Blaine Anderson was a good kid, he really was. His grades were perfect, his attendance something to be admired, and he, of course, was respectful to his parents and teachers. He was fully aware that he wasn’t the most attractive guy in school, nor the most popular, but he had Wes, Nick, and the rest of his little clique, and they all understood and loved him and that was all Blaine really needed. In fact, he was pretty sure he preferred it that way. Yes, Blaine Anderson liked his life exactly the way it was. The boy saw the way most of his schoolmates were so unhappy, even though they seemed to have everything people his age were supposed to want. Looks, popularity, boyfriends and girlfriends, that kind of stuff. So he had deduced that none of it had to mean anything, because he was perfectly happy being exactly who he was, even if who he was just happened to be a little nerdy and he had to endure the occasional spit wad in his hair.

Today was no different than any other one as he shuffled through the front entrance of William McKinley High School. He was wearing the same pair of thick black glasses that were a little too big for his face, carried the same trusty pencil behind his ear, and got shoved around in the bustling hallways as much as he always had. No, nothing hinted that today would stray from the path Blaine was completely fine following diligently.

Well, until a whirl of black and silver came crashing into Blaine as he was opening his locker and scraped him against the wall of metal grates.

“I fucking hate you so much, Hummel!”

Blaine, who had fallen to the floor once whoever was on top of him had moved and he wasn’t being pinned to the lockers anymore, let out a shriek as he brought his hands up to his painfully burning nose. When he squinted up and tried to make out what was happening and saw nothing but a blur of color, he gasped at the realization that his glasses had been knocked off and threw his hands out to feel for them. Grazing his hands over the familiar frames, he scrambled to put them back on so he could better understand the commotion going on above him. When his eyes adjusted to being able to see again, he saw that the whirlwind of black and silver was a boy wearing a leather jacket adorned with many clinking buckles and zippers, sporting a wildly hostile smirk and hair that had been coiffed into what Blaine could only describe as a modern reinterpretation of John Travolta.

“Oh, honey, you flatter me.” The leather-clad boy said in a voice that was just as gruff as his face. Before Blaine could get a better look at him, he had to scramble away, edging his way into the crowd that had formed as another angry-looking boy shoved him up against the lockers. When Blaine was at a safer distance, he pulled himself back up off the floor and watched them scramble against each other’s strength, and that was when he realized that he recognized the man in the letterman jacket trying to swipe a thick arm at the smaller boy. It was Dave Karofsky, the football player. It was hard to make out details as he was jostled around by the ever-building crowd that had shown up for the fight, but from what he could make out, it looked like Karofsky’s eyes were dripping tears.

“How could you do this to me, you cocksucker!?” The football player wound his arm up for another attack, but it seemed the boy in leather’s smaller frame had the advantage in this fight as he easily dodged the swing and was on the other side of him before Karofsky realized what had happened.

“Trust me, I’m better off without you.” The boy cooed slyly, backing up and crossing his arms disinterestedly. Karofsky let out an anguished, rageful grunt and swung again, this time slapping the other boy across his face with a resounding smack and a force so powerful it made his jacket’s many accessories clang just as loudly as he was blown back by the force.

“Y-You weren’t worth coming out of the fucking closet for! I’ll…” Something changed in Karofsky’s face as he towered over the boy. “I’ll fucking kill you!” Dave dove toward the boy, but apparently the slap hadn’t dazed him that badly, because he was back on the balls of his feet and hopped out of the way quickly, rounding on his assailant, all the dark playfulness gone from his face. Then, before Blaine could blink, there was a flash of metal as the boy in leather swung one arm around Karofsky’s neck and held the point of a switchblade to the base of his throat in the other.

“You’re not worth all the trouble you’re putting me through, Dave. And don’t you dare threaten me. Kurt Hummel doesn’t get death threats.” The words were barely audible, but Blaine was close enough to hear his seething tone. Blaine gasped loudly as the entire crowed tensed and fell silent at the look of pleading horror on Karofsky’s face and the deadly seriousness of Kurt’s as his fingers tightened their grip around the knife. And before Blaine could realize how horrible of an idea it was, he had taken a step forward and yelled “STOP! Don’t hurt him!”

The entire crowd’s eyes went straight to him, including Kurt Hummel’s.

He felt the blood rush to his cheeks and his entire face flush red, stuck between embarrassment and fear…Until Kurt Hummel’s face stretched into a smile that was equally as scary as he seriousness , then he realized that no, no it was mostly fear. Kurt Hummel unhooked his hand from around Dave’s throat, who slumped to the ground and gasped wildly, his smirk unmoving as he took a few steps toward Blaine, the click of his combat boots seeming so ominous as Blaine eyed the knife still in his hand.

“Or what?” He challenged, leaning over to speak it very clearly right into Blaine’s ear. His entire body went numb. He gulped hard as he glanced over the boy’s shoulder at the fear and sadness still frozen in Dave’s eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. Again, Blaine felt the words stumble clumsily out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop himself. “O-Or I-I’ll fight you!”

He thought of how ridiculous he must have sounded as he stared up in a terrified way at the other boy, who had frozen in place. He had to be in shock; Blaine would be too, if someone like Blaine was standing up to him. He seemed to regain himself quickly, however, because the confused look on Kurt Hummel’s face disappeared and was replaced with a wide, crazed sort of smile as he slowly extended the arm holding the knife straight out. He flicked it closed and nimbly snuck it into the cuff of his jacket, taking a few more steps toward Blaine, the entire crowd frozen in suspense. He tried hard to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was useless. Kurt Hummel didn’t want to use his knife on him; he wanted to use his fists. Blaine Anderson was about to get beat to death.

He saw Kurt extend both arms towards him and Blaine flinched and threw up a meek pair of fists, ready to say goodbye to his perfectly ordinary, perfectly happy life. He clenched his eyes shut and swung wildly, but, not to his surprise, he felt a whoosh of air as the nimble boy dodged his feeble attack and then…

Blaine cautiously opened his eyes when he realized his face hadn’t been smashed in to see that two strong hands had been placed on either of his shoulders and Kurt Hummel was just standing there, smiling at him with a mischievous (and scary, definitely scary) glint in his eye.

“You’ve got balls, kid.”

Blaine blinked, and, now that his life wasn’t in danger and Kurt was so up close to him, he also definitely noticed that Kurt’s eyes were an impossible crystalline blue…And his jawline was definitely perfect. And he smelled good. Like axel grease and musky cologne – Not something Blaine ever thought he would find attractive. He didn’t realize he had been gaping so obviously at the boy until he felt his surprisingly soft fingers reach up and tap his chin upwards to close his mouth, his eyes flitting from Blaine’s feet to his curls.

“By the way, I think you’re bleeding, honey.” He smirked wickedly, threw him a wink so quick Blaine was sure he had imagined it until he remembered the crowd around him and saw how all their eyes were still on him, completely bewildered. Then, the boy Kurt Hummel spun around and clicked his combat boots down the hall, the crowd parting around him.

Snapping out of the haze of confusion Kurt Hummel had somehow put him in and actually registering what the husky voice said, Blaine hurriedly wiped his nose with his sleeve and gasped when he pulled it back and saw it was saturated in blood. Looking down, he realized he must have been spilling out blood the entire time, a small trail of droplets stained down the front of his sweater.

“Well, what the fuck are all of you pussy’s staring at?!” As Blaine looked at his red-covered hands and began to sputter uselessly, Dave had come to stand next to him. Blaine didn’t think about how short he was often; Wes and everyone had joked about it, but he never really registered his smallness until right now, when Dave busted in front of him and told off the crowd with a menacing voice, his muscles tensing warningly. Someone had either looked at him or Blaine wrong, because Dave had launched forward and shoved one of the gawking kids to the ground with a hard thump, and the fear of their own safety finally got them to thin out and disperse. After almost everyone had left, he turned to Blaine, looking terribly awkward and broken.

“Thanks. For that.” He said simply, diverting his eyes, obviously not used to being the one who was protected. Blaine, who was more focused on the amount of blood he was finding on himself, responded with an equally awkward “N-No problem.” And it was then, an entire fight too late, that an English professor named Mrs. Eisenhower hurried down the hall with wide eyes toward the two.

“Blaine! Are you okay?” She put a hand on his shoulder ad Blaine concentrated on keeping more blood from spattering on the floor (feeling his stomach churn as he looked behind him to see a worryingly large amount already smeared where he had fallen) mustered a weak nod. She whipped her head around to face Dave, who instantly shrunk under the teacher’s scrutinizing stare.

“David Karofsky, did you do this-?” “-No!” He responded desperately. “Well, yes, but it was an accident! It’s Kurt Hummel’s fault!” Mrs. Eisenhower’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name. “What did he do now? Oh, never mind. Karofsky, I’ll meet you in the principal’s office. And before you say a thing, don’t worry, I am going to find Mr. Hummel and he’ll be joining you as well. First,” She turned back to Blaine. “Let’s get you to the nurse. That nose isn’t looking in the best shape.” Blaine nodded sheepishly in agreement and let the teacher guide them down the hallway, trying not to glance at Karofsky as he muttered a breathy “Come on.” and he saw tears glisten at the edges of his eyes again.

He had no idea what had happened between the two of them, but it seemed to Blaine that Dave had just gotten broken up with. (Wait…Dave Karofsky was gay?) And, even though his stinging nose was mostly Dave’s fault for shoving Kurt into him, he couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Finally conceding and looking back, he saw the young man lean an arm against the locker and wipe away the few tears that had escaped. He had never seen the jock like that, and from the way he ruled the halls with the rest of his gang, the way he was acting showed that he probably cared a lot about Kurt Hummel.

Who was Kurt Hummel, anyway? He had never seen him through the hallways or in any classes. What grade was he in?…What cologne did he wear?