back and he heard the next command.

"Senior Warbler Blaine Anderson: Please approach."

That was the moment when Kurt knew there really must be a god - because he had a jacket on. If Blaine had come out even two minutes earlier, there would have been...disaster.

Blaine wasn't part of the Council so he wasn't adorned in the overexaggerated foppishness of the Maccaronis...but he didn't look like a stable hand, either. No, Blaine was adorned in a knee-length navy blue velvet coat, trimmed in gold military braid with brass buttons all down the front. There was a ruffled shirt, a deep red vest, soft grey riding trousers- and that's where Kurt stopped before he jerked his eyes back up. Just because Blaine knew didn't mean he needed to know quite so...intimately.

For that matter, he didn't want to think about anything quite that intimate. Not that it was anything specific, particular, or overtly sexual, just-...he didn't even know. Little things, like the breath on the neck thing from earlier in the fall. Or the way Blaine gave him this weird little private smile that made his stomach flutter. Or sometimes the way Blaine touched his shoulders or fixed his jacket, it just-...it did things to him. Usually nothing that was quite enough to be embarrassing under the uniform, but standing in a room full of boys with all eyes on him and almost no clothing...he didn't need to take any chances.

Blaine strode across the room effortlessly in his jacket, somehow looking like the only person who actually fit into his instead of donning a ridiculous costume. He came to stand in front of the Council, and Kurt almost started laughing again as the angle made it look as though Wes's enormous wig was resting on top of Blaine's slicked-down dark hair. It was quite the visual.

And it distracted him nicely from the way the jacket fell against the curve of Blaine's ass. It fit differently than the blazer, flowed a little more, was just-

"Senior Warbler Blaine Anderson. As lead vocalist, you are tasked with the awarding of awards." He saw the back of Blaine's head cock curiously and could just imagine the look on his face - from the glare he saw Thad giving, he guessed he'd been right. Wes handed Blaine a small wooden box and added very solemnly, "Please begin."

Blaine turned back to the inductees, barely suppressing a grin. Wes was bad under normal circumstances; when it came to ritual and ceremony, he became nearly unbearable - or, at least, impossible to take with a straight face. Still, he appreciated the evening. He still remembered standing there in his underwear as a sophomore while Tommy Krakowski, that year's lead soloist, had stepped in front of him - too warm because they were in the middle of Indian Summer before competition that year, plucked the round Warbler pin from the box, placed it against the front of Blaine's jacket just above the crest...he felt Tommy's fingers against his chest through the wool fabric, watched as Tommy licked his lips - Blaine had clasped his hands in front of him to try to push it down without anyone noticing, even though he knew that wasn't going to work. They were all going to see, they would see and they would know he had absolutely no self control, that he was- Then Tommy grinned and punched the pin into his chest. Blaine had gasped and almost fallen over as the Warblers laughed heartily behind him. They had known what was coming. They knew what he was in for, and he was left out of breath and unable to see straight.

At least it had succeeded in killing his erection. And erections for quite awhile thereafter. There really was some credence to the theory of associating arousal with horrible physical discomfort.

But as uncomfortable as that moment had been...it was when he had become a Warbler. Part of the group. Part of the resident rockstars who had cemented his status at Dalton for two years now, going on three. That was more than worth the pain of getting in.

Joshua was first in line. The junior had auditioned to fill a slot the previous January when one of the Warblers got expelled for trying to light a trash can on fire to get out of taking a final, but this was his first competition. Blaine picked one of the pins out of the box and held it up in a way that always seemed to him vaguely reminiscent of the way the priest held up a communion wafer before handing it over. "As a symbol of brotherhood and musical belonging," he recited, wondering not for the first time who had come up with this ridiculous mantra, "Of dedication, allegiance, and friendship. With this pin, you are a part of history."

Seriously, who talked like that? Or - worse - who sat down to write a speech and came up with that?

Joshua looked nervous but proud, like he knew something was coming but couldn't quite figure out what it might be - and the snickering coming from the back of the room wasn't helping matters. Blaine placed the pin against Joshua's jacket, just over the crest, smiled faintly, then pressed it in hard.

Joshua jumped, yelping out "Jeez! Fuck, man, what was that for?" but it just made the rest of the Warblers laugh more loudly.

"Decorum!" Wes called, banging his gavel.

"The tradition of the punch-in dates back to Warblers trained by the United States Marine Corps!" Thad replied.

"How were they trained by the Marines if they were still in high school?" the wounded boy demanded. He tried to rub at his chest but ended up hissing in pain.

"Warblers!" Wes banged his gavel again, and the room finally quieted to a dull simmer of mumbled gossip and chuckles.

Blaine took a large step to the left and stood face-to-face with Kurt. Kurt looked nervous - as well he should, he knew what was coming now, he knew enough to be afraid of it. But what Blaine found himself fascinated by was Kurt's neck.

He didn't mean to, it was just that Kurt was a couple inches taller and he was trying to avoid the intense eye contact he could just feel coming, so he glanced down and there it was. Pale and smooth and flushed red with embarrassment. Redder than Kurt's cheeks, which made him feel kind of all warm to think about. His eyes flicked down slowly, over the deep triangle of exposed skin leading down into the blazer. Pale, smooth, but with a dusting of wiry brown hair - not much, not too dark, but enough to make Kurt look a little older, not quite like a pubescent boy, definitely not like a girl.

He swallowed hard, trying to think of anything else. Pin backings jamming into his chest. His father's stern glare. How much more shock therapy would hurt than pin backings jammed into his chest.

Why were none of those any match for this stupid fucking sliver of pasty white flesh?

Wes cleared his throat and Blaine looked up quickly, his eyes meeting Kurt's. He seemed even more nervous now, as though the time going by was ratcheting up his expectation of how much this was going to hurt. Kurt swallowed hard, jaw tight, staring somewhere in the vicinity of Blaine's hairline as though he was trying not to-

Oh god. Was he-? No. No, that wouldn't make sense. For one thing, he wasn't nearly naked; there was nothing of his for Kurt to stare at. Unlike Kurt, who was standing there wearing barely more than his underwear and a terrified-yet-prideful expression as though he would not give up his dignity long enough to admit he was nervous.. His problem made sense, even if it was absolutely wrong and a sure sign his illness was progressing, getting worse instead of better. But Kurt?

He had to be imagining things. This was projection, that was all it was. Hoisting his own fears, insecurities onto poor Kurt, all because he confided- Because he admitted they were both sick. But he knew better than that, he chastised himself. Homosexuals weren't all the same; some kept themselves in check. Some behaved themselves. Not all of them were predatory, some managed to live normal lives like everyone else and not taint everyone and everything around them.

Just because he was afraid he was starting to give in to it didn't mean that Kurt was doing the same.

They stood there for a long moment, both boys afraid to look down, to see - to be accused of looking. Eye-to-eye, each wondering if they were imagining it all. Making it all up in their heads.

Blaine couldn't pull his gaze away as he began quietly, "As a symbol of brotherhood and musical belonging." Kurt gave a little nod, as though it was just something Blaine was saying to him, about something more than a pin, as if there weren't two dozen boys wearing silk stockings watching them. "Of dedication, allegiance, and friendship. With this pin, you are a part of history."

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the punch, for the quick pain, and Blaine wanted to-...

It had helped him, when Tommy jammed the pin in. It had helped get rid of this feeling - for awhile, at least, and the next year when he was sitting on the boxes in his tight pants, staring at the backsides of boys in their underwear, all he had to do was remember the association and it kept him in check.

Just because he was too far gone now for that to help him, didn't mean it couldn't help Kurt.

His fingers tightened - if he could help Kurt, help him not feel this way...that would be good, right? Good for Kurt? Plus be a decent sign for himself? He knew there was a balance, that...that even as much as his father thought homosexuals were inherently sick and perverse, there were signs that a man was more sick. It was unofficial, not like stages in cancer or something like that, but if...if a person could recognize it was wrong, that meant he was less likely to be beyond help. So if he not only recognized it was a problem in himself, but that it was a problem in Kurt and tried to help even where he couldn't help himself, did that-

But the thought of hurting him made his stomach clench so hard it was like he almost couldn't breathe. The image of pressing forward and making Kurt cry out in pain-

Leaving deep red marks in that perfect white flesh-

He couldn't. Even if it would be the right thing to do, he just-...he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to do that.

He pressed forward slowly, gently, stopping when he heard Kurt gasp softly, but it wasn't a pained sound and that was the best he could do.

"Oh come on - do it over!" Bill called out. "That doesn't count."

"Yeah - you've gotta get them screaming in pain," Jeff replied.

Blaine simply tore his eyes away from Kurt and took another step to the left, standing in front of the next inductee, but all he could think of was Kurt and his damned neck.

He wished he were stronger.

* * * * *

This wasn't fucking right.

Puck wasn't a guy who got told he was right a lot, and okay fine, so he was kind of on a first-name basis with the cops who worked the Saturday night shift. But that didn't mean he was stupid or didn't have any idea what was right or wrong.

Maybe his view of it was a little skewed sometimes, but there were some things that were absolute. You didn't pick on girls, you only hassled the kids who needed it, you stuck up for anyone on your team even if you didn't actually like them, and your family came first.

The last one was important.

His dad didn't get that. His dad took off when he was 8 to try to be a blues guitarist and was never heard from again. No postcards, no letters, no money from gigs, nothing. Didn't care. Didn't give a shit that there was never enough cash to go around and his mom was working two jobs. Didn't give a shit what people in town said about his mom because she got a divorce - all the church ladies talked about her like she must be off fucking every guy in town if she got a divorce. Didn't give a shit what the people in town said about him since he didn't look like his mom or his little sister and a lot of people didn't remember anything about his dad.

And what that meant they said about his mom.

He wasn't like that. He had always said that, when he had a family, he was gonna take care of them. He wasn't going to just run off no matter how great the gig was or how hot the girls were. He would do whatever it took to make sure his family had it all.

He hadn't realized that he might not even know he had a family.

He still wouldn't know if it weren't for Finn being a total lightweight and not being able to hold his Jack. They were getting drunk in the park, sitting on the swings like they used to when they were like ten and really pathetic, and Finn just started talking about how Quinn was gone. He didn't get it, because it's not like her family ever really went anywhere except maybe to visit her sister in Cleveland or something.

Quinn was gone. She was pregnant and Finn was going to marry her, and now he couldn't find her.

Here was the problem: Puck wasn't an idiot. Puck knew where babies came from and he knew she hadn't done any of that with Finn. For one thing, Finn was always complaining about not getting to do anything. For another, Finn would totally have come to him if he finally did the deed.

But he and Quinn had. No one knew that, not even Sandy, but he knew and Quinn knew.

She hadn't even fucking told him.

Tossing Jacob ben Israel around usually made anything feel better, but even dragging him out of the arcade with all his loser friends watching didn't get rid of the sting.

Quinn didn't tell him because she didn't want him involved. She would rather have Finn - Finn, who was a fucking moron! - raising a kid that wasn't even his because...he didn't even know.

Probably because she thought he'd fuck it up, he realized as he stood at the edge of the ravine, watching Jacob try to climb his way out by clutching at trees and vines and crap. She didn't get he wasn't a bad guy. She thought he was just good for sex - whatever, he owned that. He liked sex, he wasn't gonna deny that. But she didn't get that he wasn't some pathetic jerk who would leave her high and dry.

He needed to step up. To make sure she knew his kid was gonna have whatever it needed. That she would have whatever she needed.

He'd marry her tomorrow. It was the right thing to do. They'd have to live with his mom for a little bit while he saved enough money for a place...unless he could steal it from somewhere. But it was still the right thing - he just needed to tell her he was willing to do it.

People didn't look at him like he could be a good guy or whatever because he didn't have to be. But he could do this.

He wasn't still drunk or anything when he showed up at her house the next morning, but he had been driving around awhile. By the time he knocked on the front door, it was after 9, he hadn't slept, and he was so ready for this. He didn't have a ring, but he could get one - his Nana had one she kept saying she'd give him to give his girl someday. He hoped she'd still give him the time of day.

He was running so high on adrenaline, on the excitement of what he was about to ask her and the knowledge that he had to get his life together in the next six months enough to be a father that he'd managed to forget the part where Finn started the conversation by saying she wasn't there anymore.

Okay, maybe the Jack Daniels had something to do with that.

Mrs. Fabray answered the door. She had never liked him, even though she'd only met him like three times. "Noah."

"Is Quinn here?"

She sighed, looked away tensely, then stated, "I'm sorry, Noah, I'm not going to tell you where she is. You can tell Finn that I don't appreciate him sending someone to ask on his behalf."

"Why-"

"Judy?" He heard Mr. Fabray's voice getting closer. "Who is- oh." Mr. Fabray stopped in the doorway behind his wife, staring Puck down. "What can I do for you, boy?"

Puck hated that word, boy. It never meant good things for him. "I need to speak with Quinn."

"She's at boarding school."

"Then give me her address." The stunned look on the adults' face, followed by anger, prompted him to add, "Please. I need to contact her. It's important."

"I'm afraid she's not going to be able to talk to anyone. You see, the school is quite strict."

"I know she's pregnant," he blurted out. If Mr. Fabray looked pissed at him before, now he looked like he wanted to kill him or something. "Finn's not the father, I am. And I want to marry her. I want to marry her and take care of our baby."

Adults respected that kind of shit, right? Being honest and direct and stepping up? That was why they liked...he didn't even know who. Guys who weren't him.

Mrs. Fabray recovered first. "She's not pregnant," she stated, sounding indignant. "Who told you such a thing? Quinn is a much better girl than that, not like that Santana girl you go around with."

"Finn-"

"Finn?" Mr. Fabray chortled. "That boy's angry. Bitter. That's all this is."

"I'm disappointed in him," Mrs. Fabray stated sadly. "Starting that kind of vicious rumour about her like that. He knows what that could do to a girl's reputation. And because he's angry with Quinn for breaking up with him and not saying goodbye before she left, that he would say that...I thought he was better than that."

Were they kidding with that shit? Finn was dumb, he wasn't manipulative. For one thing, you had to be smart to manipulate stuff. He'd known Finn since they were 6, they were practically brothers - and Finn was an idiot. Oblivious as hell.

For another, Finn was a better guy than that. Hell, he was a better guy than that! Even he, who no parents ever liked, wouldn't pull that shit. Sandy would, but girls fought dirty like that. Finn wouldn't do that. Ever.

"This is bullshit."

"You watch your language, boy, this is my house." Mr. Fabray's voice dropped to a low, threatening growl as his eyes narrowed. Puck raised his chin defiantly, meeting the glare - no way was this jerk going to tell him what to do, not when he was lying about where Quinn was and why. Not when he was trying to say that his kid didn't exist. No fucking way.

But what could he do?

That was the real question. He was the kind of guy who would give his all to something he cared about, but if he didn't know where she was, and he didn't know how to find her, and her parents wouldn't tell him? What the hell was he supposed to do?

Even if he called every boarding school in the state, that didn't guarantee anything. She could be out of state somewhere. She could not even be at a school - she could be with nuns or staying with an aunt somewhere or something.

Or they could've sent her for something else.

There was absolutely fucking nothing he could do.

He turned and walked back to the car, yanking the door open and slamming it shut as he climbed in. He wondered if Jacob's dumb friends were around somewhere to throw around.

None of it was fucking right.

* * * * *

As Kurt stepped out into the chilly November morning, he pulled his jacket more tightly around himself. The sun wasn't yet up, but in the dim light of the pathway lamps he could see his breath forming little clouds in front of him as he walked toward the main parking lot. The bus, they had been told, would be leaving for Sectionals at precisely 7:15, and anyone who missed the bus would be ineligible to compete...and would have to face the Council's wrath.

After last night, Kurt didn't even want to think about what they might come up with. He wasn't taking any chances and found himself milling along the path at a few minutes before 7.

He wasn't the only one. Up just ahead, he saw Blaine - bouncing rather than walking, taking little hops instead of regular steps. It was kind of cute; far less...stiff and proper than Kurt usually saw him. It reminded him of how Blaine had been in Lima - just a little less formal but still with plenty of enthusiasm. The Blaine he got glimpses of sometimes when it was just the two of them.

The Blaine he wanted to tell everything to.

They hadn't gotten a chance to talk since the drive back from Lima; Blaine had a huge project due for Advanced Biology, then they were trying to get Sam's midterms pushed back until he had a diagnosis, then they were studying for their own midterms, then spending every waking moment for a week trying to achieve absolute perfection for the competition...They'd still seen each other, and everything seemed normal enough. At least, Blaine wasn't avoiding him - they were both legitimately busy. Kurt wasn't sure why he could still miss the boy he saw every day for at least a couple hours.

He quickened his pace to catch up to Blaine. "Walking is too conventional for you now?" he teased, and Blaine froze, then turned to face him. He looked startled for a moment, then recovered with a grin.

"Oh, hey, Kurt. Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Just caught up. What's with the bouncing?"

"Just excited energy."

"Still up from your run?"

The knowing, teasing, flirty tone caught Blaine off-guard in a way it shouldn't have. Kurt got the tone with him a lot, it wasn't new anymore. He just wasn't sure how to process it right now.

Well, or ever. But especially now.

"Yeah," he lied. The run had been lousy - he spent too much time dwelling on the previous night, his pace was off, he was lucky he'd even gotten back to his room in time to shower.

He didn't know how to do this. How to be friends with Kurt and not-...friends were supposed to help each other. When a friend had a problem, had a condition that needed fixed or worked around, something they could help with, that was what they were supposed to do. Like they did with Sam - he had trouble learning the material, they tried to help. He would do that for any other Warbler.

Kurt needed his help. But how was he supposed to help someone else when he couldn't even help himself?

"So that was something last night."

"I'm sorry - I would have warned you, but it's tradition and we can't." He hesitated, then added, "I hope you weren't embarrassed by it all."

"Oh, no, I love standing around in a room full of boys in my underwear," Kurt replied dryly, but he didn't seem angry. He hesitated, then added, "Though I have to say. Between the elaborate Council costumes, the nearly-naked initiates, the cheering...it all seemed like there must be quite a few of us around here."

He was grinning, Blaine realized with a sick twist in his stomach. Like that was something good. Like it was something to be excited about, the prospect of others in the school being like them. Like it was something that should be encouraged.

No one should ever be encouraged to be like this. He wouldn't wish this feeling, these urges, on anyone; if he could save Kurt, he would. If he could have kept his friend from feeling this way-

Only he didn't seem to feel the same way. He seemed happy about it. Glad to be this way and to find other people...

Blaine couldn't understand it.

He wanted to ask why Kurt didn't think it was so bad. Did he not know what it meant, to have these urges? Did he not understand? Did he not know he was sick?

But he couldn't even start to ask the questions.

"Do you know of any?"

"No," Blaine replied bluntly.

He hoped he never would. He didn't want to think of any more of his friends being in this position; Kurt was already the worst case scenario and he didn't want to pile more on top.