It’s not a shortcut.

It’s just a straight walk from the main entrance to the rear offices, through the courtyard that separates the two, but Kurt feels a little daring as he leads Blaine past the wooden park benches, over the simple stone paths, under the breezy leaves of the oak trees that line the way. Only when they reach the rear office doors do they step apart, and Kurt can feel the warm blush he’s sporting as he lets Blaine’s hand drop. Blaine doesn’t even look fazed by the prolonged contact, but Kurt knows better than to take this as a great sign.

He does, however, take it as a potentially good sign, so he opens the door for Blaine to walk through. "Oh," he says, "and by the way? My name’s Kurt. I’m in the band."

"Nice!" Blaine says, shuffling over to the folding chair Kurt offers to him. "I guess I’m lucky I ran into someone who can show me the ropes."

The statement would sound presumptuous, edging on suggestive, if Blaine’s face wasn’t so sunny about it. Kurt looks away before he has a chance to swoon. They’re alone in the room still, and the clock on the wall reads five minutes to one, so he turns back to Blaine and narrows his eyes, trying to look authoritative. The soft twitch of Blaine’s mouth tells him he’s not succeeding, but he plows on anyway.

"Are you planning any costume changes? Fire stunts? Unicycle juggling?" At each question Blaine’s eyebrows form different shapes of puzzlement, and he thankfully shakes his head to all of them. "Good." Kurt nods, but he remembers the man in the squirrel's head mask and leans in, solemn. "And this is very important. Be as honest as you can — are you or have you ever been a furry?"

Blaine tilts his head, but answers anyway. "No more than most men? I've shaved every day since I was twelve." He presents his chin, as if for inspection, and Kurt suppresses a small laugh.

"Okay." Kurt leans in closer. "Then you just might be our guy." When Blaine beams, Kurt can’t help but return the expression. He hasn’t even heard Blaine sing, but he’s already way ahead of the competition as far as Kurt’s concerned. "The first thing to remember is that apparently Cody — he’s our manager — wants a decent replacement for Sam. Sam was our, um." Kurt falters, grimacing at the phrase. "Our sex symbol." Blaine nods, and Kurt continues. "What you need to do is convince him that you can be the hot one. Can you sing? Dance?"

"Yes," Blaine says, earnestly, without a trace of sarcasm, though his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Sometimes I do both at once."

"Then all you need to do is be the heartthrob we’re apparently missing," Kurt says, looking over his shoulder as Cody arrives with the rest of the guys behind him. "You’ll be fine."

"You think so?"

Kurt’s reply is halted when Cody's voice booms, cutting through the quiet, comfortable space he and Blaine have created. "Break’s over! You," Cody says, pointing to Blaine, whose who, me? expression is comically adorable. Cody checks his clipboard. "You’re Blaine Anderson?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine stands to shake Cody’s hand and pulls a flash drive from his pocket — the audition accompaniment, of course — and Cody points him to the stereo system.

It’s the first time they’ve been more than two feet apart in the entire ten minutes they’ve known each other, and Kurt takes the opportunity to appraise him with a critical eye, to see what Cody might see. There’s still the classically handsome face and the strong, compact build, but Kurt sweeps over the 1950s movie star hair, the neatly tied bowtie, the cropped mustard pants which — Kurt finds as he checks out Blaine’s profile — show off his ass to fantastic effect. The outfit is a good one. Blaine looks good.

Cody's face remains impassive, though. When he frowns slightly, Kurt knows he must have his doubts.

"Hey," Artie says, rolling closer to Kurt and leaning over the arm of his wheelchair. He nods towards the stage, where Blaine has his back to them. "What's his story?"

Kurt watches Blaine rub his hands together, head bowed like he's concentrating. "His name's Blaine. Good manners, great attitude, soft hands. No surprises in store for the performance." He pauses, wondering if he covered all the bases when interrogating Blaine. "Well. I hope, anyway."

"Mmhmm," Artie says. Kurt doesn't respond to the suspicious gleam behind Artie's glasses because the music is starting and Kurt nearly laughs out loud in utter shock.

"Teenage Dream" may be an earworm of an idealistic love song, but the way Blaine sings it is nearly sinful. His hips sway side to side, his eyes positively aflame, and Kurt hopes he's not imagining the way Blaine seems to sing right at him.

"Dude," Kurt hears Mike whisper. "He's amazing."

Blaine takes the makeshift stage like he was born to do it, knowing exactly how to move and when to grin and where to throw a brief, smoldering glance. Most of those looks land in Kurt's direction, and he's never been flirted with so brazenly before — or, come to think of it, at all. Is this even flirting? Kurt chances a look at Cody, stoic as ever, and he bites his lip as his pulse races. If Blaine doesn't win Cody over, there's no hope left. They may as well go home, because it will never get better than this.

The song ends with Blaine folding back into himself, hands clasped together and sporting a calm, bright smile If not for the rapid catching of breath, Kurt wouldn't even be able to tell that he just gave the performance of a lifetime. Kurt looks around. Mike is practically vibrating with glee even as he applauds; Puck looks overwhelmed and on the verge of tears; and Artie looks awed, mumbling something under his breath that sounds like "I still have the use of my penis."

They all hold their breath and turn to Cody as Blaine takes a bow.

"Shit." Cody blinks, cupping his own chin and scrubbing his stubbly jaw with the meaty pad of his thumb. "That was...that was unreal, kid. You are a star."

"Thank you," Blaine says, accepting the compliment for what it is. Kurt wants to find out what it is, though, waiting for verbal confirmation. The guys seem to love him already, and Kurt...Kurt doesn't want to start printing out wedding announcements just yet. Not now, anyway. But Blaine took to the stage like a kid in a candy store, all charming presence and dashing good looks, and if the next words out of Cody's mouth aren't —

"You're in! Congratulations, and welcome to New Directions."

Blaine breaks out into his biggest, happiest grin yet, nearly cartoonish in his joy. He strides toward Kurt and the others with wide, welcoming arms. Artie holds up a hand for a high five, Puck gives him a respectable thump on the back, and Mike tackles him in a hug so enthusiastic that they almost topple over. Blaine's happiness is infectious. Kurt can feel himself smiling just as broadly, and when he catches Blaine's eye up close and sees something just behind the smile, a suggestion of trust and gratitude that makes Kurt's stomach flip warm and fluttery, Kurt looks down.

He is so, so doomed.

—

"You should have seen him," Kurt says that afternoon, absently stirring his nonfat mocha. "He was perfect. Looking good, sounding good, staring me down and singing about skintight jeans..."

"So he was flirting with you?" Rachel's eyes grow wider in scandalized excitement.

In the six months he's been with Freakshow Records, Kurt has made some valuable friends. There are the guys, of course — he can't imagine how he got through all these years without them. But though he loves his bandmates like brothers, it's the girls on the label to whom he's grown closer than anyone.

"No," Kurt says, lifting his chin without meeting her eyes. "He wasn't flirting. I'm not doing that again." Mercedes reaches out a hand, and Kurt takes it gratefully, letting her rest her palm on his for a moment. "It's not like that."

"Like with Trouty Mouth?" Santana takes a sip of her caramel macchiato. She lifts the straw out and sucks on the end. Mercedes shoots her a glare, and Santana waves a hand in the air. "Please. He loved that name as much as you loved his juicy Abercrombie ass."

"Shh, I wanna hear about Kurt's sexy studmuffin!"

Santana rolls her eyes, but Kurt mentally thanks Rachel for the interruption. Sam is the last thing Mercedes needs to think about right now. "He's not my sexy studmuffin. He's not anybody's sexy studmuffin." Kurt pauses. "Or he could have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend." His face heats up in dread. "What if none of this is real? What if I'm on a reality show, and they hired actors to be in the band, and he's sitting in a room with the executive producer and watching my face on a wall of television screens and laughing at me right now?"

"Kurt..."

"You're in on it, aren't you!"

"Kurt!" Rachel levels her gaze, and Kurt takes a deep breath, calming himself. She continues. "While I understand the impulse, I don't think you should be selling yourself so short."

"Oh, I'd never. It's the rest of the world I'm concerned about."

"I hate to say it," Santana says, downing her drink, "but she has a point. Hot stuff sounds way into you."

Kurt shakes his head. "You don't get it. I spent eighteen years of my life in Ohio and I never met anyone who was gay. It's not like the universe decided to drop one into my lap."

"Welcome to LA, bitch," Santana says. She pulls a travel-size manicure set from her purse and focuses her attention on filing her nails down. Rachel gives her a curious look, but Santana pointedly avoids eye contact.

Mercedes sighs. "Kurt. He sounds great. You know he likes you. Maybe not that way, but he definitely likes you. He could be a great friend." She smiles gently. "Just don't go forgetting about us."

"Forget about my girls?" Kurt frowns exaggeratedly, like the idea is preposterous, and their laughter carries through the cafe, over empty tables and chairs and to the ears of the day-weary cafe owner, who stops wiping the counter down long enough to listen.

—

The thing that Kurt hadn't considered was that Blaine would be taking Sam's place — not only in the band, but in his bed. The bed that lay pushed up against the opposite wall from Kurt's, with a scant six feet of space between them. The low-lying bed where Blaine is currently bent over, unpacking his clothes and offering a delectable view that Kurt is desperately trying to avoid.

"Sorry about the cot," Kurt offers. "I'm sure the label would provide something a little more comfortable if you asked for it. They pay for pretty much everything, within reason."

Blaine doesn't stop rummaging through his suitcase, but Kurt can hear the smile in his voice regardless. "It's not a problem. I went to an all-boys boarding school. Trust me, after those mattresses, anything else is a relief." He throws Kurt a mischievous grin over his shoulder. "Besides, if it gets too uncomfortable, I could always share yours, right?"

Kurt can barely picture such a situation, but thinking about it, even in the abstract, makes something in him run hot and dizzy. "I. Uh."

Blaine's eyes soften, face going polite and reserved again. "I'm sorry. I was just kidding."

Kurt feels childish in his own body, like the ungainliest of land-dwelling birds. To save his dignity, he quickly changes the subject.

"I cleared out space in the dresser for you. Sam only had one drawer, but well, man was not meant to survive on three baseball tees and four plaid button-downs. You have the bottom drawer and half of the middle one. And half the closet, too."

"Thanks!" Blaine carries the stack of pants over first, moving to the dresser between their beds and leaning down to place it neatly in the bottom drawer. He looks unaffected by the moment of awkwardness that just passed, and Kurt chooses to move on without comment. Kurt gives the pile a cursory glance; there are red pants and yellow pants (vermillion and mustard, he'd insist to anyone who asked) and several other hues, and a couple of pairs of jeans.

"So. You like colors?"

"Yeah," Blaine answers, transferring an equally vivid range of polo shirts to hangers and laughing softly. "It's a byproduct of a private school education. You should see my bowties!"

Too good to be true races through Kurt's mind, but he can't keep from lighting up a little and breathing, "I love a good bowtie myself!"

Blaine sets down a hanger and sits on the cot, knees at nearly chin level. He rests his hands on them, and his chin on top of his hands, and the effect is altogether boyish and endearing. "One time in high school, my roommate threatened to burn my entire collection. He singed one, actually, before I broke down and apologized."

Kurt gasps. "He did not!"

"He did!" Blaine nods."It was only fair. I spent the night before one of his biggest midterms making out with a guy in our room, and I admit it wasn't the most considerate thing I've ever done."

There's what seems like a split-second moment where Kurt's heart starts beating faster, thumping once more to the beat of too good to be true, but he collects himself when he notices that Blaine's easy, open smile is closing up again and his chin has lifted off of his rigid knees.

"I — I'm sorry," Kurt stammers. "I've just. I've never met anyone else. Like me."

Something unreadable flashes across Blaine's eyes, but it's gone in an instant, replaced by the same careful, polite smile from earlier. "You've never met another queer person?"

"Nobody who’s out," Kurt says, snorting bitterly, "and he doesn't count."

Blaine tilts his head slightly, looking steadily at Kurt. "Do you want to talk about it?”

Kurt hesitates, searching Blaine's eyes. There's no judgement there, only an honest and open display of kind concern that has his shoulders relaxing, even as the voice in his head argues against lowering his defenses. Blaine knows what it's like. He's been there, possibly, and he cares.

Too good to be true, the voice hisses, but Kurt pushes it aside. Blaine is friendly, and Blaine is gay, and Blaine cares about Kurt's story no matter what the voice in his head insists. Kurt's done with selling himself short. He shrugs, lifting his chin and throwing on a mirthless smile. "Where do I begin?"