Kurt’s GPS said he would arrive at the stately red brick apartments of Blackbird Villa, within view of the hallowed halls of Harvard University, in one-point-six miles.  The nervous energy that kept his stomach in knots and his heart in a vice grip started to manifest itself in the outside world, making Kurt tap the steering wheel incessantly and squeeze Thatcher much more tightly than necessary.  When the tiny dog gave a pathetic yelp from where he crouched in his lap, Kurt came to his senses and tried to relax.  What was he so worked up for anyway?  It’s not like Sam was going to be there helping him unpack.  Through a fair amount of Facebook stalking and mutual friend snooping Kurt had taken great lengths to make sure that he wasn’t living anywhere near Sam.  He knew that to get Sam back he was going to have to carefully calculate all his appearances and make good on the promise to himself that Sam was only allowed to see him at his best.

More than anything, Kurt needed just a little bit of time to himself to process the enormous change.  The tearful good-byes to his father and his best friends were still fresh in his mind, and the last glimpse of the city that had been his home for so long still lingered.  No matter where he looked, those bittersweet final moments superimposed themselves over everything.  He was still confident that this was what he wanted, but he needed time to adjust, to rearrange and realign himself with this new reality.

“You have reached your destination,” Kurt’s GPS intoned as he turned into the apartment complex.

“Thanks, Jeeves,” he replied like he always did, reaching to turn the navigation system off.  He shoved the gearshift into park, took a deep fortifying breath, and allowed himself to look around.  The apartments were only two stories high, designed to look historic so as to fit in with the collegiate atmosphere.  Behind the main clubhouse was a huge resort pool flanked by dozens of lounge chairs.  The ten resident buildings were arranged around the pool deck with parking lots in-between, each with two double apartments on the first floor and four single apartments on the second floor. 

The complex wasn’t like UCLA’s Sorority Row, and it certainly wasn’t like the Malibu mansion in which he had never really felt at home.  It wasn’t even like the apartments near UCLA, where students lived right next to families and business people.  These were exclusively for Harvard students and recent alumni, and if the monthly rates were any indication, only the wealthiest of those.  Kurt had fought his dad for weeks on where he would live, but Burt insisted that he be in an exclusive gated community.  Now that he was staring at the apartments, Kurt only felt a tiny residual twinge of resentment at the price; he was too filled with awe and excitement at the beauty of the buildings, of which pictures had done no justice.

Kurt grabbed Thatcher and the cardboard box in his passenger seat as the moving truck that had been following him pulled into the parking spot to the right of his car.  He set the box on the hood of his car and dug around inside it, extracting a clipboard with a stack of printed paper clipped securely onto it, the top sheet emblazoned with “Moving Van” and a long list of items.  Kurt settled Thatcher into the crook of one elbow so he could put a checkmark through the endless series of squares on the page as the group of men lugged each box and piece of furniture up the staircase.

“Apartment 223!” he called blissfully as the first trip of cargo passed by him.  The men grunted in response and Kurt beamed from behind his sunglasses, checking boxes as they went.

Blaine Anderson was desperate to leave his apartment for Harvard’s on-campus recreation center and its entire room of punching bags.  He had just gotten off the phone with his father and his head was pounding, his fists clenching and his vision tilting dangerously.  Blaine was pissed and if he didn’t find an outlet soon he was going to scream and there would be another hole in the wall to fix.

He rushed out, patted his pockets for his Harvard alumni ID and keys, made sure the door was locked, and whirled around, intent on jogging downstairs and down the street to get warmed up.  Those plans were foiled when he started for the stairs.  Blaine stopped short, gaping senselessly at the flurry of motion below him.  In the parking lot of Building 2, the one right across from Blaine’s own Building 3, a huge Ryder truck was being unloaded by a team of four beefy workers, trendy furniture and endless boxes parading upstairs to an open apartment door. 

Quite a crowd had gathered in the parking lot at a safe distance from the moving truck and the small blue car that was parked next to it.  There were more onlookers peeking out of windows and perched on the balconies.  Blaine recognized a few of the faces from his years of living in the complex, but he couldn’t recall any of their names.  They clumped together, staring unabashedly at the moving van and its contents and gossiping openly with raised eyebrows and smug smiles.  Blaine’s hands were clenching again, a hot surge of renewed anger and sudden protectiveness thrumming through him.  Who were they to judge someone without meeting them first, without knowing the first thing about them?

It would do no good, it would solve nothing, it would do no good, he chanted, closing his eyes to try and push away the irritation that was making him itch to act, prickling hotly from the back of his neck down to the backs of his knees.  He clutched his boxing gloves tightly to keep his hands occupied, desperately trying to divert himself from ire.

His usual mantra failing to calm him, Blaine opened his eyes.  At least he was away from the breakable sheetrock walls, and even all worked up he wasn’t foolish enough to punch brick.  He stared, unseeing, at the parking lot, trying to block out the sneering bystanders and get a grip on his emotion.  Like from a dream he realized that he was watching the progress of a heavy dark wood dresser that two men were attempting to carry, and just like that the angry haze that clouded his view was shattered by intense curiosity.

In fact…  The idea suddenly struck that maybe he could he guess the type of person moving in just from what was in the moving van.  With sudden sharp clarity, Blaine took mental stock of the items being moved from truck to apartment.  A queen-size mattress that looked like memory foam, so the resident was at least partly high-maintenance.  No less than ten hanging wardrobe boxes and a dozen more boxes labeled CLOTHES, so the person must care a lot about fashion or appearances, or both.  The furniture exuded modern and traditional style simultaneously, each piece in shades of navy and grey, all carrying an air of luxury.  Blaine decided the resident must have an impeccable eye for decorating.

He couldn’t stop himself from imagining the person who was moving into the apartment, his mind conjuring every minute detail out of the smallest things.  His tenth version of the resident in question was his favorite; this one a short Korean young woman adopted at birth by a loving, rich white family in the Midwest.  She had graduated top of her class from high school, had astronomical test scores, and she was moving to Harvard fresh from a summer volunteering in Chicago to work with underprivileged kids.  All this he had gleaned from a silvery metal floor lamp.   Blaine hummed a little to himself, remembering his first days on his own at college.

The distraction allowed him to release his death grip and temporarily forget about the judgmental crowd.  He remembered vaguely that he had been intent on going somewhere before he got sidetracked.  His leg muscles unclenched from rage and worked stiffly, haltingly remembering how to move as a unit instead of holding Blaine in one place.  Fight was Blaine’s natural response to adrenaline, so it took his body a moment to find the proper actions behind flight.

He was so engrossed in the items being moved and the mental game he was playing that Blaine almost missed the man orchestrating the move.  He managed to make it down half a flight of the outside stairs before he finally saw, coming to a dead halt on the landing.  In all his musings, he had never considered the fact that he didn’t have to wonder about who lived there, he could know.

A fifth figure, one Blaine had not seen before, emerged from the Ryder truck and stepped easily down the ramp and into full view.  Impeccably dressed, wielding a pink and blue clipboard in one hand and a small dark brown dog in the other, was the most beautiful man Blaine had ever seen.  Blaine sucked in a sharp breath as by chance the man turned to face him fully, drinking in hungrily his flawless creamy skin, his effortless style, his blonde hair that picked up bright copper highlights in the slanting sunlight.  Blaine suspected he was drooling, but couldn’t find the will to be embarrassed.  The man was oblivious to Blaine’s presence, flitting about as he followed the final load of boxes up the stairs to his apartment.  He placed the dog into the room and turned, and for one wild second Blaine felt their eyes connect and his heart jumped to his throat as an unfamiliar kind of warmth, heavy and sweet, spread all the way to his toes.  The man kept turning though, surveying the area for stray boxes.  With a nod and one final check mark on the clipboard, the man disappeared inside the apartment.

223. Blaine committed the numbers on the closed door to memory before he could start thinking about the implications of the action.  He stood transfixed for a moment more, and then shook his head violently to clear it.  He picked up the gloves that had slipped through his fingers at some point and headed to the gym, thoughts of the ethereal man still lingering long after he walked away.

As soon as Kurt put Thatcher down in the new apartment the dog quickly ran to sniff every corner of every room.  Kurt smiled fondly at the creature, a little piece of familiarity in this strange new land.  He set up his personalized food and water bowls in the corner of the one-man kitchen, filling them both.  If Thatcher was comfortable in his new home, Kurt could be, too.

When that small task was accomplished, he straightened up wearily, surveying the piles of boxes and the haphazardly placed furniture.  It was going to take him the better part of the weekend to get the four rooms of his apartment in order, but he was up to the challenge.  He took the top page on his clipboard, the checklist of items in the moving van, and slipped it neatly to the back of the stack.  The next page was his carefully constructed plan for effective decorating, made with the help of blueprints and a virtual tour of his apartment, both of which he had found online.  Kurt Hummel was nothing if not resourceful. 

His plan was simple.  First, unpack and hang wall decorations.  Next, place furniture, put away clothes, and stock the kitchen cupboards with dishes and silverware.  Finally, arrange the seven boxes worth of knickknacks, decorative accents, and throw pillows.  He could do this.

Kurt plugged in the iPod dock that he had kept separately in his car just for this purpose and turned on the playlist he had entitled “Moving In.”  Kurt knew he was going completely crazy and more than a little obsessive-compulsive, even more so than usual.  He knew that micromanaging every facet of his life in Massachusetts was not going to be useful or even possible in the long run.  But, if he could just keep it together, if Kurt could keep calm and radiate maturity, intellect, and sincerity, he could be back in Sam’s warm arms before the bitter New England winter set in.

First, move in.  Then, make sure that Sam would be helping him move out in no time.

Blaine tugged on his favorite pair of ratty sweatpants after his post-workout shower, rubbing a towel through his hair roughly. He exhaled noisily as he sat roughly on the couch, thinking of the long evening ahead of him.  It would be just another Friday night of nothing but Blaine, black coffee, and his piano, maybe a bad eighties movie or two.  He pulled his laptop closer, intent on picking something from Netflix, when the bookmarks toolbar of his internet browser caught his eye.

“Shit,” he muttered as he clicked on the button marked Harvard Campus Mail.  It had been weeks since he checked for new emails from Harvard, having gotten out of the habit over the summer.

Ten new emails.  Five from clubs Blaine wasn’t a part of, four general announcements about campus power outages and dining hall hours, and one email that would change everything.

To: Blaine Anderson (b.anderson1765@studentmail.harvard.edu)

From: Dean of Academic Affairs, Harvard University

Subject: Fall Focus Group Leader Position

Mr. Anderson,

As you know, Harvard University is implementing a new program this fall in order to encourage academic success, peer relationships, and student retention rates.  These Focus Groups, consisting of four new students and one third year or higher student will have at least one class together, participate in study groups, and have an online group for open communication.

Harvard Law School had more late admittances than usual this year, and though you are a graduate of Harvard Law, we could find no better candidate to head up our last Focus Group for first-year Harvard students pursuing a graduate degree in law. 

Check your campus email often for more instructions as we develop this exciting new part of student life at Harvard.

Please contact your group by their campus email addresses, listed below, by Saturday, August 27.

Blaine ran a hand over his face as his mind raced, desperately trying to find the loophole in the situation.  Knowing Harvard like he intimately did, there was none.  He sighed again, this time with resignation.  The added responsibility of four students’ future Harvard success was the farthest thing from what he needed in his life. 

He glanced at the date in the corner of his computer screen to make certain, but he knew he hadn’t missed the deadline yet.  He still had a few more hours until Saturday, and then just two more days until classes began on Monday.  He copied the addresses at the bottom of the email and pasted them into a new blank message, his fingers hesitating over the keys.  What to say to his forced protégés?

To: Michael Chang (m.chang2864), Kurt Hummel (k.hummel3478), Santana Lopez (s.lopez7654), Hillary Morgan (h.morgan7754)

From: Blaine Anderson

Subject: Fall Focus Group (Don’t ignore this, even though you want to.)

Hey guys and gals!

If you’ve been keeping up with your emails you know that Harvard is implementing a new campus-wide program this fall in which every new Harvard student gets grouped up with an older student in order to better equip him or her for success.

As of now you four are a Focus Group, and I’m your leader.  My name’s Blaine, and I’m really pleased to have the opportunity to meet and get to know each of you.  I have experienced just about anything and everything that Harvard Law has to throw at a freshman, so I am here to help in any way I can.

Not unintentionally, we all have Criminal Law with Professor Smythe Monday at 11:15.  I hope to see you all in the corner of the quad closest to Pennington Hall at 10:30, and then we can go to lecture together.  I’ll be the one with dark hair, red bowtie, and box of donuts.  Bring your own coffee.

Kurt threw the last cardboard box over the railing of the second floor of the apartment building, smiling in satisfaction when it landed squarely into the dumpster below.  He brushed his hands together delicately, basking in his deep sense of accomplishment.  It had taken nearly two whole days of hard work, but his apartment was in perfect order.

Thatcher greeted him with his silly panting smile as Kurt shut the door firmly.  He made soft noises of adoration as he picked up the dog, allowing two quick licks to his cheek, and surveyed the living area.  At first it was only with a critical eye, judging the placement of vases, the straightness of hangings, the angle of furniture.  Only when his eyes landed on his parting gift from Delta Nu, an engraved silver ice bucket, did the image soften to something almost sentimental.

He ran a hand gently along the back of sofa, caressed the books lining the shelves, and touched each picture hanging on the wall fondly.  For better or for worse this was his home now, even if it was in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  This was his mirror to peer into every morning, and this was his bowl to drop his keys into every night.  This was the kitchen he would bake cookies in and the living room in which he would entertain friends; new friends, friends who went to law school and vacationed in Martha’s Vineyard since birth and had trust funds worth more than Kurt could imagine earning in a lifetime.

It was almost time for dinner, and his stomach was growling insistently, but Kurt couldn’t wait any longer.  He texted Skype? to Tina and pulled his laptop out from its travel case, placing it carefully on the glass inset of the coffee table after shoving aside a stack of coasters and a book on interior design.

When the computer booted up, it logged into Skype automatically. Kurt smiled to see that Tina was already online and waiting for him.  Before he could click the call button the music and logo appeared to declare that Tina was calling him.  A quick glance at the time confirmed that the Delta Nu girls would have just finished their twice-a-month Sunday social luncheons.  Kurt couldn’t stop from squirming a little in excitement.  The three agonizing days he had just spent without Mercedes, Tina, Brittany, or any of the sisters had been the longest he’d gone without them since they met. 

When he clicked answer, the sight that greeted him was all that he hoped for and more.   Over half the chapter was gathered in the shot, Tina, Cedes, and Britt in the middle, all of the girls focused on the screen.  Kurt saw himself reflected in his tiny on-screen square, watched his own mouth fall open in shock, hand flying to his chest to try and contain the sudden insistent ache of loss.  Tears sprang to his eyes as they all called out greetings, huge smiles and waves making the screen dance with their easy joy.  A deep pang of longing punctuated every word he exchanged with the girls, his best friends, his sisters.

He told the Delta Nu sisters how much he missed them.  He picked up his laptop to give a little tour of the apartment, especially highlighting the motifs of anchors, every shade of blue, and unexpected smatterings of pink that repeated throughout his decor.  More than anything, though, he was content to bask in the excess of their affection for each other, the way they talked and laughed and loved so easily when they were together.  He longed to be back in the circle of their embrace, but being on the outside just reminded him of how much he had come to depend on their acceptance.  If he was going to prove that he was worthy of serious attention from Samuel, it was time to stand on his own two feet.

One by one, the girls wandered out of the field of view until only Mercedes, Tina, and Brittany’s legs were left.  Mercedes reached up to tug Britt back down into the frame, and then the three of them leaned in at the same time.  Kurt laughed a little at their unconscious mirroring, despite the fresh tears it brought.  He knew that the separation from them was going to be nearly unbearable, but knowing and experiencing were two very different things.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Tina beseeched him, her hand moving forward even though Kurt’s was not there to grasp.

“Well, it’s a lot cooler here.  A lot less humid, too, so that’s nice.  That makes it much easier to wrangle my hair.  Everyone here is pale, so my natural hue is much more common here.  Thank god I can stop my biweekly spray tans.”  The girls giggled and Kurt smiled fondly.

“I’m not sure how I feel now, though,” he continued.  “I’ve spent the entire weekend holed up in this apartment with Thatcher, only leaving for takeout and coffee.”  At his name, Thatcher jumped into Kurt’s lap and the girls on the other side of the country cooed at his appearance.  Kurt stroked his ears thoughtfully.  “It paid off of course, because the place looks fabulous, but I’m not sure how to go about meeting people.  At UCLA, once I met Mercedes, it all just kind of fell into place,” Kurt admitted, giving a sad little smile.

“Kurt, you’re the most awesome, most blonde, most kick ass Anchor Man I know.  Just go out there and show those Harvard snobs how we do it in Cali!” Britt offered, fist pumping and finishing with a whoop!  Kurt raised his eyebrows, expecting Tina and Cedes to take care of her for him.

Tina surprised him first.  “She’s kind of right, Kurt.  Just be yourself!  That’s why I love you. That’s why we all love you.”  Kurt didn’t know how to argue with that, though he wanted to.  He didn’t want to change himself per say, but he did want to make the right impression. 

“I guess that’s as good of a plan as any,” Kurt conceded, “but I have to make sure, above all, that Sam loves me.  Impressing him is really what I’m worried about.”  He avoided his friends’ gazes, playing with Thatcher’s ears though the puppy had fallen asleep.

“Kurt,” Mercedes’ voice was soft and Kurt had to close his eyes against the rush of homesickness that tore through him, a small sob sticking in his throat.  “Kurt, you’re fabulous.  You’re strong and you know who you are, you’ve been through hell and you came out on the other side better than ever.  You can do this.  Harvard Law is not going to know what hit it.”

The dead weight of anxiety didn’t budge from its home in Kurt’s gut, but he found himself flashing a real smile back at Mercedes.  If he couldn’t have his best friends at his side, at least he could wrap a little bit of their love around him.

“Thanks Mercedes, really.  I love you guys, so much, and I miss you every second.  Being on my own, being way out here where everything is new and I’m just a little bitty fish in this big old pond… I don’t know how to exist here yet.”  It was so difficult to put into words how he was feeling, to explain the unease and the anticipation.  He couldn’t stop thinking about fairytales from his childhood, Goldilocks trying to balance too much and too little and find just right.

Tina nodded like she understood exactly what he meant even when he didn’t quite know.  And, if this situation was like a thousand before, she knew perfectly.

“Well, Kurt Hummel, there’s something you always taught me.”  Tina had a sly look on her face, one that Kurt rarely saw.  He tilted his head in question.

“When life is uncertain, fashion never is.”

Blaine had no idea what to wear.  A fashion crisis was quite a stupid problem to have, honestly.  Did it really matter so much?  For some reason that Blaine could not pinpoint, his outfit mattered very much.  He felt like he was a child again, needing his mom to come into his room the night before the first day of school to pick out his outfit.  By the sixth grade he was trusted enough to pick out his own everyday clothes, but the first day of school was always his mother’s territory.  He almost picked up the phone and called her.

With his thumb hovered over his mother’s name in his phone contacts Blaine came to his senses, forcibly stopping himself by flinging his phone away.  He let out a frustrated growl, disgusted at his own apprehension.   He hadn’t been this nervous opening his acceptance letter from Harvard, on his first day of law school, or when he delivered the welcome address at his graduation three months before.  Worst of all, he couldn’t even pinpoint the source of his anxiety.  Was it the classroom of freshman he would have to lecture, the four understudies he was about to acquire, or just the thought of extended alone time with Professor Smythe?

Regardless of the reason, he knew he had to get over the pointless fear that was paralyzing him.  He took a deep breath and started again on his wardrobe, trying to clear his mind.  When in doubt, bow tie first.  He picked his favorite red patterned tie and went from there.

Blaine shook out the awful woven throw blanket his mother had given him one year for Christmas to lay it evenly on the dry grass of the quad.  He smiled wryly at the pattern as he smoothed out each corner. 

“But Blaine, you love cats!  Don’t you remember Mr. Spiffy?” Claire Anderson had insisted, pushing the tapestry of smiling tabbies at him insistently.  Blaine, being the perfect son he was, didn’t mention that Mr. Spiffy had died from malnutrition three days after Blaine dragged him out of the gutter.  He also neglected the simple fact that he didn’t need or want a throw blanket featuring any kind of mammal, domesticated feline or otherwise.

His parents would not admit defeat in the category of knowing who their youngest son was, no matter how many times they fell short.

He spared a glance at his watch again, confirming that he was right on schedule.  Carefully he set the Dunkin’ Donuts box at a precise angle then sat himself in the corner of the blanket, trying to look as casual as possible despite the giddy wobbly feeling in his stomach.  To keep his hands busy he flipped through the yellow legal pad where he had scribbled his talking points, pulling the pen from behind his ear to add a note.  He quickly regressed into aimless doodling, coffee cups and bow ties and small brown dogs and perfect blonde hair…

“Oh my god, I don’t know whether to call your look Twenty-Something Toddler or Early Geriatric.”

Blaine startled so violently that his pen and pad slipped sideways off his lap.  His heart was skipping erratically and his palms were instantly slick with sweat.  He had to reassure himself that he was safe, that now he could face whatever tormentors threw at him.  When he looked up he almost laughed out loud at his own irrational response.  The young Latina woman standing in front of him would have struck him as very pretty if she hadn’t been sporting the most judgmental, bitchy look Blaine had ever seen. 

More than anything he wanted to sass her right back for a taste of her own medicine, but as always happened in those situations, Blaine remembered his place.  His jangled nerves ebbed just a bit, not gone, but smoothed over.  The racing of his heart slowed and his body relaxed; he broke into a confident grin, ready to set others at ease.  After a moment of vulnerability, Blaine was squarely back within the realm of mentor and authority.

“You must be Santana Lopez.  Welcome to Harvard, I’m Blaine Anderson.  It’s very nice to meet you.”  He kept his voice even, his flawless demeanor friendly and winning.

It was a testament to years of practice that his smile did not change when her face crumpled into a look of dissatisfied disbelief.

Kurt was going to be late.  No matter how much prior planning had gone into the day, even he could not avoid a ripped seam, a broken zipper, puppy puke, or broken glass. 

Everything was finally in order, messenger bag slung over one shoulder and Sam’s favorite purple fedora jauntily angled, when he spotted Thatcher’s empty food and water bowls.

Kurt threw up his hands in frustration, a primal scream burning to rip its way out of his throat.  He stopped when he remembered his poor, sick puppy curled up on the tiny blue bed next to his own queen-sized one.  It wasn’t Thatcher’s fault that his day was starting so horribly, but he had to find a nonfat mocha pronto, and he had that stupid focus group thing, and then classes to find and survive, and then there was Sam—  Immediately his eyes found the collage from his days of cramming in the Delta Nu study room, now framed and hanging on the wall of his entryway.  It was a reassuring action that was nearly reflexive already.

He would just be fashionably late.  Luckily, dramatic entrances were always appropriate, and it wouldn’t be the first time.  He grabbed Thatcher’s bowls, giving himself two minutes before he absolutely had to leave.

Blaine listened idly to the chatter of his little focus group, letting the words hit him without soaking up a bit of their meaning.  Though he and Santana had gotten off to a rough start, she backed off a bit with donut placation and he found that she was quite intriguing.  Mike and Hillary were great, too, good attitudes but a little lost.  He tried not to look at his watch again, but in ten seconds this Kurt Hummel was going to be officially—

“Here!  I’m here!” a clear voice rang out somewhere behind Blaine, the sound resonating hundredfold between his ears.  He was struck with a sudden spike of something like fear as he turned around.

Kurt Hummel was tall, so tall Blaine would have to crane his neck back painfully to try and see his face.  He was also wearing the tightest purple jeans that Blaine had ever seen.  He could feel his own eyes bugging out of his head as he tried to take in all of him at once, tripping and lingering over his narrow waist, sculpted forearms crossed over his chest, set mouth and questioning eyes. Oh.  Blaine struggled for something to say and tried to slip back into his professional suavity, but something had thrown a hitch into the usual automatic process.  And that something was returning Blaine’s intent gaze.

Blaine squirmed internally, suddenly feeling silly in his red-and-white polka-dot bow tie and nautical collared shirt and sweater.  He couldn’t stop Santana’s sneer from popping into his head, her voice now joining the choir of insecurities that ran through his head at all times.  Did he really dress like a grandpa?

Dimly he heard a throat clearing, and it took a second for him to realize it was Mike.  His unashamed ogling of Kurt had gotten the attention of the rest of the focus group.  He clung desperately to his professionalism, praying that he could also hold on to some sanity and control.

“You must be Kurt,” he said finally, scrambling to his feet to proposition his hand.  And oh, okay, his face was even nicer than his arms.  Actually it was much nicer, and that was saying something as his arms were incredibly, exceptionally nice.

“Yes, I’m Kurt Hummel,” he confirmed.   Kurt took the offer and shook firmly, the smile on his face now much less amused and more pleased.  Blaine breathed a little easier with his outward appearance intact.  He gestured to the open spot on the blanket, nearly directly across from himself, and tried not to panic.  He could make it through these forty-five minutes of distractingly tight clothes and extremely pretty face without making a fool of himself.  He had to.

“Welcome, everyone, to Harvard Law School!  As you already know, I’m Blaine Anderson, your Fall Focus Group leader.  We are going to be spending a lot of time together this semester studying, socializing, and surviving your first months at Harvard.  At least, that’s what the pamphlet said, right?”  Mike and Hillary laughed appreciatively, making him pause.  He smiled widely in gratitude, but even so, he couldn’t ignore the flash of hurt when Santana rolled her eyes and Kurt was more interested in his iPhone. 

Blaine decided to press on.  “So, because we’re going to be seeing each other a lot, I decided we could start by talking a little bit about yourselves, like your name, where you come from, why you’re here.  And to give you time to think, I’ll go first.

“I’m originally from Westerville, Ohio, but my family moved to Boston when I was 15 years old.  I got my undergraduate degree in political science from NYU and I graduated with honors from Harvard Law last year.”

“Then why the hell are you still here?”

Blaine closed his eyes in an effort to retain control.  It seemed Santana was going to challenge his patience no matter what he did.

“Professor Smythe keeps one former student on as his assistant every year, mostly to help in his freshman-level classes.  I will be in his section of Criminal Law that all of you are scheduled to take.  This is especially helpful for each of you, because I know what it takes to not only survive but graduate from Harvard Law.  Now, who’s next?”

 He called on Santana to introduce herself first, since she seemed to have the most to say.  No matter what he did, whether he counted the times she slipped in Spanish or the number of insults she effortlessly laced into her speech, his eyes and mind would wander.  Blaine found himself staring at the blonde tendrils peeking out from under Kurt’s fedora, feeling a tug in the back of his mind, the pang of trying to remember.  There was something so familiar about Kurt, but he couldn’t quite place the sensation.

“Hey Romeo!  Tell me about it, stud.”  Santana’s icy bite brought him back to the task at hand, namely staring while not getting caught by his group, especially not by the particular man at which he was gazing so unashamedly.  He gritted his teeth and willed himself not to blush, to forget about those purple pants and keep his act together.  Deliberately avoiding Kurt’s gaze, he deflected.

“Great, thank you Santana.  Who’s next?  Mike?”

He tried, he really did.  Kurt knew he could be extremely judgmental, he knew it like he knew that ponchos would always come back in style.  Also knowing that he had to spend time with these people no matter what, Kurt honestly willingly attempted to keep his mind from making assumptions about his focus group.  It did no good.

First there was Blaine, who was sweet, sophisticated, and admittedly very good-looking, though he needed a serious fashion overhaul.  The bow tie was cute, but polka-dots, plaid, and stripes all in one outfit screamed overkill, to say the least.  Kurt wondered distastefully why his hair was so gelled until Blaine turned so that Kurt could spot the tiny curls at the nape of his neck.  He was suddenly hit with the need to chip through the gel lacquer and run his fingers through that curly hair and an intense desire to tug at the baby hairs at the back of his neck.  He mentally shook himself, shoving those thoughts far away.  In less than half an hour he would be meeting Sam as New and Improved Harvard Student Kurt Hummel and he needed total concentration on the task at hand.  Thoughts about Blaine would only lead to trouble.

Mike seemed very nice, though quiet and reserved.  He recounted his time at MIT with detachment, no sign of life in his face or voice.  Kurt immediately put him into the Heartless Robot category, the place that intellectuals get to when they know so much that even they are no longer impressed by learning.  When Blaine prompted Mike to talk about what he did in his spare time, however, Kurt saw why academics were not his passion.  Mike breathed the word “dancing” like it was more prayer or sacred object than word.  He leaned forward, talked with his hands, and actually smiled as he talked about the summer intensive he took with the New York School of Ballet.  It hit Kurt really close to home, reminding him of his own fish-out-of-water feelings, the way he was determined to impress Sam like Mike was no doubt trying to appease his parents.  He found himself smiling too as Mike went on about dance for three times as long as he talked about school.

Hillary was small, barely five foot two, and looked more child than woman.  She was also loud, no doubt because she was used to people looking right over her head if she didn’t speak up.  More than once Kurt was hit with a flash of annoyance at the way she laughed at her own jokes, spoke in a thick Southern accent, and swore in every sentence.  Maybe it was the Alabamian in her, but Kurt still could not understand how someone could have no regard for how other people saw them.

Kurt’s disbelief at Hillary’s attitude was nothing compared to his shock at the spectacle that was Santana Lopez.  Not only was she beautiful, she had wit so sharp that it cut right to the quick.  She wasted no time in shattering all Kurt’s preconceived notions about Latinas, Michiganders, and women in general, all of which she did in acerbic Spanglish.  He was still trying to process her three introductions later when it was his turn to speak.

“Last but not least,” Blaine gestured to Kurt, who had been so busy judging and looking around the quad for Sam that he had forgotten to come up with something to say.

“Well, I’m Kurt Hummel, I graduated top of my class from UCLA where I was featured soloist in the UCLA Show Choir and the first to be Delta Nu’s Anchor Man Sweetheart four years in a row.  I love my Chihuahua Thatcher, designing clothes, and all things Broadway.”

Santana snorted, interrupting him.  Kurt raised an eyebrow.

“Of course you love show tunes, Fruitcake McPurplepants.  I’m surprised you haven’t burst into flames yet.”

 “Santana!” Blaine scolded her, sounding appalled. 

Kurt didn’t bat an eyelid.   He considered himself objectively for signs that her comment had stung.  After all, he was no stranger to bullying and homophobia.  He found that he wasn’t even upset; maybe just a bit sad that she thought so little of herself that she had to make others feel bad, too.

“Oh that’s okay, I’m proud of who I am,” Kurt shot back with quiet steely arrogance.  “I don’t have to hide behind insults or put down others to be happy at the end of the day.”

 “Ooh,” Hillary hissed, and Mike was frozen with his eyebrows raised and his mouth open in a perfect O. 

Blaine was shocked into silence, but Santana was livid. 

“I…you…you little twerp—”

Kurt watched her struggle to form words with a sense of deep satisfaction, wondering absently whether anyone had ever stood up to her.  He couldn’t help the smug smile that stretched over his face.  Eventually she gave up trying to speak and instead stared him down with fire in her eyes.

“Well um,” Blaine started, obviously trying to gloss over the uneasiness, “Now that we’re all acquainted, it’s almost time for lecture, and—”

Santana took that as a cue and stood up, stalking off with one last withering look over her shoulder at Kurt. 

Kurt, however, was completely unconcerned.  He drained the last of his mocha, stood calmly and took five steps to toss the empty paper cup into the trashcan nearby.  He turned back to find all three remaining group members still sitting on the blanket and looking at him expectantly, waiting for a reaction.

“Well?  Are we going, or aren’t we?”  Kurt said fussily, feeling belatedly embarrassed by his outburst.  He had been so concerned with making the right impression, and now he had let his defensiveness get the best of him and made everyone think he was bitchy and vindictive.

Mike reacted first, standing up and adjusting his bag.  He moved towards Kurt and the other man flinched, expecting some kind of sarcastic comment.  Instead, Mike clapped him on the shoulder and nodded his head once.  Kurt marveled at the approval, and opened his mouth to say something in thanks, but Hillary beat him to the punch.

“That was awesome!  Oh my god, you really let her have it!  You’re so badass!” she gushed, tugging on the strap of Kurt’s bag for emphasis.  He swayed with her insistent pulls, nearly falling over.  He stumbled slightly, righting himself by resting his hands on Hillary’s head.  She screeched indignantly and Kurt felt bad for mussing her hair, but it was the only part of her he could easily reach.

“Sorry!  Thanks for the sentiments, really, but I just told her the truth.  Now can we get to class please?”

Mike and Hillary obliged, wandering off towards Pennington Hall.  Kurt shook his head when he realized they were dramatically re-enacting Kurt’s confrontation with Santana.  He laughed softly in disbelief, secretly enjoying the acceptance.

He turned back to Blaine, who had not said a word, looking up at him with an unreadable expression.  His eyes were bright and wide, his dark eyebrows raised comically.  If Kurt wasn’t in such a good mood he would have made a sarcastic remark, but as it was he just held his hand out to help Blaine stand.

Blaine took the hand and allowed Kurt to pull him to his feet, but he continued to stand in silence.  Kurt sighed deeply, thoroughly confused at Blaine’s erratic behavior.  He picked up the empty Dunkin Donuts box and threw it away; he grabbed Blaine’s forgotten shoulder bag and handed it to him.  Kurt picked up the blanket, which he could now see was covered in garish cartoon kittens, and shook the grass off so he could fold it neatly into a square.  Blaine allowed him to place the blanket into his hands, and he numbly stuffed it into his bag.

Kurt was very uncomfortable in the silence, unable to guess the thoughts that were running through Blaine’s head.  He could be angry, stunned, or biding his time to come up with the perfect scathing reprimand.  Maybe it was all three at once.

“Shall we?” Kurt said finally, gesturing towards Pennington Hall.  He started walking and didn’t wait for Blaine to follow.  He caught up anyway and was still just watching him soundlessly, his eyes wide in wonder.  Kurt bristled a little, finally frustrated.

“I do know how to take care of myself.  I’m sorry if that’s such a surprise,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Blaine’s eyebrows furrowed, but his eyes stayed the way they were, big and soft.  Kurt’s words seemed to break him out of whatever trance in which he had been, forcing him to finally speak. 

“No, Kurt.  I mean, no, that’s not what I thought at all.”  He was the uneasy one now, pulling at the hem of his sweater.  “I was just—you were so sure about her, and about yourself.  It was incredible.”

Kurt felt the scowl melt off his face as comprehension hit.  Blaine wasn’t surprised, he was proud, and more than a little awed from the looks of it.

“Oh, well in that case, thank you,” he breathed faintly, trying to comprehend this new facet of Blaine Anderson: law school graduate, questionable dresser, leader, personal cheerleader.

They were ascending the steps of Pennington Hall and Kurt was just about to make a joke about their first group meeting having abysmal focus when a flash of familiar blonde hair seized all of his contemplations and brought him to a screeching halt.  He scrambled to realign his thoughts, pat himself down, and tug on his fedora to make sure everything was perfect.  This was the moment for which he had been waiting over six months, for which he had worked tirelessly and at times fruitlessly.  Sam was right there, standing outside the doors of the lecture hall.

“Uh, Kurt?” Blaine was waving his hand in front of Kurt’s face, no doubt confused by the sudden intense change in his behavior.

“Sorry,” he replied off-handedly as he stepped away from Blaine without a second thought and moved toward the very reason he was there at all.