His second day in Lima was spent primarily at a hardware store, being lugged from isle to isle. He chose paint colors with a bored hand and didn’t give much thought to anything at all, really. What did it matter? He’d probably be gone to the next town soon enough, anyway.

“We just want you to like your space, Blaine. I know moving’s tough on you. Maybe making your room feel more homely will help.” His mother told him with sad sincerity when he’d explained that to her. He nodded and chose a rice paper color to go with what would be his navy blue accent wall. He doubted it would greatly improve his life in any way, but if it made him mom happy to see him try to be happy, he’d do it.

They went out to lunch at a small diner near the high school he’d be attending in the fall. The food was fattening and delicious and Blaine reminisced fondly when the waitress served his corndog. The last time he’d had one was in Kansas. He was eight. His first, and debatably only, best friend had taken him to the county fair, where he consumed far more corn dogs than anyone ever should. He promptly threw them all up after riding on tilt-a-whirl, but all the same, it had been one of the best days he could remember.

“Hey, Blaine, your school’s got a glee club.” His dad suggested, pointing at a poster plastered on the wall near the exit. It was smaller than the others, which were all for athletics and dance teams and FFA chapters, but still glossy and important looking. He gave his father a weak smile,

“Yeah, Dad, maybe I’ll audition.” Mr. Anderson gave his son a clap on the shoulder,

“That’s the spirit, Bud!” Blaine tried to hold back his exasperated sigh. At least they were trying.

They were in the car when his mother muttered something about “where are my keys?” and they came to the conclusion that they were sitting on the table in the diner. His mother began to unbuckle when Blaine, for the second time in two days, felt the tug.

“Don’t worry about it Mom, I’ll get them.” He called over his shoulder.

He swiped the keys off of the table they’d been seated at and started his way toward the door, before coming to a stop at the wall of WMHS posters. His eyes settled on the smaller poster his father had pointed out to him earlier.

And there he was, right in the front row. Not overtly smiling like the short girl to his left or the hulking giant behind him, but his eyes were incomparably blue and shone enough to make up for his apathetic mouth. Blaine had reached out to touch the poster before he could stop himself and his fingers skimmed down lightly until his arm retreated to his side. That’s when he noticed the names at the bottom. In very fine print, and written in the order of which they appeared. First row, third in from the left.

Kurt Hummel.

Somehow, even though it was entirely illogical, knowing his name made the boy more real.

Blaine said it in his head. Kurt Hummel.  He gave one last long glance to the picture of the boy in the driveway and turned to leave.

Like most teenagers, Blaine’s first instinct was to find Kurt on Facebook. He grumbled to himself as he typed the name into the search bar. Now not only was he a peeper, but he was a stalker, too. Well, he would have been, if the search had yielded any actual results. He scanned the pages and found not a single Kurt Hummel living in Ohio. The closest one, in Michigan, was a man of about forty who’s profile picture was of him flexing and holding a bull dog puppy.  Somehow Blaine doubted that was his Kurt.

He googled Kurt’s name along with ‘glee club’ and ‘show choir’ and that yielded a few hits. Mostly schedules and competition results. And a YouTube recording of a Lady Gaga song that had been popular at his last school in Connecticut, ‘Born this Way’. He waited for the video to buffer and finally pressed play.

He swallowed and couldn’t have torn his eyes away if the house had been on fire. He realized his mouth was gaping open around the minute and thirty mark, and upon trying to close it, found that it just fell again. How was this the same boy who’d been watching the sunset yesterday evening? He wondered to himself as Kurt twisted his hips expertly. Good looking people watch sunsets, too, as it turns out.

The video came to a close and Blaine finally scrolled down to the comment section. And he rather wished he hadn’t.

Blaine himself had encountered bullying when he lived in Oklahoma. That had been the year he’d come out-both to himself and his parents who were, thankfully, accepting. Supportive even, once the notion sank in. He had known for some time, but was too afraid to admit it to himself. Then they moved to Norman for his eighth grade year and he met Randy. He and Randy had nearly identical class schedules, and as such, spent most of the day together. They began a friendship purely out of circumstance and convenience, since no one else would give either of them a second glance. Eventually they did get to know each other and become genuine friends, and perhaps that all started with Randy’s admission.         

They were staying over at Blaine’s on a Saturday night in December and winter break had just begun. They were sprawled out on his full sized bed, talking softly and hoarsely, as it was the end of the night and both their voices were starting to change.

“Can I tell you something?” Randy asked, rolling over to his side to face Blaine. He nodded,

“Sure. You can pretty much tell me anything. I’m pretty good at secrets. Unless you plan to murder someone, at that point I’d probably tell somebody. Because that’s weird.” Randy gave a small snort and shoved Blaine’s shoulder.

“Well you have to promise not to freak out or anything, okay?” His tone went solemn. Blaine nodded, feeling the severity of the situation that he was being presented with.

“Of course.”

“Okay. So, you know how in the locker room all the guys are always talking about girls and like…boobs and stuff?” He spit the words out as if they offended him. Blaine nodded and found his face winding into a grimace. He sure did hear them. And he always sort of went with what they were saying, even though he’d never been with a girl in any capacity, much less wanted to stare at their chests all day. He’d always sort of wondered why he never felt anything for them, but told himself he was just a late bloomer.

“Well. I’ve been thinking. And I don’t think I like girls. And not just in a ‘they have cooties and we’re five’ kind of way. I just don’t like them that way. And I’m not sure I ever will. Because…” He took in a breath, “I think I like guys that way.”

It was silent for a beat. And then Blaine found himself at a loss for words.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?” Randy asked wearily.

“No, no. I’m just…I’ve been feeling…sort of similarly, you know?” Blaine said in a small voice that he was certain wasn’t his.

“So…gay? We’re gay?” Randy asked slowly. Blaine bit his lip,

“I don’t know. Maybe. Possibly. Probably.” He mumbled as it dawned on him.

“Being the only two gay kids I know of, do we date now?” Randy asked, mostly jokingly. Blaine snorted,

“No! I can’t date you, you’re my friend.” Silence.

“Well. The Saddie Hawkins Dance is coming up. We could…go together. You know, like in a friendly way.” Randy shrugged. Blaine nodded,

“I’d like that.”

And so they did. And the night was going exceptionally well, save the part where some high schoolers, presumably the older brothers of some of the popular boys, smashed his ribs in with a crow bar and broke Randy’s collar bone. That part wasn’t planned. Especially because Randy had been about to kiss him and neither of them had seen the attack coming at all. It’s an odd sensation, going from butterflies to stone cold fear in two seconds flat. It still makes him sick to think about it.

He was homeschooled the rest of the year and Randy didn’t come around too often. Then Blaine moved half way through his freshman year to a new school, where he remained deeply closeted until the next school in Connecticut, where he wasn’t the only gay one and people were, generally much more accepting.

He still had scars, though. Rough and pronounced and tainting the tan skin of his torso. And he hated them. Almost as much as he hated the people commenting on the video about how Kurt was a fag and how he should kill himself because no one wants his kind in this world and how he’s a freak and God hates him. That was when he realized why Kurt didn’t have a Facebook. This kind of treatment probably wasn’t anything new to him. He shut his laptop, simply because he couldn’t bear to think about it any longer. That didn’t really help, though. Because then he stood in front of his mirror and pulled his shirt off. And he looked at them. And he ran his fingers across them. And he remembered being barely conscious and covered in blood and screaming and looking over at Randy’s unmoving body lying near his. And his pulse quickened and he felt a panic attack rising in his throat.

He hadn’t had one in years, but they liked to sneak up on him. It didn’t help that he was anxious to begin with-had been since he was a kid and officially diagnosed at the ripe age of 13, but whenever he started thinking about the attack, it would flood back to him and suddenly he was right back lying brokenly on the sidewalk, wondering if he could die already to be put out of his suffering.

He paced the room and tried to do the breathing exercises, tried to think of something else. Then he furrowed his brow and gave in. Under his bed was a small box his father had bought him from some business trip to somewhere. He opened the lid and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter before strolling to the window and opening it just a crack.

                He lit it up, closed his eyes and breathed it in, feeling his hands slowly cease their shaking. He hated smoking, found it disgusting, really, but God damn, it worked for him. He flicked it out the window and exhaled, feeling some of the tension pass. He figured that with the smoke leaving, so were the thoughts. If he just focused on the act, the troubles will leave. And he’ll be okay.  

                He finally opened his eyes, glancing first at the burning tip of his cigarette and then flickering them out the window.

                As if by some bizarre miracle, there was Kurt. This time he was wearing what appeared to be women’s yoga pants, or else some type of legging, and an off the shoulder sweatshirt covered in paint. And that’s exactly what he was doing.

                Sitting on the concrete with his legs in a complicated ‘Z’, a sliver of Kurt’s pink tongue was poking out the side of his mouth as stared contemplatively up above Blaine’s roof. A paintbrush was perched behind his minx-like ears and he suddenly reached for it, never tearing his eyes away from the evening sky. He dipped the brush in one of the pots surrounding him and then in another, and then on the canvas in front of him.

                Frozen for a moment, Blaine suddenly remembered the cigarette balanced between the fingers of his left hand. He coughed and snubbed it out against the outside part of the sill, tapping it against the wall to shake out the ashes and praying Kurt couldn’t see him.

                But his eyes were fixed on the sunset behind Blaine, and he was busy translating it to the canvas in front of him. Blaine sighed and hid further against the wall to avoid being seen. And then he just watched until the sun went down and Kurt began to screw the caps back on the jars and dust his hands and legging-clad ass off before retreating to his house without so much as a glance back.

                And Blaine’s heart ached just as much as it was comforted. He lit another cigarette.