Chapter Two: “The Proper Way to Tell the Truth and Other Stories”

Have you ever met someone who makes everyone else seem like crusted dirt-filled gum on the bottom of your shoe? Kurt Hummel made everyone I couldn’t tolerate about ten thousand times less tolerable. Every second I didn’t spend staring at his eyes or his hair or just him in general felt like a second wasted.

For the record, though, no, I didn’t feel compelled to watch Kurt’s every move just because he’s gorgeous. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Kurt Hummel is absolutely gorgeous, it’s just not the only reason I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. In fact, him being gorgeous isn’t even the primary reason why I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Not at first anyway.

The reason why I turned into biggest creeper on the planet whenever Kurt was within a five mile radius of me was because he was different. Different in every single way someone could ever hope to be different. I could list all of the ways out for you in bullets, but that’s time consuming and boring, so we’re going to go through this in steps.

First is step is called, “The Proper Way to Tell the Truth, Meeting Kurt Hummel and Other Tales.”

Unlike last time, I’ll tell you the proper way to tell the truth without getting into a massive back story. Basically, the proper way to tell the truth is to be truthful about anything and everything most people would normally lie about or try to hide. Kind of like my philosophy about the proper way to lie: you should only lie about the things most people would never, ever lie about. Basically my life is one big opposite day.

But anyway, that day—the day I met Kurt Hummel—had been one of those shitty days that left me tired enough to fall asleep sprawled out on top of my covers as soon as classes were over. I woke up a few hours later when it was mostly dark to the sight of good ole Stevie pined up against our wall and moaning like no one’s business.

The one who was doing the pinning was Sebastian Smythe, who was proudly on display as naked as the day he was born, beams of moonlight bouncing off his decently muscled ass. Stevie was mostly clothed. He had his fly undone and his cock hanging out.

For kicks I looked around for Sebastian’s clothes, but they were nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t even so much as a robe or towel on the ground, which could only mean he had walked from his dorm to ours stark assed naked, which really didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Smythe was something of an exhibitionist, and, judging from the sheer force he was using to rub his bare dick against Stevie boy’s clothed leg, apparently a masochist too. As prestigious as Dalton was, our uniforms were made with some pretty abrasive fabrics. I could only imagine the burning sensation Sebastian would suffer in a few hours.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I grunted as I pushed myself up and deadpanned at them. Stevie gasped in alarm at the sound of my voice and tried to push Sebastian away.

Sebastian would have none of that though. He merely shoved Stevie back, fisted his cock, and smirked at me over his shoulder. “Wanna join, Anderson?”

I rolled off the bed and tried to ignore Stevie whining like a whore for Sebastian to jerk him harder. Apparently, so long as he was being played with, Stevie was something of an exhibitionist too. How perfect. “No thanks,” I said darkly.

“Bullshit,” Sebastian called, letting go of Stevie and looking pointedly at the straining bulge in my pants. “You’re totally turned on by this.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course I’m fucking turned on. I’m a guy, I’m gay, Steven is moaning like he’s got something to prove to the world, and you’ve got a hot ass, but I hate you both so I’m going to have to pass.”

Sebastian grabbed Stevie’s dick again and frowned at me, looking for all the world like a spoiled brat.

“Oh! Ohhhhh! Oh, god, ass and pass, that rhymed,” Stevie panted, bucking like a piston into Sebastian’s fist.

I snorted and peered around Sebastian’s shoulder at Stevie. “Seriously?”

Stevie was too distracted to appreciate the gesture, of course. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, yes, baby fuck me. Fuck! Fuuuuck. Please, Blaine, please fuck him. I wanna watch.”

“Jesus, you don’t shut up, do you?” I frowned, adjusting myself in my pants as I walked to the door. Sebastian glared at me for leaving like I knew he would and I merely shrugged and left without bothering to close the door behind me.

I didn’t get too very far before Trent bounced up to me. Trent was a senior and the most ineffective floor monitor I had ever had because he was just too damn nice. “Hey, Blaine! Where are you going? It’s passed curfew for juniors, you know,” Trent said with too much smile and too much enthusiasm.

I kept walking without looking at him. “I’ve got a hard on and no one to fuck with it, where do you think I’m going? To the goddamn bathroom, that’s where.”

Trent had followed me around for the better part of my time at Dalton, but my particular brand of honesty still stopped him in his tracks.

He recovered before I got too far away from him but didn’t jog to catch up with me. “O-oh, umm…” He laughed nervously. “Well, good luck with that, I guess… see you in Warblers practice.”

I waved apathetically over my shoulder and continued on my way.  

I took care of business relatively quickly. No shame in that. I just wanted to get rid of it and move on with my life.

There was no way I was going back to the dorm, though. I didn’t want to deal with Sebastian or Steven, so I went to the student longue instead. No one ever went in there, probably because it looked like a bad cliché of an old boy’s club, but its vacancy was what I was after so the ridiculous state of the room’s appearance made no never mind to me. I opened the door without any sort of finesse and threw the hallway light into the dark room.

That was when I first saw Kurt. He was standing on the opposite side of the room in the complete dark studying the gold framed painting of Albert Denning, Dalton’s first headmaster. I stopped to stare at the oddity of it all. He turned painfully slowly to look at me, as if my sudden encroachment upon his privacy wasn’t worthy of his immediate attention.

I told you before that Kurt Hummel is gorgeous, beautiful even, and I don’t lie about the little things so you can rest assured that it’s the honest truth, but that first night we met had nothing to do with appreciation for his physical appearance. Mostly this was because I wasn’t able to see face properly. I couldn’t see the mysterious everything color of his eyes, or how smooth and perfect his skin was. I couldn’t even see the color of his hair. But something about him caught me and kept me there and wouldn’t let me leave.

He had turned away from the painting to look at me, but he had arranged himself back in stance he had been standing in before he turned. It was as if he was deliberately trying to confuse my sense of reality by erasing any evidence that he had moved.

Still, there was something wholly intriguing about the way he held himself. The way he had one arm, the right one, bent at the elbow so that the hand it was attached to could rest against his neck. The way the thumb of that same hand traced back and forth over his Adam’s apple as the other four fingers pressed lightly against his skin. How the left arm was bent as well so his left hand could curl around that spot just above his right elbow. His legs were arranged to anchor him to the ground and hold his weight, but with thoughtful care as to how and why rather than solely for the purpose of keeping his body from crumpling to the floor. His head was ever so slightly tilted to the left.

He looked like a painting himself. One of a dark silhouette with nothing definite for the observer to relate to.

I sensed the strange reality of the moment, but I didn’t think to turn back. I walked over to him and as I went he kept his eyes on my face. I stopped walking when I was able to see a little bit more of him, just to alleviate some of the ambiguity. What I saw was this hint of an intriguing nose, uniquely shaped eyes, and a wide mouth. It wasn’t much.

“Hi,” was what I said.

He said nothing. He didn’t even nod his head. He just kept searching me with his eyes, studying me as deeply as he had been studying that painting before I interrupted and gave him something new to look at. It filled me with warmth even as it unnerved me.

I frowned at him and wondered whether he might be unbalanced. “You lost or something?”

Still nothing. Most people would have been uncomfortable with staring into a stranger’s eyes for so long, sort of the way I was beginning to feel, but not this guy. He was content to go on staring intently at me as if people did that sort of thing to one another all the time.

And then it all stopped because something else started. He moved. He untangled himself as smoothly and deliberately as you might pull down a zipper to unlock the jacket’s teeth. He broke our locked gazes as if it was the easiest thing in the world to do and walked away without so much as a backward glance, leaving an unsettled pit in my stomach and a powerful need for a stronger grip on my now destroyed sense of reality.