Kurt heard Blaine come in an hour or two after he did.  At least, he hoped it was Blaine moving around in the other room.  If it was Blaine he would get to listen.  If it wasn't he might have to endure some other newbie fumbling their way through next week's audition piece.  Or leave.

Kurt had mastered the audition piece.  It wasn't particularly difficult.  In the free time not being in the spotlight had given him he had time to work on his musicianship and his range.  Although he loved being different and wouldn't have it any other way (being different made him who he was), his range had been a bit of a problem.  Not quite low enough to hit the lower tenor notes, not always quite high enough to be a noticeable countertenor in a soprano section, awkward transition in the middle between chest voice and falsetto that didn't always sound the best.  But he had worked on it.  And he was better.  His vocal instructors for the various classes he had to take and clinics he had gone to had commented positively and told him to keep doing what he was doing.

He stopped singing as soon as he heard a lock in a door that was not his, hoping.  He waited with baited breath, not even sure why the thought of a poor newbie singing was something he wanted to hear.  But he did. 

If Saturday hadn't been a fluke, then Kurt could listen to the boy perform any time.  Or listen to him sing the phone book.  Either way.

At last, about when Kurt had raised his own hands back to the keys, the person in the other room began his warm up.  It was Blaine.  Definitely Blaine.  A bit creepy that Kurt knew his voice already and they hadn't really talked?  Perhaps.

Continuing that line of general creepiness, Kurt settled into the chair in the corner to start his French homework, start brainstorming ideas for the ongoing project, and listen to Blaine go through his scales.

After a warm up of impressive length Kurt heard Blaine walk around before stilling and begin working on a piece that sounded familiar but...not.  Okay.  It was just the accompaniement.  Probably his "audition" piece for Wednesday.  Too quickly for someone who was an auditing student that part was near-perfect.  And then he started singing.  That song.  Not one Kurt would have ever considered for an audition.  Ever.  But it suited Blaine's voice more than any of Kurt's standbys would have. 

It was obviously a piece Blaine already knew by ear-there were a few missteps with the words, but he quickly fixed them. 

And then he played the accompaniment and sang at the same time, hesitant as his brain worked to get his mouth and his hands to line up.  A few missed keys, a few pitches held too long or a little flat. 

Even not having spoken to Blaine, Kurt had learned one thing about Blaine.  He was determined to be perfect.  Kurt had heard auditions more poorly prepared than Blaine had been after only a few hours of practice.

Kurt wasn't sure how long after, but Blaine had stopped and Kurt was going to get up to leave.  That was until Blaine was speaking to someone, probably on the phone.

Kurt listened, wondering what was going to happen.

Blaine started playing.  And then he started singing.  And if Kurt had thought Blaine had been putting emotion into the song before, Blaine must be ripping his own heart out and using his lifeblood to paint a masterpiece.  It wasn't even a particularly sad piece.  The emotions behind Blaine's voice assaulted Kurt's ears in the most pleasurable melancholy he had ever felt.

Too soon the song was over and Blaine was speaking to the other person who could hear him. 

A knock on Kurt's door nearly made him fall out of his seat.  He got up to open it, revealing a dainty blonde, hair cut in a stylish bob and perfectly made up despite the later hour on the first day of classes. 

"You almost done in here, Kurt?  You've been hogging it for hours."

"Yes, Quinn.  Almost done.  Let me just grab my bag and music," Kurt did this quickly, slipping the bag over his head and walking through the doorway.  A throat clearing behind him had him turning around and leaning down to kiss Quinn's upturned cheek before heading back down the hall.

Kurt didn't glance into Blaine's room.  It took a surprising amount of self control to just walk by without throwing himself through the door to introduce himself.  That was something a Rachel Berry would do.

No one likes a Rachel Berry.

So Kurt kept going.  A quick glance at his watch told him he had missed the opportunity to have dinner with Tina and Mercedes.  There was always Wednesday.

Speaking of those two...checking his phone would probably be a good thing.

Five missed calls, 20 texts, two voicemails.

Kurt ignored the voicemails and skimmed through the texts: they escalated from "why aren't you answering" to "who is he and call me now because he might mind if I remove your balls".

"I'm not sure you want to castrate me.  If you do I would be able to challenge your vocal range.  Either of yours, actually.  And I don't think the practice room would really miss them."

"That was Mercedes's text, by the way.  And practice room?  It's the first day of classes.  What on earth could need to be practicing instead of hanging out with us?"

"Audition prep for next week."

"Doesn't take you five hours.  What else were you doing?"

"Homework.  I had the time and a place to do my French homework in peace."

"Uh-huh.  So, why did you decide a practice room would be the best place for doing your homework?"

"It was quiet?"

"What aren't you telling me?"

There was a time when Kurt wouldn't have said anything to Tina, would have replied in the negative and countered with snark.

But Kurt had dropped those walls.

"Mercedes...might not have been so wrong about it involving a boy."

"Spill."

"Nothing to spill.  Just a newbie in my room's pair."

"Which one, do you know?"

"Blaine Anderson.  He's auditing Schue's."

"How did he get in?"  Tina's voice rose-that class was never audited.  It was considered the sanctuary for the musical theater majors.

"A few fucks?  Friends in high places?  Money?  Maybe all three?  I haven't spoken to him."

"So you were just listening to him practice, alone in your room without telling him you were listening?  No.  That's not bad form at all."

"Just wait until you hear him sing.  I'd like to see you leave once he opens his mouth.  It's like...listening to a fallen angel begging for re-entrance to heaven.  I'm not sure about the song itself...but as a delivery method for his voice?  I'll give him credit.  He knows his stuff."

"High praise for a boy you have never met.  And don't you not like special treatment?  He's getting it if he's auditing Schue's."

"I know, Tina.  I'm just listening.  And maybe he got lucky.  What if his luck runs out like ours did?  A voice like that needs to be shared.  Not saying that you or I can't sing, but..."

"Kurt."

"Yes, Tina?"

"Shut up and get some dinner.  Then sleep.  And I mean eat something.  None of this ‘It's after 10 o'clock so I can't eat' shit."

"Yes, mom.  I promise to eat."

"Good boy.  Call me tomorrow, yes?"

"Of course."

" ‘Ta, love."

"Love you too."

One friend down, one to go.  Kurt dialed before tucking his cell between his shoulder and ear as he dug in his bag for his keys.  Which were always at the bottom.  Under a book.

"Where the fuck?"

"Language, Kurt."  She would answer at that moment.

"Says the one who threatened to rip my balls off because I was in a practice room and my phone was off.  Before you say it, yes, I was there for a long time, yes, everything is okay, no, I haven't lost my mind."

"That's debatable.  Any reason you had the opportunity to misplace it?"

Kurt retold the story as he heated up his dinner-half the remaining whole wheat pasta and fresh tomato sauce.  The microwave beeped as he finished the story and nearly burnt himself as he checked to make sure the pasta was hot.

"Are you eating?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And going to sleep tonight?"

"That is the intention."  There would have been a point that this would have bugged him.  He didn't forget to eat intentionally most of the time.  He just has a tendency to be sidetracked and forget he is hungry.  The sleeping thing was a different matter entirely.  Insomnia ran rampant through his family and he was just another Hummel blessed with the fun.

"Good boy."

"I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Yup.  Dinner like normal?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Are you performing this week?"

"I'm up if we have time."

"Monologue or song?"

"Song.  ‘The Prettiest Thing' by Norah Jones."

"No Broadway?" 

"I'm expanding my repertoire."

"I'm sure Schue will like it."

"Won't change anything.  St. Berry won't like it."

Mercedes said her goodbyes in the same way Tina had-another reminder to eat, sleep, and that she would talk to him tomorrow and see him Wednesday for dinner.

True to his word, Kurt finished his dinner, washed the dishes, and prepped the coffee pot and thermos for tomorrow.  Preparations for the next day continued in his bedroom, laying out his outfit and changing into sleep pants before beginning his exfoliating and moisturizing routine.  Contacts came next-long fingers rinsed before peeling the little plastic disks off his eyes and dropping them into their case and squirting in saline.  Glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, Kurt brushed his teeth as he wandered the apartment-door locked, lights off, double checking the coffee and thermos.

Back in the bathroom, teeth clean and ready for bed, Kurt hoped that just one night he'd be able to sleep through the night.

Ha.

He should be a comedian.  Or go to the doctor to get some fancy drug that would help.

Or he could just suffer.  Sleep was overrated and took up far too much time, anyway.

Kurt grabbed a book of the shelf next to his bed, flicking on the lamp with the corner as he flops onto the covers.  Wiggling around until comfortable, Kurt flipped the book open to a random page and started reading: the well-known story gave his overactive brain something to focus on, but not something that he would stay awake to read.

He woke up with a start, the book resting on his chest and a crick in his neck.

The clock to his right read 4 am.

He estimated four hours of sleep.  Maybe a little more, maybe a little less.  Experience told him that he was best served getting out until 6, then going for his normal run once the sun was out and continuing his day as normal. 

Slipping on shorts and a t-shirt worn only before the sun rose and during physical activity, Kurt put his contacts back in, laced up his sneakers, and grabbed a $5, his id, and his calc book (he'd drop it back off before his run).  Door locked behind him, he trotted off to his usual haunt.

24 hour diners were a godsend.  This one was close, had decent coffee, and wasn't overrun with creepy and annoying drunks.  And the waitress on the graveyard shift was content with letting Kurt refill his own coffee at his leisure as long as she could relax and not wait on him (as the only customer) hand and foot.

"Back again, Porcelain?"

"Still in hell, Satan?"

Kurt took his normal seat at the bar and Santana filled up a coffee mug and set it in front of him.

"Why are you here?  Classes just started and you shouldn't be stressed yet.  And don't you dare tell me you choose to be awake at this ungodly hour because I will pour coffee on your head."

"Insomnia, Santana.  Always insomnia.  I don't particularly have a choice in the matter."

"There are ways.  You just choose not to.  Puck or I could always..."

"No.  None of that.  I don't want to know.  What you want to do is fine, but leave me out of it."

"Untwist your panties Hummel, no one's forcing you."

Kurt glared at her over the rim of his coffee cup.  "Isn't diner coffee supposed to suck?"

"You're the only customer since 1.  I made this pot for myself.  It's the good stuff."

"It's times like these I wonder if you really hate me or it's just for show."

"I like good coffee.  I make it.  I'm too lazy to make a new pot just for you."

"Sureee..."

"Shut up and do your.." she pulled the book closer, "calc.  Ew.  Aren't you theater?  What are you doing with calc?"

"Boredom and I like to be challenged.  And it's supposed to be easier than math for not math people."

"Whatever you say.  Wake me up if someone else comes in."  Santana walked over to a booth and stretched out, seeming to doze off quickly. 

Kurt set an alarm on his phone-6:10 would give him enough time to run, shower, dress/primp, and get to a 10 am class-and opened his book, looking over what he might have forgotten over summer. 

Blaine's Wednesday morning dawned just like every other.  Up before the sun, running (sometimes parkour, sometimes like a normal human), shower, dress, and class.  Back from his run and freshly showered, Blaine spent extra time on his hair and outfit. 

Audition days were always tough: professional but not too much, hair slicked out of the way but not the helmet he had favored in his Warbler days.  He settled for a royal purple shirt, dark wash slim fitting jeans, and a bowtie (because who could resist a bowtie?). 

Last thing was his bag: Blaine triple checked everything (touching but not removing the music from its proper place), threw in a water bottle, granola bar, and an apple, slid his thermos of coffee into its pouch.

The morning passed smoothly.  Academic classes went well enough, even if there were some idiots in his history class.  He ran into Nick in line to get lunch and they ended up chatting until Blaine realized he would be late for his music class.  He said his apologies and walked briskly to the auditorium. 

Technically, he was still early.  Class wouldn't start for another 10 minutes, but not being this early made him nervous.  Especially when there was an audition involved.

The auditorium was still mostly empty when he arrived.  He looked for Prof..no, Will, to ask if there was somewhere he could quickly warm up.

"Blaine!  By the stage, if you please."

Blaine hurried to the stage.  Will was sitting on the edge again, feet hanging off as he once again flipped through a clipboard.

"Yes, sir?"

"You set to perform today?"

"Yes, sir.  Is there a place that I can warm up?  If there isn't that's fine too."

"Of course there is.  Doors that way," Schue points, "and to the left.  There will be a door on your right that will be unlocked.  You're up second, so you can miss the first performance and warm up or warm up now and watch and then perform, your call."

"I think I'll warm up now and watch."

"Okay.  Do you need an accompanist? Or track played?"

"No, sir.  If there's a piano I can use?"

We'll roll Brad's out into the middle for you.  Off you go, then.  Class starts in 7 minutes, first performance right after that."

Blaine left out the door Schue had indicated, finding the room easily.  It was really more of a costume storage closet, but it had a little upright and that was all he needed.  Closing the door behind him, Blaine slipped his messenger bag off, pulling out the water and music.  He took a few shallow sips of the lukewarm water (an acquired taste he had never really acquired) and sat at the piano bench.  He went through a much abbreviated warm up and then ran through the song, singing softly but no less passionately.  Content for the moment, Blaine pulled the bag onto his shoulder and clutched his music tightly, closing the door as he returned to the auditorium. 

Prof..no..Will was on stage calling roll and introducing the first performer.  A polite smattering of applause greeted the girl as she stepped on stage. 

But Blaine wasn't paying attention any longer.  He hadn't performed in so long he had forgotten the occasional bouts of stage fright.  He breathed deep, forcing himself to relax, running through the music and drawing small circles on his knee, the drag of skin on denim keeping him focused.

You can do this.  If there is anything you can do, it's performing.  Wes doesn't lie to you.  You led the Warblers as soon as they figured out you could sing.  The Warblers had a waiting list.  Not just any sophomore got to lead them to Nationals.  Coop liked it when you sang it last night for him. 

Just breathe.

Blaine heard the applause signaling the end of the first performance and let his bag fall to the ground.  Walking up to the stage, climbing up the stairs, hearing his feet on a wooden floor, it was like stepping back in time.  If he closed his eyes he could pretend it was just Dalton, just like normal.  Even if it wasn't it felt normal.  He could feel the self-assured Blaine Warbler inside him. 

He could do this.

The baby grand was before him.  He looked at...Will...got a nod, and sat down.  Keys uncovered, music in place, back straight and hands hovering, Blaine froze for a second, just breathing.

You can do this.

And then he started. 

First chord. 

He stumbled into faith and thought
God, this is all there is?

He refused to listen to his voice, to the quaver he could feel.  He swallowed down the fear as the rush of performing took over.  This had been his life for four years.  It was just a long-delayed homecoming.

The pictures in mind arose
And began to breathe
And all the gods in all the worlds
Began colliding on a back drop of blue

Fingers picked up speed.  Blaine let all the tension he had felt-the fear, the sadness, the anxiety-spill into the words.  Everything he had ever told himself, every time his father ignored him.  The feelings welled within him, a torrent channeled into the words.

Blue lips
Blue veins

His brain turned off and he went with the music, fingers grazing keys as his body moved with the beat.

He took a step but then felt tired
He said, I'll rest a little while
But when he tried to walk again
He wasn't a child
And all the people hurried past
Real fast and no one ever smiled

The sadness came out, the fear of rejection but trying anyway.  His voice rose with the words, tangling with the piano and echoing dimly in the auditorium.

Blue lips
Blue veins
Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away

He stumbled into faith and thought,
God this is all there is
The pictures in his mind arose
And began to breathe

A tinge of anger rose, the voice that told him no, the father who ignored him.  They might not be listening, but he could beat them.

They just followed the lead
The pictures in his mind awoke
And began to breed
They started off beneath the knowledge tree
Then they chopped it down to make white picket fences
They marched along the railroad tracks
And smiled real wide for the camera lenses

He spoke that line on pitch and in rhythm, voice dripping with sarcasm and hurt, diving back into the song again, fingers working ceaselessly across the piano.

They made it past the enemy lines
Just to become enslaved in the assembly lines

Almost done.  Just to finish it up.  Let out the last remaining emotion.  Pour it into the song send it floating into the audience, wrapping them up in the ringing tenor, pained but clear and beautiful.

Blue lips
Blue veins
Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away

Quieter this time, softer, sweeter, lulling, pulling the audience forward in their seats to catch the sounds.

Blue lips
Blue veins
Blue, the color of the planet from far, far away.

Growing again, his voice confident, melancholy, washing over the audience.

Blue, the most human color
Blue, the most human color
Blue, the most human color

Voice slipped seamlessly up into falsetto, rocking of his body stilling, a jarring contrast as he ended.

Blue lips
Blue veins
Blue, the color of our planet from far, far away.

Blaine stilled completely, breathing deeply as he relaxed.  He had been right.  He had done well. 

The applause rang through the auditorium.  Blaine thought he saw tears in some people's eyes.  Including one boy, pale with tear-brightened blue eyes and perfectly coiffed hair standing and clapping at the back of the group.