He pushed himself off the floor, needlessly dusting off the back of his jeans as he softly padded toward the bathroom.  His apartment room was an odd combination of modern and comfortable—the living room walls were a smooth grey; accents in white, black, and blue dotted the room.  The black couch was low and modern, severe lines that fooled you into thinking it would be uncomfortable, more artwork than place to sit, until you sat down (it rivaled Kurt’s bed in terms of comfort and the armrests the perfect width for a mug of tea).  The rest of the apartment (except for the hideous kitchen and standard in every student-budget apartment) followed the same idea—sleek and modern until you actually used it, then it was as comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans (not the ones you wear to impress, the ones to wear for yourself when no one else can see you, there was a distinct difference in Kurt’s mind). 

Bare feet cold against the hideous tile in the bathroom, Kurt looked into the mirror and sighed.  Blue eyes looked bluer when outlined with pink.  Most days he didn’t mind being pale.  Most days he liked his skin, and he should, the amount of time he devotes to its maintenance.  But today was obviously not most days.  The tell-tale blotchiness had blossomed around his nose, his lips were too pink, his eyes rimmed in red and glassy.

Pull yourself together.  Just another day.  Just like every other day.  Go to the practice room.  Practice.  Go play the carillon.  Come back and work on the plan.

There was still plenty of time, of course, but some idle sketching out of ideas couldn’t hurt.  And he should probably go to the grocery store, his supply of coffee filters was running dangerously low.

He splashed cold water on his face, rinsing away the salty track of tears, then switched the water to warm and began the methodical cleansing and moisturizing process.  Toweling his face dry he straightened, sighing again as he fixed his hair into some semblance of order.  Finally decently presentable (still better put-together than most on a Saturday on a college campus), he moved into the kitchen, grabbing a water from the counter and an apple from the fridge.  He grabbed his bag from the floor and put the apple in a side pocket and the water in its pouch before checking his music to make sure he had what he would needed.  Missing the carillon book.  He went to the bookshelf, returning with the book and sliding it into his bag next to the music for the part he didn’t get.  But he would still practice it. 

He put his shoes back on before slinging the bag across his torso and grabbing his keys, stepping into the brisk air and locking the door behind him.

The music building was a short walk (a short walk for a college student, about 10 minutes) and nearly deserted.  There was an unfamiliar someone talking with Mrs. Pillsbury at the desk, but Kurt didn’t stop to talk.  He nodded his head in greeting, meeting Mrs. Pillsbury eyes over the shorter man’s shoulder before making his way up the stairs to his practice room. 

Most people hated the practice rooms in this building.  It was an old building and came with its own…personality.  Kurt enjoyed it sometimes.  The sound traveled oddly between practice rooms—you would never hear or be heard by the people on either side of you, but each had its pair in the building.  For some reason, the others thought it was better to have someone you could keep track of knowing your mistakes.  Kurt took comfort in the anonymity (although his voice was fairly recognizable)—unless the person was determined to confront you, you were safe from any comments in rehearsal or class the next day.  It was possible to find each room’s spin pair—Kurt was confident he had found his room’s pair (he had brought in speakers and set them up in his practice room loud enough to hear slightly from the hall, then walked around until he found the room from which he could hear the ghost of music from.  It was on the opposite side on the row of practice rooms, in one of the rooms that was rarely used at the same time he was there).  

He unlocked his practice room, the jingle of keys echoing in the deserted hall and mingling with the murmur of conversation from the lobby below..  He threw his bag on the chair before shaking his head at his own insanity and moved back to it to pull his music and water bottle out.  Put the music down on the piano and cracked the top of the water bottle, taking a few small sips as he reveled in the silence only a silence room could bring.

And then he heard it.

A soft playing, drifting down from the ceiling.  His breath caught in his throat.  And then the playing started in earnest.  The musician obviously knew what he or she was doing.  Kurt could imagine fingers stroking the keys as they moved quickly and calmly up and down the octaves, an undefined form rocking with the beat, occasionally lifting up when a particularly emotional beat came.  And then, amidst the chords and embellishments, a familiar song began to emerge. 

Kurt couldn’t help himself, he hummed along with the melody, trying to keep quiet, hoping the performer wouldn’t hear him, or take notice.  He just wanted to sit and listen to this forever.

And then the singing started.  He, for it was obviously a tenor rising quietly behind the piano’s melody.  Kurt could tell he hadn’t warmed up completely, but it was his practice session.  This could have been a warm up.  And even without the warm up, his voice was warm and full with emotion.  All Kurt wanted to do was listen to him forever, listen to him pour his heart into the music.

The end of the song did come at last.  Kurt capped his water bottle and placed in on top of his music folder before applauding quietly.  Too quietly for the resident of the other room to hear.  He didn’t want to scare the owner of the angelic voice away. 

The angel started playing again, this time warming up fingers and voice as he ran through scales.  Kurt realized that he wouldn’t get any work done at this rate and quietly grabbed his things.  He could just practice in the carillon—there was a little upright in the little side room (Gods know why, though.  Everyone knew that you couldn’t practice carillon on a piano.  Well, you could.  But it would be pointless).  And he could always sing along to whatever he ended up playing.

As he was walking out of the building, he stopped midstep—halfway out the door, pivoted on his heel, and sauntered over to Mrs. Pillsbury’s desk.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pillsbury.”

“Oh.  Good morning, Mr. Hummel, I was just tidying up.  Do you need anything?”

“No, just curious as to when my practice room will be free.”

“You should go out, Kurt.  And socialize.  Isn’t that what young people your age do?  Don’t work all of the time.”

“I go out plenty, Mrs. Pillsbury.  And you know I don’t practice nearly that much.”

She hands him the schedule, which he is careful to touch only in the designated areas (carefully and clearly indicated), scanning for the new name…there.  Room 229, Blaine Anderson, newly written in Mrs. Pillsbury’s neat print. 

“Oh, good.  Free after four.”

“The incoming students have not yet signed up for their slots, remember?”

“Shit.”

“Language, Kurt.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Pillsbury.  I guess I will be back later to check.”

“Of course you will, Kurt.”

Kurt nodded absently, pivoting again and walking towards the door.

“Oh, and Kurt?”

He turned back to Mrs. Pillsbury, hands straightening the stacks of notices already perfectly arranged on the desk.  “Yes?”

“You could have just asked to see the schedule, or asked his name.  I know you knew that slots haven’t been finalized yet.”

Kurt kept his face as blank as he could, only the hint of a smile curling a corner of his mouth.  “Of course.  But next time I really will need to look at the schedule.”

“Have a nice day, Kurt.”

“You too, Mrs. Pillsbury.”

In the other practice room, a short man with curly hair cut short to make taming with gel easier nearly fell off the piano bench as he heard a door close, the sound appearing without a discernible source.  A moment later, a tall figure strode by his door.  Blaine caught a glimpse of him as he went by, head tilted back as he took a draw from a water bottle, light-blue button down with sleeves rolled up, pressed against his torso by the strap of a black messenger bag. 

He shrugged internally as he returned to his practicing, wondering if the door closing he heard had carried through his supposedly sound proof door, or was part of the “charming habit” the woman downstairs, Mrs. Pillsbury, had warned him about.  Sound travels weird in these buildings, especially the practice rooms, she had warned as he wrote his name on the schedule for his room and received his key. 

“You never have to worry about coming out of the practice room at the same time as the person next to you, knowing that they know all of the mistakes you made.”

He had thanked her for coming in on a Saturday.  She had replied she was more than

Ha.  No.  Instead it was some person he didn’t know and would probably never know who would hear the cracked notes, the poorly formed vowels, and judge him for it.  Mentally shrugging, he guessed this was a comfort—those mistakes could never be tracked to him, unless someone was familiar enough with the building, could track which sounds went to which room, and (most importantly) want to find him.  Or have the time.  He couldn’t believe that music students generally have that much time to spend tracking some voice through the walls of the weird old buildings that housed the practice rooms.

Scales up and down, the patterns and movements of his fingers coming back to him faster than he had thought they would.  He hadn’t played in nearly a year, but it felt like it was yesterday, his fingers gliding across the keys, stroking lovingly as major scale after major scale filled the room.  Then came the minor scales, before he doubled back and did thirds and chords, every warm up exercise he could remember ever being tortured with.  They didn’t feel like torture, though, not now.  It was like he was on his way home.  Not quite there yet, but he was on the right path. 

Extensive warm up complete, he stood up and stretched, back and shoulders popping loudly in the now-silent room before digging out the music he had been given at the desk.  Seb had gotten all sorts of strings pulled-not only was he auditing a class, it was the class that was never audited and he had been given the music and lines for the welcome back showcase.  Whatever that was.  Seb had warned him that he wouldn't be able to perform in the showcase, but the music would be something new to practice.  He pulled the music out and put it on the stand, cracking his knuckles as he sat down to skim over it before reading through it.  Sitting up straight, Blaine brought his right hand up to rest lightly on the keys before plunking out the melody slowly, engraining the notes into his mind before learning the accompanying words. 

_.._.._

And then it was Monday.  Up at 5, run until 6:30, class at 8 (what? Blaine was a morning person, even if he was a college student), and then, at 4:30, Musical Theater.  It was the required seminar—every student thinking about Musical Theater as a specialization was always registered for this class.  It would be the only class he would audit, but it would be enough.  It was essentially homeroom for the Musical Theater students.  The grade was based on mini-shows, showcasing things they had been working on in other classes and the smattering of different scenes to help everyone get their feet wet in all the areas of the theater (lighting, sound, set design, choreography, costuming…etc).

And it was in this class, the water cooler/support group/tank of vicious piranhas that Blaine found himself in at 4:30 Monday afternoon, sitting in a small but well-equipped auditorium with ten or so other students new to the course sitting together and a handful of returning students sitting in the back, disenchanted faces looking bored. 

As first days of classes go, he couldn’t really complain.  He might not love his history class for this semester but it wouldn’t be impossible.  He was finishing the last of his math credits, but Calc 2 couldn’t be as hard as everyone said it was.  And it would look good, better than taking a class he had technically already done in high school.  And then there was French Composition with the same adorable (little-old-lady adorable) as last semester.  And Seb, who had worked his magic and secured them seats in the same section.

Seb…Blaine was grateful for his presence, certainly.  Seb had given him the courage to talk to his father.  Seb was the reason he might skirt the edge of insanity instead of diving headlong into those waters.  Blaine wasn’t sure about anything involving Seb.  The unanswered “why” nagged and gnawed at the back of his mind.  Why would Seb bother himself with this?  He had obviously gone through a considerable amount of personal trouble to do this for Blaine: coaching him through the call to his father, getting him into the class that is never audited, getting them into the same French class even when there had been no seats when Blaine had checked.  Why on earth would anyone do that much for someone he had just met?  Why would anyone do that much for him?

Blaine jumped off that particular train of thought quickly.  No need to head that deeply into his mind in the middle of an auditorium.

He was roused completely from his thoughts when the house lights began dimming so slowly Blaine thought that he was imagining it, gradually lowering the auditorium and its contents into pitch.  Excited whispers sprang up around him, the conversations hushed with excitement before a spotlight clicked on audibly, illuminating a short, brunette girl standing on stage, head down, the microphone next to her chin nearly invisible but for a small shadow.  She stood, frozen, for a moment before giving an almost imperceptible movement of her hand.  The music began then, falling from the speakers in the ceiling, surrounding the audience with a snow-like blanket of soft piano. 

She breathed deeply and then started singing, face contorting with emotion, pacing to and fro across the otherwise deserted stage, footfalls oddly silent (Blaine guessed it was a combination of practice and a skilled sound crew.  Her talent and confidence were undeniable: she owned the stage and captivated Blaine and the other new students. 

As the closing cadence rose and she hit her last note, soaring with a power Blaine hadn’t thought a girl of her stature could produce.  The final chord rang out, quickly consumed in applause as she took her bow, the spotlight fading as she straightened.  The stage remained dark for a long moment.

When the lights rose, the same girl was standing next to a taller boy with light brown hair, the hint of curl waving through the tamed tresses.  Even standing still, unspeaking on the stage they carried themselves with an air of superiority—it was their stage.  They owned it completely.  Blaine thought they would look odd off of the stage, and anyone standing next to them would look completely foolish.

“Welcome to another year in our university’s fine musical theater department.”  The boy’s voice was clear and confident.

“Welcome to the new students, and welcome back to the old ones.”  Her voice had a demanding edge to it, as if convinced that if someone wasn’t listening they would be after she opened her mouth.

“And please enjoy”

“Our welcome back showcase.”

With that and some queue invisible to Blaine, the opening chords of “Getting to know you” started, the two onstage dancing and singing with each other.  Blaine was watching them so closely he didn’t noticed that they weren’t alone on stage before they broke apart and joined their respective partners.

Blaine sat in his uncomfortable seat and watched, enraptured.  He had gone without this for too long, the emotional part of his brain knew (the one that wanted more than being a lawyer).  The King And I song ended, and the ensemble dispersed.  Stage crew moved in and added a few pieces of a set, and two new students took the stage.  They were less confident than the previous two—they didn’t seem to own the stage in quiet the same way.

Blaine shifted slightly as the second group finished and another group came on.

This continued four more times, the scenes showing a wide variety of talent. 

Finally (although it hadn’t really been that long), a man (obviously the professor) took the stage.

“Kurt, could you bring the house lights up?”  He directed his voice to the tech booth in the back of the auditorium and the room brightened. 

“As Rachel and Jesse have already said, welcome to a new semester in the department of Musical Theater.  I’m Dr. Shuester, but you all will end up calling me Will, so just go with that.  The goal of this class is to show and get commentary on things you are working on in other classes.  This is a place to grow and perfect your work.  Periodically we will do things like this—he gestured at the stage around himself—to help you get accustomed to the audition and performance aspect of what we do.  If you have nerves about auditioning, this is where you can learn to cope without it becoming a major problem.  You can also explore stagecraft, directing, and anything else you desire.”  There was a loud cough from the back, which sounded suspiciously like a snort from one of the older students before quickly being covered up. 

“Because this is a performing arts class—his tone was disapproving for a moment, before returning to the joviality of before the cough—you will have a jury at the end of term.  It needs to be approved of before you prepare.  I’ll have more information for you Wednesday.  Come by my office hours or stay after today if you have questions. 

“The class, as you know, meets Mondays and Wednesdays, here.  Mondays are the time for you to rehearse whatever it is you need to and get comments, Wednesdays are performance days, where you can show off what you have been working on.

“So, that’s it for today, everyone.  All of the crews who were involved in the showcase and I will be hanging around for a while if you have any questions or would just like to talk to us.”  Conversation picked up throughout the auditorium as everyone reached to grab their bags, talking about the performances and goading each other into talking to the male soloist (Jesse, was it?)

“Blaine…Anderson?  If you’re still here, could you come see me?”  Dr. Shuester was sitting on the edge of the stage, flipping through pages on a clipboard.  Blaine pushed himself out of his seat and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder as he cleared the edge of the aisle of seats, weaving through the clumps of conversing students. 

He cleared his throat lightly as he approached Dr. Shuester’s perch on the stage. 

“Excuse me, sir.  I’m Blaine.  You wanted to see me?”

Dr. Shuester looked up.  “Ah, yes.  Blaine.  You must have some powerful friends if you got to audit this course.”

“Sir?”

“We don’t grant requests for audits frequently, but Mr. Smythe and his father vouched for you.  Because you won’t be officially graded for this course, you will have more lee-way.”

“Dr. Shuester”

“Will, Blaine.  Call me Will.”

“Oookay.”  Blaine decided to skirt around that particular awkwardness, since when did professors give students the right to use their first names?  “I would really be happy doing whatever you need me to.  Background, moving things, chorus.  I’ll be happy to accompany anyone who needs a piano player and there is no one else.”

“Tell me about yourself, Blaine.”

“I…I’m a sophomore History and French major, pre-law track.”

“And why are you taking this class?”

“I…I did glee club and a bit of acting in high school.  I…It was decided that I might do better this semester if I had an additional creative outlet.”

“Do you want to be here, Blaine?”

“Yes.  I do.  I…I’ve missed performing.”

“How about you prepare something for Wednesday?  So we know where we’re at.”

“Of course, sir.”  He couldn’t call his professor Will, even with permission.

“Do you play any instruments?”

“I’m fair at piano and guitar.  I’m not amazing at either, but I can hold my own.”

“Okay.  Good.  Maybe we’ll have you do accompaniments for auditions in the upcoming weeks.”

“That would be wonderful, sir.  Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Blaine.  It’s what we do here.  Your jury will be different as well, but we’ll get there later, after I speak with the rest of the department.  Now…who would have an extra copy of the music…Kurt!”

“What?”  It was a clear, staccato note called from the wings of the auditorium.

“Do you have an extra copy of the music for next week with you?”

“Of course I do.”  Blaine could hear the eye-roll in his voice from across the room.  His eyes glazed over when an angel appeared, walking towards them with sheet music in hand. This angel—Kurt, Blaine mentally shook himself—was pale, chestnut hair perfectly coiffed, black shirt open at the collar, gray jeans faded perfectly and tucked neatly into calf-high boots.

“Th-thank you.”  Blaine took the proffered music and busied himself with putting it in his bag, not noticing the once over Kurt was giving him.  When Blaine looked up Kurt nodded once before turning on his heel and walking out the door. 

“Well, that’s it for today, Blaine.  Unless you have any questions…?”

“No sir.”

Dr…Will nodded his farewell as Blaine ducked his head as he turned, walking out of the door towards the library and his coffee date (not a date…just a time to talk over coffee) with Seb.  And thank him, again, for what he’d done.  He glanced down at his watch.  Then maybe he would run over to his practice room to look at the music before dinner and homework.  

Kurt might have glanced at room 229 as he passed and listened very closely, but no.  Nothing.  Blaine Anderson must not be there yet.  He was new, sounded like an angel, had powerful friends, and was an audit student.

He was going to be broken.

Or become the best the school had seen in a while.

But Kurt couldn’t see Jesse stepping aside from his beloved limelight to let anyone else have a choice.

Maybe Blaine’s friends in high places could be his protection.

Maybe.

Kurt shook his head.  He didn’t know why he cared.  He got by intentionally not caring.  There was no point getting overly attached to people who only wanted to use you or would stand by and let you be used.  There were some exceptions, of course.  Brittany couldn’t hurt anyone if she tried, Mercedes was good at listening, and Tina was stable.  But…there was…something missing in each of their friendships.  Kurt felt himself holding back each time, just a little bit.  He knew it hadn’t been their fault that he had been pushed to the background.  Nevertheless, he had and they had stood by. 

No caring.  Not now.  Not yet.

His weekend had been filled with prepping for the show—rehearsals all day Sunday.  Even though he was working lights crew, Will could always use him for something (and did).  Or Jesse would need to point something out, and he would have to be there to fix whatever it was for the self-important, condescending fucker. 

His two classes Monday (the academic day) were Calc 1, even though no one in musical theater needs to be able to do solids of revolution, and French Language Lab, pour ameliorer son pronunciation et varier son vocabulaire. 

And then there had been the showcase.

Lovely.

As always.

Yeah.

There were only minor problems, and none involving the tech that Kurt was supervising (sound and lights).  And of course, Will, I always have extra copies because I might leave one in my practice room, but that’s fine take my spare and do you want my arm as well?

That wasn’t completely fair.

He was fairly well known for being well-prepared.  And it wasn’t Blaine’s fault that Will had asked him.

Just a month.  He had to wait a month.  Let everything settle down, and then he could start talking to people and put the final preparations into motion.  And then sit back and watch everything unfold.

He wondered if, by some miracle, things were to change, if he were to suddenly land speaking and singing roles, if he would change his plans.

No.

He had a point he needed to prove.

This was bigger than him.