Almost immediately after Blaine had gone, Kurt lurched to his en suite, the low boiling in his belly rising as his word vomit was replaced with hot, acidic, literal vomit. Somewhere after the twelfth heave, he lost count as he gripped the rim of the toilet, shoulders arched as the sweat clinging to his shirt cooled to ice. After an hour or so, (he couldn’t really be sure), he collapsed, curled around the bowl with his forehead resting against the cool porcelain, too spent to even wash the foul taste out of his mouth.

It wasn’t until a pair of what felt like steel-toed sneakers were jabbing into his side that Kurt realised he’d fallen asleep. Eventually, one of the shoes kicked hard enough to roll him onto his back, and he opened his eyes to find two blonde heads attached to one body hovering above him like a human hydra. The beast came slowly into focus, and the two heads merged into one very angry face: Coach Sylvester.

What is she doing here? And how did she get in? Then he remembered. The cheerleading tournament was less than a week away and he was due to take his last special secret gym lesson. As for how she got in… well she was Sue Sylvester; no further elaboration was necessary.

“I’ve been waiting outside for thirty minutes! You’d better have a damn good excuse for wasting my time, Porcelain.”

“Urrrgghhhhiiiiuhhh…”

“Enough. You get out that door in one minute or I’ll show you what suffering really is.”

Despite the fact that Kurt had never felt this horrible in his life, he grabbed the first available pair of sweats he could lay his hands on and his pre-packed gym bag, then stumbled outside to find Sue idling on his curb in her precious Le Car.

As they squealed away, Sue informed him that today’s session had been funded out of the Glee club’s transport budget.

Great, thought Kurt, it will only be a matter of time before Mr. Schuster suggests another bake sale to make up for the funds. The thought felt like another kick in the gut.

For a moment, Kurt wondered if he was going to be sick again, so he rolled the window down and leaned his head out, taking in lungfuls of blissfully cool air. But the feeling didn’t abate, because it wasn’t the lingering effect of his monstrous hangover turning his stomach into knots this time: it was the reminder of Blaine. He’d done so much baking for him in recent weeks it was hard to separate the thought from his friend.

Friend. He hoped he could still call Blaine that.

From the moment they arrived, Sue worked Kurt to the bone, backed up by his special instructor, a tiny broad-shouldered man with more hair on each hand than he had on his entire head.

Together they created a thunderous chorus, heckling and jeering.

“I’ve had more graceful bowel movements!”

“Watching this is more painful than giving birth to septuplet porcupines!”

“Seventy year old men undergoing prostate exams have more sex appeal than you!”

Coach Sylvester feasted on ridicule like Coach Beiste feasted on chicken – unashamedly and in staggering quantities.

At one point, Sue threw her bullhorn at Kurt’s head; he only narrowly missed the flying plastic as it grazed his ear and smashed loudly against the floor. Unfortunately for Kurt and his pounding headache, she had a spare one with a grating reverb that sounded like someone dragging their finger nails sharply against the hood of a car.

Maybe if they could be certain one way or the other that Brittany would be participating in the competition, they wouldn’t have to work Kurt as hard as they were. However, until the results of her test were in, he would have to know two different sets of choreography. Of course, it hadn’t helped matters that he’d angered Sue Sylvester by making them late.

By the late evening, Kurt had sweat right through his hastily grabbed tracksuit. The heather grey darkened to charcoal, and the pungent aroma of booze wafted off his skin like cheap aftershave. It had been twenty-four hours since he’d applied any kind of skin cream or moisturizer, and he knew he’d pay for that when his pores resembled the exterior of a golf ball tomorrow.

Once they’d finished, Sue had piled him back in his car and they’d driven home in eerie silence. It would be better if she were yelling at him; her cool calm demeanour felt alarmingly like the eye of a hurricane. Since she’d accepted him on the cheerleading squad, Kurt had made mental notes on her behaviour and had spent some time researching psychosis, so he knew that this awful silence was not a good sign.

He flinched when she eventually spoke.

“Porcelain, I’ve looked after you, nurtured you even, for over three years now.”

Considering the precarious state of her mood, he wasn’t inclined to contradict her.

“I’ve watched as you’ve grown from a clumsy, long legged fawn into a mighty horned stag frolicking in the halls of McKinley like the king of the forest.”

Kurt waited patiently, fingers resting lightly on the seatbelt clip because the prospect of jumping from a moving car seemed safer than being around if she really flipped out.

“Now Kurt, I say this was all love and tenderness that I possibly can,” Sue began as they pulled to a sudden stop outside his house, fast enough for him to snap forward against the belt. She twisted around, grabbing a handful of his shirt and fixing him with a steely unblinking glare.

“If you screw up this competition, I will hunt you down, shoot your legs off, cut out your heart with a Boeing knife, and eat it raw in front of all the other little woodland creatures. Got it?”

Kurt nodded, his skin suddenly so pale it was translucent. He wondered if she could see the artery pulsing rapidly in his throat.

“Good, now get out.” He fumbled hastily for the buckle and ran into the house.

It took a while for his breathing to level out and his heart to resume a healthier pace before he realised that the house was exactly the same as he’d left it when he’d gotten hastily into Coach Sylvester’s car that morning.

“Finn?” he called weakly, taken aback by the rough cadence in his own voice, which was usually so soft and lilting.

There was no response as he waded in through the flood of empty and half empty Dixie cups, beer cans, cocktail umbrellas, and what appeared to be a sugary pink bra with electric blue trim. Part of him argued that he should find Finn, drag him out on his hands and knees and pick up every last Dixie cup, then lick the floor clean with his tongue.

But Kurt was too exhausted, both physically and mentally. What he wanted most in the world at this moment was a hot shower, a deep cleansing face wash, and a mouthful of Tylenol. Then he wanted to collapse in bed wearing the cooling facemask that he kept in the fridge. However, fatigue set in too quickly for elaborate facial care, and just barely made it to the sofa before he passed out.

………

It was only thanks to Kurt’s faithfully preset cell phone alarm that he managed to wake up the next morning. Without its incessant vibrant melody, he doubted he’d ever have gotten up at all. One stretch of his raw muscles squashed any notion of walking the moderate distance to school, and there was no way he’d risk staining his Cheerio’s uniform on the disgusting, vermin-infested school bus. So with his phone still in his hand, he dialled a familiar number and spoke before the recipient even had a chance to say “good morning.”

“Cedes’ will you please pick me up this morning? Oh, and for the love of god, bring the strongest coffee you can find.”

Yawning but giggling, she agreed. After he hung up he had just enough time for a hot shower (which barely penetrated the surface of his locked and tired muscles), his most basic skin care regime, and a quick and futile styling of his hair before her horn was blaring outside his front door.

He was still pulling on his signature thick red wristband, worn high up his forearm, as he stepped into Mercedes humming car. She handed him a lukewarm coffee in a tall brown-capped cup, and he took it gratefully.

“Thanks ‘Cedes,” he said, taking an experimental sip and grimacing.

“Don’t you be pulling that face on me, Hummel, Expresso is on my way. I ain’t driving out of my way to the Lima Bean just to get you a coffee. Caffeine’s caffeine,” she noted, finishing her own cup as she pulled away from the curb.

“Sorry, I can’t control the face. Their coffee is bitterer than Fergie after she was publicly banned from the royal wedding.”

“Well maybe it would be a little sweeter if you’d try smiling. Your face is a train wreck this morning,” she said, throwing a quick glance his way before her eyes returned to the road.

“Gee, thanks, I love you too.”

“Only someone who loves you could tell you that, Hummel,” she said with affection. “Seriously though, what’s up with you?”

“Coach Sylvester had me working until my lungs were bleeding yesterday. Like, I’m pretty sure I was literally coughing up blood by the end.”

“Mmhmmm, and…?” she murmured questioningly.

Kurt sighed resignedly. She’d get it out of him eventually; she always did. It was definitely one of her more annoying qualities.

“…And I kind of got in a fight with Blaine.”

“Well see, now I understand the Kristen Stewart pout. Care to elaborate?”

He exhaled, slipping on his Raybans. “Not particularly…” Pulling the visor down, he tweaked a stubborn lock of hair at the front of his hairline

“Has it got anything to do with that R-rated kiss?”

Kurt pulled his own hair as he jolted suddenly, “What kiss?”

“What kiss? Are you serious, Kurt?! You didn’t have that much to drink! I’m talking about your rather convenient spin the bottle kiss with Blaine.”

What on earth is she talking about? he wondered. In answer to his internal question, a memory flashed in his mind, a swift-moving negative, tinged sepia. Blaine’s deep pink kiss-bruised lips, trembling and creased just inches from his own. Sweet wet traces clinging to the surface, shining like the delicate membrane of a bubble. Leaning forward as if to capture them again… the scene burst, leaving nothing of the visceral memory but the lingering prickle against the surface of Kurt’s lips.

“Oh, Mon Dieu…”

Mercedes bellowed with laughter as she pulled up to a stop sign close to school. “Oh French is so the appropriate language for right now. There were definitely tongues involved…” She laughed again as Kurt thrust his foxy little nose in the air, staring pointedly out of the window.

“Pretty heavy stuff for a spin the bottle kiss,” her tone noted conspiratorially.

“No. Comment,” he uttered haughtily, downing the last of his coffee with a scowl.

“Urgh, you are such a tease… So if the fight wasn’t about the kiss, what was it about?” When he didn’t reply immediately she pried further, determined to get some information out of him before they arrived at the gates. “Has is got anything to do with the golden haired manwich he brought to the party?”

“No!” he answered a little too quickly, a sure-fire tell to his long-time friend. “Well, kind of… it was more about…” he mulled over his response before replying with the slightest hiss in the middle of the name, “…Sebastian.”

“Ahhhh, of course,” she said, in a tone that suggested that it was the most logical, inevitable thing possible.

Before she had the chance to interrogate him further on the matter, he added, “It’s a long story. One I have no desire to get into right now.” Luckily for Kurt, his answers had seemed to satisfy her ravenous hunger for gossip for the time being, and they sat in comfortable silence for the rest of the car ride, listening to the radio.

After they pulled into the lot and parked, Kurt got out first, pulling his shades off and sweeping the grounds with a cursory glance, looking for a familiar vehicle.

“Doesn’t look like he’s here yet,” Mercedes boomed from the other side of the car as she slammed her door, locking up with the click of a button and a flash of lights.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he replied loftily, hanging the shades from his waistband.

“Sure Kurt,” she laughed, linking her arm through his as they walked through the doors of McKinley, heads held high in their freshly dry-cleaned Cheerio’s uniforms.

Kurt was bombarded the moment he crossed the threshold, as students converged on him like the paparazzi, invading his personal space with congratulations on an awesome party (he was quickly getting fed-up with the overused adjective). The worst part though was when someone would mention something he didn’t remember.

For example, Tina, (who, in Kurt’s kindest opinion, was far too cheerful this early in the morning for someone wearing something from Wednesday Adam’s wardrobe), had happily blathered on and on about their apparent performance of Single Ladies. When he didn’t remember, she got out her phone and scrolled until she produced a picture of the two of them dancing with Brittany, pointing to their ring fingers. God! I look like a pole dancer! he thought, mortified.

“It’s my new profile picture and screensaver. Thanks again for the awesome party! See you in glee tomorrow.”

A creeping sensation was slowly working its way under Kurt’s skin. It felt like an itch he couldn’t quite reach to scratch. He had not heard from Sebastian at all since the party, not a single phone call, text or online message. As much as Kurt refused to believe that Blaine might be right, he couldn’t quite push away the niggling sensation that things weren’t as they should be. In Kurt’s mind, the only way he could settle this would be to talk to Sebastian in the flesh; he figured if he saw his face he’d be able to tell if he was lying.

Pulling out his phone he fired off a quick text:

R u free later?

With his thumb still hovering over the touch screen, he thought about typing out a quick message to Blaine. But after several failed attempts to articulate his thoughts, he gave up and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He could talk to him in Spanish, his last class of the day.

Spanish was the only class the two boys had together; it was the only subject that didn’t have an AP program. Kurt had his suspicions that Mr. Schuster didn’t quite have the ability to give an advanced class if Santana’s translations of his lectures were anything to go by.

The boys shared a desk by the window, and Blaine often chastised Kurt for gazing out that window when he should be conjugating verbs. With a pout though, Kurt could usually convince Blaine to fill in the blanks with his small loopy cursive before pushing his glasses back up his nose and doodling in the corner of his textbook. He always finished his work before anyone else.

As Kurt sank into his seat, he pulled out his textbook, pens, and spiral bound notebook, fussily arranging them on the desk as he waited anxiously for Blaine to arrive. He was disappointed though as Mr. Schuster arrived, shutting the door behind him as the final bell rang. Where on earth was Blaine? Blaine was never late.

Being Blaine Anderberry, his name was always first on the roll call. So when the first name Mr Schuster called was Mike Chang’s, Kurt was immediately suspicious. The teacher obviously knew Blaine wasn’t going to be here, and Kurt wondered where that meant he was.

Surprised by this revelation, it took several repeats of Kurt’s own name before he replied, “What? Oh here…” eliciting a few sniggers from his surrounding classmates. He didn’t even dignify them with a glower; he just scribbled in the corner of his notebook until the final bell sounded and it was time to trudge to the gym for rehearsal.

………

Practice was gruelling.

Even with the entire squad present, Sue kept coming back to Kurt again and again, getting angrier and more creative with her insults as time ticked by sluggishly. However, even Kurt had to concede, she had a point. His performance was definitely lacking its usual flair, that je ne sais Kurt that made him so infamous in the cheerleading community.

Towards the end of their session, Kurt kicked his leg up high but misjudged his centre of balance and toppled over. The music cut out, and everyone was staring: Kurt had never fallen in practice before, and the sheer humiliation of such a graceless move left him paralysed on the floor, cheeks burning until they matched the shade of his pants.

“Put me in Coach. Kurt’s gonna bring us down,” Becky whined, holding her pompoms on her hips and glaring at Kurt as if he were puddle of something putrid.

“Oh get back to your bell tower, Quasimodo, before I ends you,” Santana sniped at Becky as she pulled Kurt to his feet.

“Kiss my ass, Lopez. Or maybe you’d like that too much. If you know what I mean.”

Santana lunged for the little girl, spitting harsh-sounding words in Spanish as Mercedes held her back. Santana’s face was inches from the short blonde, who shoved at her with palms still clasping pompoms. A long shrill whistle echoed off the walls, followed by an even louder voice.

“Lopez, Jackson, everyone, hit the showers NOW! Not so fast Hummel,” Sue called, nixing Kurt’s plan to make a quick and hasty retreat.

“I thought we spoke about this last night, Porcelain, do I have to show you my firearms before you believe me? I like to keep them on hand in case Wheels’ zombie high school movie ever becomes a reality.”

“I know, I know! I’m trying my best!” he pleaded, playing with the hem of his shirt, trying not to meet her eyes.

She strode forward, putting her face kissing distance from Kurt’s and looking him square in the eyes.

“Well don’t try, do! And remember…” she said, pulling away from him and miming shooting out his kneecaps. Then she stomped out of the room, shoving over a stand of dodge balls, which scattered violently around his feet.

There was a text waiting for Kurt when he finally got to his locker. The small handful of male cheerleaders was just heading out as he pulled the glowing phone from his bag’s front pocket. Sebastian’s name glinted up at him:

Can’t this week babe, real busy – Seb.

Well great, just great. How am I supposed to figure this out now? he thought, frustrated. Part of him knew he should be driving to the hospital right now, so he could pee in a cup and settle this once and for all. But that proud stubborn voice was talking over it, so sure that he couldn’t possibly be wrong.

Blaine’s just protective, he’s my friend, he just… misinterpreted things. He’ll come around and we’ll laugh about the whole thing, Kurt hoped. He missed Blaine terribly, but that was just another thing he wouldn’t admit to anyone.

As an afterthought he texted Sebastian back: You’ll be at the tournament though right?

With Blaine still angry and avoiding him, and the possibility of his dad missing the event if he gets stuck in traffic on the drive home from the airport, it’s beginning to look like there’ll be no one there to cheer for Kurt while he competes. As ridiculous an idea as a cheerleader needing cheerleaders themselves is, Kurt didn’t care. Because even though he’d refuse to admit it to a soul, he wanted someone to be there for him... even if that person was of potentially dubious character.

He took an extra-long shower, letting the heat and weight of the pounding water work away at the tightly wound knots that his muscles had become. They couldn’t penetrate all the way through; what he really needed was a strong pair of hands to work out his tension. If he hadn’t royally pissed off his coach, she might have sprung for a masseuse, but he would have to work hard to mend the bridge he had burnt with Sue.

When he emerged from the shower, Kurt was surprised to see a text waiting for him. He read it as he towelled off, dripping on the yellowed tiles.

Wouldn’t miss it ;)

………

Kurt was literally shaking with fury.

That could be linked to the fact that all he’d had to eat all day was a bowl of mung bean soup, which he hadn’t even finished. Or it could even be a muscle spasm after the way he’d been abusing his body the last few days. But the real reason Kurt was shaking was because he’d walked in to find that not only was the house still a disaster, but Finn had finally materialised and was sitting on the coach, eating hotdogs straight out of a can and clutched a headband.

“Finn, what the hell are you doing? Why is this place still a dump?!”

“Just… just drop it Kurt,” Finn said dejectedly, staring off into space.

“I’m not just going to drop it! You promised you’d clean up, and then you disappeared! Where have you- wait, what happened to your face?” Kurt said, finally noticing the bruise lacing Finn’s cheek, the slight swell of his lower lip, and the healing scar pointing up like it had been drawn with ink.

“I said drop it Kurt!” Finn yelled, jumping up from the sofa and spilling the can on the floor before storming off to his room like a thirteen year old girl, blasting his music to complete the clich�.

Kurt stood rooted to the spot. His hands reached absently for his head, his fingers writhing between the strands and locking. He screamed, lips wide enough to rip at the corners, the pitch high enough to shatter his bones. When he was done, he stood panting, willing his breathing to even out and his heart to find its rhythm. Then he marched into the pantry, grabbed a roll of trash bags and a bucket of cleaning supplies, and stayed up until almost three in the morning putting his home back in order. At this point, it was the last thing Kurt felt he had any control over.

……..

Mercedes drove him to school again the next day, but they had the added company of her mammoth football-playing boyfriend, Shane. Kurt was grateful for his presence. While he usually loved nothing more than to pull focus, he was starting to show signs of slipping; there was only so much even the most intensive skin care regimens could do. And if Mercedes wasn’t as currently occupied as she was, sneaking glances with heart-filled eyes at the boy who was holding the hand designated for two o’clock, she might resume her interrogation.

Kurt scanned his phone for texts, ignoring the flood of messages from everyone still thanking him for the awesome party and reminding him of the things he still couldn’t remember. All he saw was what was not there, Blaine. There hadn’t been any contact whatsoever between the two, and as melodramatic as it sounded, bearing in mind it had only been a couple of days, Kurt missed him desperately. He knew he had to make the first move, because he’d been the one to ruin things, but every text or message that he tried to draft was quickly deleted. He couldn’t find the words.

“Kurt I’ll see you in Glee tonight, right?” Mercedes said, finally pulling her attention away from her boyfriend for a moment.

Kurt looked up, his eyes hidden behind tinted lenses.

“Yes,” he replied, too exhausted for his usual sass or sarcasm, Mercedes would have noticed if she wasn’t so otherwise engrossed.

She went back to her sickening happiness, and Kurt went back to his phone, eyes scanning his latest draft:

I missed you in Spanish yesterday.

Riveting stuff Kurt, truly Oscar-worthy writing. ‘I missed you in Spanish yesterday’ - that’ll make up for the fact that you basically called him a liar and said that you don’t know him anymore, he thought to himself, deleting the message letter by letter until all that was left was ‘I missed you.’ He looked at the brightly lit words until they dimmed to black. Then he deleted them as well and put the phone away.

You’ll see him in Glee this afternoon; you’ll know what to say when you see him.

But Blaine didn’t show, and neither did Brittany or Finn, for that matter. Even Rachel didn’t know where her brother was, but she took the opportunity to suggest that a more experienced Anderberry take the solo Blaine had recently been recently awarded, because it would be ‘better for the team.’ Ignored as usual, apart from a halfhearted insult from Santana, she became concerned with filing her nails and looking somewhat morose.

When Mr. Schuster finally arrived, he informed the group that Blaine and Brittany had been excused so she could cram before her test the next day. But that was fine, he said, because Mike and Brittany would be dancing up front, (a little like their last performance of Valerie but more story-based), so today they could focus on the groups harmonies and back up dancing.

“So Mike will be directing your dancing, guys, and I want to see all the work you’ve been putting in at booty camp! Let’s get into position.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Schu?” Sam asked, filing in behind Kurt. Mr. Schuster beamed, standing in front of them all and saying, “Well, someone’s got to fill in for Blaine!”

………

“Are you ever going to tell us how you managed to help Brittany pass Spanish?” Mercedes mused, as she and Santana and Kurt got closer to the school’s math department. The day of reckoning had arrived, and the trio were on their way to wish Brittany luck and provide a positive mental field (something Kurt had read about in Cosmo a couple of weeks ago).

“I reminded him that Cheerio’s wouldn’t be the only thing she’d be disqualified from,” Santana replied primly.

“Smart, but I’m not buying it. Fess up girl, what did you really do?”

“I did tell him that… but I also might have added that I’d out him to Figgins that he can’t actually speak Spanish…”

Kurt and Mercedes gasped in disbelief, speaking in unison, “You threatened him Santana?” A wicked satisfied smirk spread across Santana’s red lips at they rounded the corner.

“I’d say I can’t believe you did that but I have no doubt that –” Kurt stopped mid-sentence, standing stock-still. Brittany was facing the trio, partially blocked by a short boy with dark curly hair (un-gelled: Kurt was surprised his brain even registered the detail) and a very familiar backpack. Blaine.

When she noticed them watching, Brittany smiled and whispered something in Blaine’s ear. He tensed and dropped his arms. He didn’t even turn around before scuttling away quickly in the opposite direction, leaving Brittany looking a little dazed.

Kurt felt the bottom of his stomach drop suddenly, like he’d taken a step expecting solid ground and had fallen straight through a crack instead. But this was how it was going to be now, Kurt could feel it; he’d broken something invisible and irreparable between them.

……

They waited cross-legged in the hallway, Kurt on one side and the girls on the other, as far from the class where Brittany was currently taking her test as possible. Time was ticking away, and Kurt used it to catch up on his reading (hats were finally making a comeback, much to his delight) while the girls sat fanning their nails, having just touched up their manicures.

Hiding behind the glossy cover of Vogue, Kurt missed the nearly telepathic look that ghosted between the girls: just the slightest twitch of an eyebrow met with an infinitesimal head tilt. Mercedes hadn’t had a lot of opportunity in the last few days to pry any further into Blaine and Kurt’s fight, but she was salivating to know the details. Even though Santana wasn’t aware of as much as Mercedes, she could spot tension a mile away, possibly because she was generally the one causing it.

“Blaine was in kind of a hurry,” Santana said, the nonchalant phrase spoken in the most overtly exaggerated way possible. The intent was as clear as the topcoat on her salacious scarlet nails.

Kurt hitched the magazine up higher, so that it blocked his whole face.

“Mmmmmm,” he replied with equally unconvincing indifference.

Mercedes smiled wickedly, “He was in quite a hurry, wasn’t he,

Kurt?” Kurt’s lips pulled into a line so thin that it looked like they had been drawn with a pencil. He knew the game they were playing, and he had no intention of being sucked in.

“I’m sure he was just late for work or something,” he replied curtly, flicking the page like a whip. “Burberry has a sublime new coat; think it’s too late to get on Santa’s nice list?”

“You know I’ve barely seen Blaine all this week,” Mercedes bulldozed right over Kurt’s attempt to change the topic, refusing to let the subject drop.

Santana joined in gleefully, “I wonder where he’s been hiding, he’s usually –”

Kurt dropped his magazine, levelling a glare at the pair of them, using all the strength he had. It apparently wasn’t enough, as Santana giggled raucously.

“Oh Kurt, even if your bitch glare was at full power, which it oh-so-pitifully isn’t, you forget that I’m top bitch in this town. I’ve owned that title since conception, when little tadpole ‘Tana cut her way to the front, sunk her fangs into that precious egg and flipped off all the other wittle tadpole wannababies as they drowned.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment. But please, guys, please just drop it…” Kurt pleaded, voice wavering on the final ‘please’.

Kurt was like an old vintage silk scarf: one tug of a loose thread away from unravelling completely.

“Kurt,” Mercedes murmured gently, the tone exuding guilt. She’d meant no harm; she was only teasing her friend, but it was obvious now that this whole thing went deeper than a tiff as she’d initially thought.

“I-” Kurt started but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Brittany appeared out of the classroom and slumped against the windowed wall, eyes trained downward, her expression unreadable. The trio leapt to their feet, running to the sweet tempered blonde.

“Brittany did you…?” Mercedes asked hopefully, but on closer inspection, the answer was obvious; it was written in her sunken eyes. Shaking her head, she confirmed their suspicions.

“I’m sorry guys. I won’t get to be in the contest. I’ve failed you all.”

Santana wrapped her arms around Brittany, who sat her chin on the dark-haired girl’s shoulder. Kurt and Mercedes flanked her on either side stroking Brit’s arms.

So much for a positive mental field, Kurt thought grimly.

The clatter of orthopaedic heels was a loud and unwanted intrusion as Brittany’s math teacher came upon the group.

“Brittany I don’t know why you look so miserable. A B is nothing short of miraculous; you should be very proud of yourself!” Ms Butler said as she strode past the students, whose mouths hung open as she and the stale scent of lavender and vending machine coffee wafted out of sight.

“Brittany! You said you failed!” Kurt nearly shrieked.

“I did, I was supposed to get a C to stay on the team and I got a B. I won’t get to perform with you guys,” she said, mouth still slack with sadness.

“Oh Brittany, of course you’ll get to perform with us, a B is way better than a C!” Mercedes said, beaming.

“Really?”

“Really, really!”

Santana swayed with Brittany on the spot, letting her go to reveal her broad disbelieving grin.

“Oh way to go Brittany, a B! Who would have believed it?! B for Brittany! B for Brilliant!” Mercedes bellowed, clapping her hands.

“B for Brainy!” Kurt yelled, jumping in the air.

“B for Beautiful!” Santana said softly, eyes a little misted.

“No guys. B is for Blaine. I could never have done this without him. I have to go thank him. I’ll see you later, guys.”

As Kurt watched Brittany walk away, he didn’t even notice Santana’s pout or Mercedes happy dance. Everything in close proximity melted away, and all he could hear echoing in his mind was Brainy, Brilliant, Beautiful… Blaine.

Yeah, Kurt thought, Blaine really is all those things…