Though it was the first day of a new school year, the summer heat still radiated through Lima, Ohio as Blaine Anderson stepped out of his mother's car for his first day at a brand new school. Having moved with his family in July, Blaine left behind a school that he loved, and a group of friends who promised to keep in touch. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for the transfer of schools, Blaine waved goodbye to his mother as she pulled away from the front of William McKinley High School. At least for today, Blaine had no other option but to make it until the last bell rang at three o'clock.

Adjusting the strap on his brown messenger bag, Blaine took a deep breath to calm him nerves and then turned to enter the unfamiliar school Inside, he maneuvered through the locker lined hallways and sea of strangers until he managed to find the hallway that, according to the sheet that contained his schedule, held his locker. Finding the tan door labeled D425 Blaine quickly worked the lock based on the combination his sheet, and opened the door. Blaine studied the grey interior of the locker, decorated by only bits of graffiti that had been added through the years.

Blaine placed the bagged lunch that he'd made that morning in the barren locker then reached into his bag and began emptying the notebooks and folders from his bag into the locker. Glancing at his schedule, he noted that his first class was History, and based on the map of the school printed on the back of the schedule, the classroom was on the other side of campus. Checking his watch, Blaine made note that there were still fifteen minutes before classes started and he wasn't particularly interested in being early.

Blaine hated the first day of school. It was torture most of the time, but as the new kid, it was just cruel and unusual. It was common practice amongst educators nationwide to encourage social interaction between students by forcing them to stand up in front of everyone and introduce themselves to their classmates. Blaine hoped he could get through the day with the repeated speech of "Hi, I'm Blaine Anderson," before sitting back down. He wouldn't get by with simply "Hello, I'm Blaine Anderson." But teachers were always the most interested (or at least they pretended to be), with the new students in the school. Most of the kids here had been going to school together since preschool. New kids and freshman were fresh faces, a change of pace. These teachers always wanted to know more. And each time Blaine stood up and told them 'I like to sing' with a shy smile and a shrug of his shoulders, he always got a less than enthusiastic response from both his teachers and his peers. That was, until Dalton. At Dalton he was approached by two boys and then asked to join the Dalton Academy Warbler. Blaine had accepted with a smile. Now in front of a locker at a different school, Blaine pushed away the feeling of longing for Dalton Academy and reminded himself that this was the third time in the last three years that he had to do this and he should be a pro by now. He would get through it.

Blaine was shaken from his thoughts by the loud thunder of something crashing into the lockers next to him. Blaine looked over, bewildered, to see that it wasn't a what, but a who. On the floor sat a boy, his back pressed against the lockers. This boy had been thrown into the bank of unforgiving metal. Blaine noted the laughter from somewhere down the hall, but he couldn't be bothered with anything but the boy next to him. His brown hair looked like it had taken some work to make sure that it sat perfectly on top of his head. Blaine noticed the boy's unusual outfit: A perfectly fitted long sleeved shirt, topped with a vest, accompanied by a pair of black skinny jeans and white boots that hit the boy mid-calf. He was dressed like he'd walked out of New York's fashion week, something Blaine had never seen anywhere in Ohio. It wasn't until the other boy looked up and locked eyes with Blaine that Blaine truly noticed how beautiful the other boy was. His eyes were a stunning shade of blue that reminded him of the water near the lake house he'd gone to over spring break last year. And the boys skin; it was pale but in a way that only enhanced the other boy's beauty.

"A-are you all right?" Blaine asked when he managed to find his voice.

"I'm fine," the other boy muttered.

Blaine extended his hand out to help the other boy but the boy just shook his head before pushing himself off the ground and turning to work the lock of the locker right next to Blaine's. He was muttering something under his breath, clearly frustrated after what had just happened to him. Blaine was a little startled himself. At Dalton, there had been a zero tolerance bullying policy. There were never any of the other students crashing into locker banks. But before Dalton, there had been Westerville High and there had been bullies and days where Blaine had wished he'd only been pushed into his locker. Regardless of the severity of the bullying, he could still sympathize with the other boy.

"I'm Blaine," he said extending his hand once more, "I'm, uh, new here."

The other boy turned his hesitant blue eyes towards Blaine before he rolled his eyes and his hand reached out to meet Blaine's.

"Kurt," the other boy said before removing his hand from Blaine's.

"It's nice to meet you," Blaine said shyly, "I should, uh, get to class."

Kurt only nodded and then turned to focus on the inside of his locker and rummaged through the little bit that was in there. Maneuvering this way through the crowd of strangers, having met only one of the undoubtedly several people today, Blaine couldn't help but to think that his first day at William McKinley had certainly started with a bang.

To Blaine's surprise, only five of his seven teachers made him get up in front of the class. He told them his name, and that he'd transferred from Dalton Academy for Boys in Westerville because his Dad got a job in Lima and his parents didn't want him to be far too away; and that he liked to sing. He repeated the same speech, word for word each time the teacher asked. Most of the time it was met with silence and then some forced applause, but the last time Blaine recited his speech, during sixth period Geometry, it was met by a high pitched squeal which made everyone, including Blaine, cringe and turn to look at the tiny brunette in the front row. She immediately shot up from her seat and skipped over to where Blaine stood at the front of the class (this was the only teacher that actually made him stand at the very front).

"Rachel Berry," she said with an extended hand.

"Hi," Blaine said hesitantly accepting her handshake. This girl was a little intense.

"Are you any good?" Rachel said the words coming like rapid fire out of her mouth.

"Uh, I guess," Blaine said, "I was the lead of the show choir at my old school."

"Brilliant," Rachel exclaimed, "Sing for me. Mr. Shue trusts my judgment and if I say that you're good enough for New Directions you're good enough. I have a perfect ear for talent. I, myself, am very talented.

"You want me to sing?" Blaine questioned, "Right here?"

"Of course. A great performer is always prepared for an impromptu performance."

"I'd rather not."

Rachel huffed, 'Fine. But the first Glee Club meeting is tomorrow at three-thirty. There's a sign-up sheet by the main office. You can put your name on it or just show up."

"We'll see," Blaine said before the teacher interrupted them both and asked both Blaine and Rachel to have a seat.

Blaine returned to his desk thinking not of Geometry, but of New Directions. He hadn't given much thought to extracurricular activities while he was at McKinley; especially glee club. But maybe it would help with the adjustment process. He'd eaten lunch alone that day and it really wouldn't hurt him to make a couple of friends. Singing and dancing, it was what he loved to do. And if joining New Directions let him do it, plus make some friends, it wouldn't hurt to at least try.

Blaine was thankful when the last class of the day, English, started without a special introduction to Blaine Anderson. The teacher took attendance and it wasn't until the teacher called for 'Kurt Hummel' that Blaine had even realized that Kurt was in the room sitting in the back corner. He didn't speak when the teacher called on him, only made eye contact for long enough to communicate that he was present and then turned his attention back towards the notebook in front of him, his hand scribbling furiously along the page. The teacher didn't comment on his lack of attention, but quickly went on explaining the syllabus.

When class ended, Blaine moved out of the classroom and through the crowds of anxious teenagers all desperate to get home and do whatever it was that they did after school. Some rushed off to hang out with friends while the homework load was still light. Others rushed to after school activities. Some simply wanted to just get home. But Blaine moved at a slower speed through the hallways knowing that his mother was going to be later picking him up because of the book club she'd joined shortly after they arrived in Lima. Noticing the time, Blaine wondered what number the Warblers would practice at their first meeting and who would take over as lead.

Throughout the day Blaine had managed to memorize his locker combination and opened the tan door with ease. There was more in his locker than had been there at the start of the day. There were textbooks and other supplies now littering the once vacant space. In the course of just one eight hour day, Blaine managed to make room for himself in a space he had no desire that morning of occupying long term. And he now had something resembling a friend in Rachel Berry.

Blaine turned when he heard shouting behind him. The first thing he noticed was that two bigger kids, football players Blaine assumed by their letterman jackets, that were stalking down the hallway calling for the attention of someone. It wasn't long before Blaine spotted Kurt rushing through what was left of the crowd, his attention focused at the floor in front of his feet, a couple of books held tightly to his chest. When Kurt reached the lockers, he kept his focus on opening his lock, and not at the boys who had stopped behind Kurt.

"Why don't you show us your wings fairy boy?" one of the boys asked. He was tall, dark skinned and very much built like a football player.

"Are they sparkly Hummel?" the other taunted. This one was light skinned, but was still sun kissed from a day at the beach. He was taller than the other boy, but built the same.

Kurt continued to ignore them. The first boy made another comment and the moment the word 'fag' escaped the boy's lips, Blaine turned instantly.

"Why don't you back off?" Blaine said raising his voice at the two strangers.

"Who are you?" the second boy questioned, "I've never seen you before. Hummel, did you get yourself a mail-order husband?"

Blaine glanced at Kurt who continued his quiet, reserved focus on his locker.

"I'm bored," the first boy commented, "Hummel's not playing nice. Let's go."

The other boy followed the first boy like sheep following the herd. The hallway was suddenly very empty and very quiet.

"I'm sorry if that was out of line," Blaine said, "Are you all right?"

"Look," Kurt snapped. It was the first word he'd said throughout the entire ordeal, "We aren't friends. I'm sorry if something I did gave you that impression but we are in fact, not friends. So please, mind your own business. You'll thank me later."

Kurt slammed his locker door shut with a sound that echoed the one made that morning as Kurt's body had crashed against it and without looking back at Blaine, walked away.

Blaine wondered what Kurt could have meant when he said he'd thank him later for not being his friend. Blaine couldn't help but think about Kurt and the two very personal, yet public situations that he had found the boy in that day as he walked down the main hallway to meet his mother. He knew how Kurt felt; he understood the need that Kurt had to push everyone away, especially strangers like Blaine. As Blaine passed the announcement board, he stopped and searched until he found the sign-up sheet for New Directions hidden underneath some flyers for the Cheerios. There was not a single name on the list, only obscene drawings. Blaine smiled to himself as he scribbled his name down on the first non-vandalized line.

Kurt pushed his way through the front door of Uncle Tim's house and scowled. The place was a mess. A trail of the clothes his uncle had worn the night before started in the living room and continued down the hall to his uncle's bedroom. There was a rather large pile of dirty dishes in the sink and there was a tinge of vomit wafting through the air. Everything about the state of the house meant that Kurt's uncle had had another night of drinking with the boys before his rather trashy girlfriend came by. It wasn't the first time Uncle Tim had done this. In fact, it happened almost every night.

Kurt sighed and put his bag down on the couch before rolling up his sleeves and beginning his chores. The clothes that had been carelessly tossed aside needed to be removed from sight, a load of clothes washed, the dishes done. Kurt glanced at his watched and picked up his pace when he realized he only had forty-five minutes until Uncle Tim would be home. Kurt found himself hoping that Uncle Tim would stop at the bar before coming back here. That would give him enough time to finish all the chores before disappearing into his room.

The first thing that Kurt noticed when Uncle Tim walked through the front door was that there was a smile on his face and two bottles of wine, held by the neck, between his fingers. He was alone, which meant that he shouldn't have consumed any alcohol yet. Kurt worked quickly to put the finishing touches on dinner: spaghetti with jarred sauce and garlic bread. All he needed to do was have dinner ready and then he could disappear into his room. Kurt turned back to the stove to drain the water from the pasta before adding the sauce to it.

There are no words exchanged as Uncle Tim moved towards the refrigerator to chill the evening's refreshments. As he passed Kurt his shoulder pressed against Kurt, right between the shoulder blades, sending him forward. Kurt reached out to steady himself and his left hand landed onto the pan sitting on top of the stove. The one he had only removed from the oven as Uncle Tim walked through the door, the one that was still sizzling. Kurt yelled as the pain spread through his hand. Uncle Tim paid no attention to Kurt who was cradling his hand against his chest. Once the wine was in the refrigerator, Uncle Tim moved past Kurt once more, avoiding physical contact but disappearing back into the living room. Kurt sighed and moved to the sink to run some water over his hand which was a medium shade of red. After a moment Kurt returned to the preparation of dinner. Mixing the noodles and the sauce in a large bowl, he reached into the cabinet to grab a Tupperware container, putting some of the spaghetti inside. He wasn't hungry then, but with two bottles of wine in the refrigerator, he wouldn't dare come out of his room once he was inside. It would be cold, but it would be better than having to deal with a very drunk Uncle Tim and his heckling Wall Street wannabe buddies. Kurt grabbed a fork out of the drawer and put it on top of the Tupperware before grabbing a plate and began piling the sauced noodles onto a plate. Grabbing another fork from the drawer, he threw a piece of the garlic bread onto the plate and set it on the kitchen table. Walking into the living room he found his bag on the floor, the contents of it in scattered around on the carpet. Kurt looked at Uncle Tim, trying to keep his face calm and neutral to the anger that was bubbling inside.

"If you keep leaving your shit around, I'm going to throw all of it away," Uncle Tim spat, "You will have nothing."

Kurt remained quiet and bent down to retrieve his bag and all of the things that had fallen out.

"Dinner's on the table," Kurt muttered as he put his things back in his bag, "And there's more on the counter."

Uncle Tim didn't say anything, but made his way towards the kitchen. As he passed Kurt, his foot came out and nudged Kurt's leg. Because of his crouched position, Kurt lost balance and fell onto the carpet.

Sighing Kurt just picked up his bag, moving quickly back into the kitchen to grab the Tupperware and fork and headed towards the staircase that led down to his bedroom.

Once he could sit down on his bed, Kurt examined his hand, hissing at the pain that radiated from where Kurt's fingertips rubbed against the tender skin. It was sure to leave a mark for a few days. Kurt was grateful it wasn't his drawing hand as he grabbed his school bag from the floor next to his bed and settled down at his desk. Having just completed the first day of school, the work load was light. So instead of the fifty pages of reading he needed to start for the end of the week, Kurt pulled out his sketchbook.

He opened the book to the page he'd started the previous morning. It wasn't finished, and there were only three days left to enter his submission for the Parsons Scholarship program needed to be in the mail. Resting his burnt hand against his knee, Kurt pulled out a pencil and began working vigorously on making the dress he'd been imagining since breakfast yesterday come into the next step of reality on the page in front of him.

After an hour all it needed was color. Kurt took a break to eat his now room temperature spaghetti and after changing into pajamas he set back down at his desk. He stared at the sketch for a long moment, deciding what color would work the best. Because they needed to be the best sketches. He needed to get that scholarship and get out of Lima. There were no other options, not anymore.

Kurt took a deep breath and looked up at the photo on his desk. In the photo, a man and a woman held each other close, giant, happy smiles on their faces. The ache in his chest overtook the pain from his burn. Kurt missed his parents. His mom, Elisabeth, had died when he was eight in a car accident. It was terrible to have his mother kiss him on the cheek and tell you to have a good day at school one morning, and by four when the bus pulled up in front of the house, she was gone. But he still had his dad, until one day four years later, when he was pulled from class because his dad had suffered a heart attack. He fell into a coma, and then never woke up. There was only one family member to take him, Burt's younger brother Tim.

Tim was nothing like Burt. Burt was a mechanic, an honest working man. Burt loved his family and they came first. Tim was a business man who had lived in Dayton until Burt had died and he came to Lima to take custody of Kurt. To say that Tim wasn't meant to handle children was an understatement. Tim wasn't prepared to deal with Kurt, especially once the bullying started. And he certainly wasn't prepared for the realization that Kurt was, in fact, gay. It started with a slap across the face if Kurt would talk back, but eventually he became an entirely different game. Whether it was just the way he was, or the stress of being forced to be a father was too much, Uncle Tim turned to alcohol. Sometimes when Uncle Tim was drunk, he thought a little tough love would help Kurt out, make him more of a man, less gay. Kurt had been shoved into walls, furniture, and like tonight with the stove, anything else Uncle Tim could manage. Kurt learned the hard way not to call him out on it. The one time that he did, about six months after it started, he was greeted not-so-kindly by Uncle Tim's closed fist. It was then that he started closing himself off. He dropped out of all his afterschool activities and distanced himself from the small group of friends that he had. He was expected to keep the house clean, and if it wasn't Kurt would be dealt with. Kurt learned quickly how to clean the house and make dinner all before Uncle Tim got home. He knew that if he could get that all done, he could escape to his room and rarely would he be bothered. As long as he stayed in his room, it was like Uncle Tim forgot that he existed. And Kurt wouldn't have it any other way. He was a senior and as soon as he could get out of Lima, he was gone. That was why Parsons was so important. Once he was in, he could leave what was left of his family behind and take over the fashion world. In a body bag or an airplane, Kurt Hummel was leaving Ohio once graduation was over.