The first time it happened, Kurt was lucky to have been the one answering the door. Finn was upstairs playing video games, and both Burt and Carole were at work. Kurt - who would normally have been flipping through the latest Vogue or singing along to the Wicked soundtrack – had been lying on his bed, debating with himself. He'd been trying to decide whether listening to Adele on repeat was sad and stereotypical, or a good outlet for his emotions. And while this would have seemed amusing to an outsider, to Kurt it was really the best he could come up with in handling his feelings. Because try as he might, he couldn't seem to shake of the blanket of loneliness that smothered him, and he couldn't escape from the guilt and hatred of the fact that really, he'd only done this to himself. He missed Blaine; so much so that he ached constantly and could do little more than lie on his bed and bask in it.

Just as he'd begun mustering the energy to walk over and get his iPod, the doorbell had rung. He'd considered for a moment the prospect of wallowing and letting Finn get it, but deep down he knew that would never happen. With a sigh, he'd hauled himself to his feet and trudged downstairs to the entrance hall.

"Delivery for Kurt Hummel?"

When Kurt had opened the door, he couldn't help but gasp: Flowers.

A huge – no, massive – bouquet of flowers, tied with bright green ribbon and bursting with colour, rested in the arms of the delivery man, waiting impatiently for him to quit his gaping.

"I…who are those from?" Kurt asked, the question spilling from him before his brain had a chance to form it.

"I'm guessing there's a card. You Kurt then?" The delivery man was looking truly bored at this point, so Kurt nodded, accepted the flowers, and closed the door.

Once that was done, the real trouble started. Because really, Kurt didn't have to even look at the card to know who the sender was. And neither would Finn, or his dad, or Carole.

In a snap decision, Kurt hurried up the stairs and headed for his room.

"Who was at the door?" Finn called out, still engrossed in his game.

"Just some guy handing out pamphlets!" Kurt answered. He ducked into his bedroom and closed the door.

He couldn't just leave the flowers out in the open; Carole came in sometimes to clean and his father had a tendency to invite himself over for a chat when bored. Kurt decided to keep the flowers hidden in the walk-in closet; not even Carole went in there, and it would mean he didn't have to throw them out.

Stowing them on one of the shelves by his hats, Kurt paused to pull off the note attached.

Dear Kurt, (it said)
Please don't just leave me like this. I know you said you couldn't see me, but can we please at least talk about this? I love you too and I already miss you (I hope that isn't weird. Is that weird?)
Please call me.
Love,
Blaine

PS: I won't stop bothering you until we can talk about this, so the sooner you call me the sooner I can leave you alone. If that is what you want.
PPS: Is that what you want?

When he'd finished reading it, Kurt had closed the closet door – himself still inside – and cried, hoping that Finn wouldn't hear him.

The second time it had happened - a few days later - Kurt had been at school.

He'd been sitting on the steps in the quad, eating lunch on his own as usual when he noticed the rest of his peers starting to whisper. When he looked up, he very nearly choked on his lettuce:

Standing on the steps not ten feet away from him, in full Dalton uniform, were the Dalton Academy Warblers. They were all in perfect formation eyes trained on him, with Blaine Anderson, taking front and centre.

"Greetings, McKinley High," said Wes, his voice reverberating around the now silent quad, "We are the Warblers. It has come to our attention that we will be competing against the McKinley Glee Club at Sectionals this year, and we have decided to welcome you as competitors in the only way we know how: through song."

Across the quad, Rachel Berry and the rest of the McKinley glee club listened warily, eyes on Wes. Kurt however, was staring wide-eyed at the lead soloist. He stepped forward solemnly as the rest of the boys began humming a quick tempo:

I threw a wish in the well,
Don't ask me - I'll never tell,
I looked to you as it fell,
And now you're in my way.
I trade my soul for a wish,
Pennies and dimes for a kiss,
I wasn't looking for this,
But now you're in my way.

Your stare was holdin'
Ripped jeans, skin was showin'
Hot night, wind was blowin'
Where do you think you're going, baby?

If Kurt hadn't been staring before, now he certainly was. As the Warblers burst into the chorus, they all began to move and sing:

Hey, I just met you and this is crazy,
But here's my number, so call me maybe?
It's hard to look right at you baby,
But here's my number so call me maybe?

As they sang, the Warblers sashayed round the quad, singing sometimes to girls in the audience, and even handing out their numbers with a wink. Blaine just mixed and whirled among them, grinning with an infectious energy as he burst into the second verse. Kurt noticed that people were actually smiling along with him, and felt proud for a moment – until he remembered he wasn't supposed to.

Your stare was holdin',
Ripped jeans, skin was showin
Hot night, wind was blowin'
Where do you think you're going, baby?

Kurt froze then, as Blaine turned around and glanced straight at him. Time seemed to freeze, and even from a distance Kurt could see it in his eyes: This was meant for him.

Hey I just met you and this is crazy,

But here's my number, so call me maybe?
It's hard to look right, at you baby,
But here's my number so call me maybe?
Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy
But here's my number so call me maybe?
And all the other boys, try to change me,
But here's my number so call me maybe?

Before you came into my life I missed you so bad,

I missed you so bad,
I missed you so, so bad.
Before you came into my life I missed you so bad,
And you should know that,
I missed you so, so bad.

People were actually singing along and clapping at this point, but Kurt couldn't have joined them if he'd tried. All he could see was Blaine as he sung those lines. Unlike the rest of the Warblers, he wasn't smiling anymore.

It's hard to look right, at you baby,
But here's my number, so call me, maybe?
Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy,
But here's my number so call me maybe?
And all the other boys try to chase me,
But here's my number so call me maybe.

Before you came into my life I missed you so bad,
I missed you so bad,
I missed you so, so bad
Before you came into my life I missed you so bad
And you should know that.

So call me maybe?

And with that, the Warblers re-formed. With a final bow from Wes, they made their way from the courtyard, as though nothing had happened.

Kurt watched them go. He couldn't breath.

The rest of the McKinley High student body sat stunned for a while, before returning back to their normal conversations. Rachel and the rest of her club were whispering furiously amongst themselves. While Kurt knew that this would be the normal reaction of most people, he couldn't understand quite how the world could keep turning like nothing had happened; like the boy that he loved hadn't just told him in front of dozens of people that he missed him.

He also knew that as soon as they got the chance, the rest of the New Directions would be jumping on him for information. And what would he tell them? Flowers he could hide, but an entire performance? Not likely. He just hoped Finn wouldn't tell his dad.

Indeed, at Tuesday's meeting, Kurt was bombarded with questions:

"Did you know-?"

"Why would he do that?"

"Was that meant for you?"

"Can't you get rid of him?"

"GUYS!" Kurt yelled, effectively silencing them all, "I don't know why he was there and I certainly didn't planned it. He just turned up. I broke up with him, and we didn't say anything to each other, so please drop it, okay? This isn't an issue."

They'd all sat down reluctantly after that, and for the most part left him alone. Finn gave him one last, searching look.

"Well, he's cute, I'll give him that," said Tina, sitting beside Kurt. "I'm sure he'd really sweet."

She gave him a smile, and strangely, Kurt found himself smiling back. "Thanks, Tina." He said softly.

He didn't know why it meant so much, to have one of his friends approve of Blaine – especially now they were over – but when Tina said that, he found himself feeling a little better.

Kurt had quit seeing Blaine Anderson a total of two weeks ago, and Mercedes was proud of him; she knew break-ups must be tough, but he was doing the right thing. And sure, he was crazy for have ever dating him in the first place but hey, everybody makes mistakes.

But that boy was really pushing it: not Kurt, but Blaine. Tina had managed to wiggle out the story about the flowers from Kurt, and those coupled with the performance the other day were way overstepping. Mercedes figured the boy needed to be taught a lesson in moving on, but Kurt insisted she leave him alone.

She'd kept her promise so far, but it really only did so much. Because when she stepped out of school that day to see Blaine Anderson waiting in the parking lot, she really had no choice.

"Oh, no." she said to herself. "This is so not happening."

Praying Kurt was running late and wouldn't be there soon, she marched off quickly down the front steps of the school, trying her best to don the perfect bitch face.

"You are NOT welcome here," she said loudly, channelling her inner diva. The boy turned to her, stunned.

"…Do I know you?" he said blankly.

"You should," said Mercedes, "I'm a friend of Kurt's. And as such it is my job to tell you to back the hell off and get lost. You ain't welcome here, Anderson."

"Look," said Blaine, trying to calm her, "I'm not trying to cause trouble here. If I could just talk to Kurt-"

"Well you can't." Mercedes snapped, "Because if you do, it'll cause trouble."

Blaine gave her a confused and slightly hurt look. For a moment, Mercedes could see why Kurt liked him; the boy was cute. She almost regretted being so harsh to him. He probably didn't know what was going on, she realised. One day, he'd probably been recovering in hospital after a deeply traumatic experience and the next, he was on his own and his boyfriend wasn't speaking to him.

She wasn't even sure if Kurt had told him it was over.

She tried to imagine what it would be like if Sam just stopped talking to her; it would hurt like hell. If it happened to her, she'd have marched over to Sam's house and demanded an answer, too. Suddenly the flowers and singing seemed rather tame.

Feeling guilty, Mercedes sighed and began to talk. "Look, Blaine," she said, trying to be as nice as possible, "Kurt's dad forbade him from seeing you. And he's really cut up about it, and I'm sure so are you. But he can't talk to you anymore. And you can't just come around like this and make him. I'm sorry."

"His…his dad forbade him?" Blaine looked even more lost than before.

"I'm sorry," said Mercedes again, "but you need to leave."

Blaine just nodded blankly, before turning away. "Thanks," he said, not entirely forgetting his manners, before walking back to his car.

Mercedes watched him sadly, before turning back to face the school. To her surprise Kurt was standing there at the top of the steps, watching Blaine too. When he caught her eye, he gave her a sad smile, before turning away and heading back through the doors.

Mercedes followed immediately, dodging through students until she entered the main hallway. She began checking through the windows of each classroom, figuring Kurt would be alone. It was clever of him; what with everyone leaving, nobody would walk in on them.

She finally found him at the end of the hall, and slipped quietly through the door.

"Hey, boo." She said.

Kurt looked up from where he was standing, leaning against one of the desks. Mercedes realised he was crying, and went over to hug him.

"Hey, no crying, boo. No crying." she said. He just buried his head in her shoulder, sobbing quietly. It was funny, Mercedes thought as she rubbed circles on his back: she'd always just assumed Blaine to be the enemy; someone to avoid at all costs. She'd never imagined him as who he was: a sweet, caring teenage boy. Kurt breaking up with him had seemed like an obvious decision, and while she hated to admit it, she'd never really thought about what Kurt thought.

"I know it's hard, Kurt," she cooed, "I know you miss him."

He mumbled something unintelligible into her shirt.

'Say that again for me in English?"

"I'm in love with him." Kurt hiccupped, wiping his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Mercedes replied, knowing it wasn't enough.

"It's not your fault," said Kurt. He sat up, sniffing. "I knew it'd end eventually. I was just hoping it wouldn't be this soon."

He sighed and leaned back against the desk again, swiping at a few stray tears, "It's lonely, you know?" he said, after a while: "living like this. Too scared to let anyone get too close. I mean, I love you and everyone else in New Directions, but…"

"It's not the same?" Mercedes supplied.

Kurt nodded. "It's not the same."

They sat there a little while longer, until Kurt had stopped crying and was ready to face the world again.

"C'mon," said Mercedes, pulling him to his feet a while later. "How about I call Rachel and we bend the rules and have a secret romcom night at my place. I'm sure your dad'll understand? And I'll supply the ice-cream?"

Kurt nodded and smiled, and with one last hug Mercedes left the room first, the promise of Ben and Jerry's lifting their moods.

"In other news, it looks as though the monster debate in Ohio has just gotten bigger! Meet the 'Michigan Monsters': Detroit's very own mutant taskforce!"

The screen cut to a photograph of four grinning teens, clad in green masks, capes and tights.

"Taking cue from Lima's controversial crime fighters – The New Directions – these mutant teens have set about proving themselves not incapable of doing the right thing.

"They are not the first set of impersonators, though-"

The screen filled with more and more shots: groups of people young and old, all dressed in masks and costumes, caught in various states of fighting crime.

"- In places as far as Dallas, Texas, Mutant crime fighters and Samaritans have sprung up from obscurity with the sole intentions of doing good."

The camera returned to the reporter for her final words:

"After years of violence and hatred between mutants and humans, could the tables be finally turning? We'll be discussing that and more, at ten. Back to you, Ted."

For Burt, over the past couple weeks it had become increasingly easier to justify his actions on the night Blaine was kidnapped. Because as difficult as it was to watch his son like this, Burt knew the importance of why it was he'd behaved that way; why he'd forbidden his son from ever seeing Blaine Anderson again.

Even though when he looked at his son his stomach had tied itself in knots of guilt and regret, Burt knew he'd had to do this. Even though it physically stung to watch his son's heartbreak, deep down he knew he had to be cruel to be kind. And at the end of the day, he was doing this for only one reason: it was the same reason he'd moved to Lima all those years ago; the same reason he'd refused to remarry till Carole; and the same reason he'd run for congress in the first place.

He had to keep his son safe.

So When Blaine Anderson turned up one day in his shop – looking pale and determined and tired – Burt knew what he had to do.

"You…you probably know why I'm here," Blaine began sheepishly, once he'd introduced himself. He'd offered his hand to shake, but Burt had merely looked at it. Now, he had both hands fisted in the pockets of his coat – one that Burt knew his son would definitely have approved of.

In fact, Burt noted, Kurt would have approved of everything belonging to the boy in front of him: not just the clothes, or the hair, but the wide earnest eyes and that aura of hopefulness. Blaine Anderson both looked and acted as though he'd stepped out of a fifties movie, something that until now, Burt hadn't figured as possible. Looking at the innocent boy in front of him, he realised regretfully that had it been any other way, Kurt wouldn't have been the only one who approved of Blaine Anderson too. He would have too. The world could be a very cruel place.

"I wanted to talk to you about Kurt." Said Blaine, breaking the silence that had been growing between them.

Burt turned away under the pretence of wiping his grease-stained hands. Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he steeled himself for what he was about to do and turned back. His expression was stony.

"There's nothing to talk about." He said flatly, dropping the rag.

Blaine visibly gulped at his tone, but continued on anyway: "I know that you don't approve of me, sir," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "and I can fully understand that. I'm your rival's son, and that-"

"-I'm gonna stop you right there, kid." Said Burt, his voice cold as ice.

Blaine fell silent immediately.

"Firstly: you understand nothing about me and my decisions so don't bother pretending like you do. You think you can just waltz in here and charm your way into my son's life, but I'm here to tell you, you're dead wrong."

Burt paused to let his words sink in, willing his expression not to falter. Blaine was staring at him helplessly, like a puppy he'd just kicked.

"Secondly," he continued, and he was surprised he could still manage to be so cold: "Yes, you're Brom Anderson's son. But don't be so arrogant as to call him my 'rival'. Your father poses no threat to me, kid, or my campaign. Don't flatter yourself into believing he is anything more. No, the reason I don't approve of you seeing my son is because I raised him better than that. You and your family are the types of people in this world who care for nothing but power, are too proud to admit to their shortcomings, but too keen to see the shortcomings in others."

It was here that Burt paused for a moment, before continuing. He allowed himself to look now at Blaine Anderson, who was standing wide-eyed before him now. His face was even paler than before and he looked like he was about to cry. Through all of this, Burt had assumed that the worst thing he would have to face was the broken heart of his own son. Now, looking into they eyes of the boy before him, he could see how wrong he had been.

"I raised my son," said Burt, soft and slow as though testing the words in his mouth, "to deserve better. That is why I don't approve. My son deserves better than you. And there is nothing – absolutely nothing – you can say or do that's going to change that. Now get out of my shop."

Burt heard Blaine's retreating footsteps, but he didn't wait to see them. He had turned his back once more, staring blankly at the car engine before him, and wondering why if he were doing the right thing it felt so wrong.

Mongrel looked up at the estate in distaste, his scarred face pulled into a grimace.

He had been one of the greatest gangsters Ohio had ever seen. He'd gotten away with murder, extortion, kidnapping and worse. He'd been the most feared of all men, the most ruthless and successful. He'd been on his way to securing one of the greatest smuggling schemes this state had ever seen, and where had that gotten him? Standing in front of some rich fucker's mansion, next to the duck pond and opposite the footbridge.

But these had been the conditions. He'd been forced into this agreement by some mysterious stranger who'd posted his bail, in return that he meet them here, in this fucking Botanical Garden.

"Ah, Mongrel I presume?"

The man who approached him was almost exactly what Mongrel had expected: Middle-aged and well dressed, smiling with all the foolish authenticity of a politician. His hand was extended for Mongrel to shake – like that would ever happen – and the gangster wondered if he knew exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

"I wouldn't presume anything if I was you," Mongrel growled threateningly, his scowl darkening. He'd expected the man to be intimidated, but he proved himself to be made of harder stuff. His eyes hardened slightly, but his smile only grew mocking.

"Come now, Mongrel. Let's not waste our time with petty threats. If it weren't for me, you'd still be rotting in prison, after all. And I think you may be interested in what I have to offer you."

This was what Mongrel had been waiting for: the business deal. This man wanted something from him, and was sure he was going to get it. Either he was a naïve idiot, or he was more conniving than his pressed suit pants suggested. Either way, Mongrel didn't appreciate his tone.

"Look, you self-righteous fucker. Don't tell me what I will and won't do, or you'll regret the day you were fucking born. Tell me what it is you want, and don't bother making it pretty, or I'll take the pretty right out of you with my fist."

At this, the man seemed to shrink slightly – but only slightly – before nodding impatiently and continuing on.

"Yes, yes, I wasn't suggesting anything, no offense meant and all that. I merely meant I have a proposition for you. A way to exact revenge on those who thought they could mess with you."

"The New Directions," Mongrel spat. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," the man smiled menacingly, "The New Directions. As it so happens, you and I have a common enemy. We both want the same thing: to see them defamed and torn apart by the public for the monsters that they are."

"Defamed?" Mongrel scoffed. He pulled a knife from his pocket and began cleaning his nails with it, "I want them roasted on a spit till they extinguish themselves with their tears. I want them thrown off a building and fed to the pigeons. I want them fucking crucified and left to rot for all to see."

"And you can have all of that," the man said smoothly, "if you'll agree to my plan."

"And who might you be?" said Mongrel, realising he didn't have a name.

"Richard Smythe," the man introduced himself, "your new partner in crime."