"Finn? Are you dressed yet?"

Kurt nudged open the door with his shoulder, careful not to spill the warm milk he was holding. It was late Thursday night, and Kurt was just about ready to curl up in bed and sleep for days. Aside from his downright painful conversation with Rachel earlier, Kurt had spent one half of the afternoon running around getting tuxes, and then the other convincing Finn and his father to try them on. Burt was still grumbling about it to Carole downstairs.

"How do I look?" said Finn, turning from the mirror with a grin. Kurt put Finn's milk on the table and perched himself on the edge of the bed. It had been relatively easy to convince Finn to at least try on the tuxedo once James Bond had been mentioned. His dark scowl had transformed into an excitement equal to that of a kid playing dress-ups.

"Your tie is crooked." Kurt pointed out.

Finn shrugged and turned back to the mirror. "Hudson," he said, "Finn Hudson."

Kurt smiled slightly as he watched his step-brother make an idiot of himself, now winking into the mirror with a jaunty smile. After so many hours spent having Rachel talk his ear off about Finn, Kurt found it a lot easier to tolerate his brother's silliness. He wasn't just Kurt's awkwardly tall step-brother to her. It was strange to see the way Rachel looked at him, like he was the greatest thing in her world. Watching her watch Finn made Kurt feel warm inside. It made him feel empty, too. And a little jealous.

"Hey Finn?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Why haven't you gone public with Rachel yet?"

Finn turned around, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"Like, why haven't you asked her on a date outside of New Directions?" Kurt expanded, "You've been obsessed with each other for over three months now, and you aren't breaking up anytime soon. Why haven't you asked her out?"

"Oh." said Finn. They were silent for a little bit. His football clock ticked loudly. "Huh." He added.

"I mean, I get the risks and all," Kurt continued swiftly, "It's not like dating some cheerio for a week. If one of you gets caught as a mutant the other is immediately at risk of being investigated. But really, what are the chances of that ever happening?"

"I know, Kurt." said Finn quickly. He shook his head, "It's not that."

Kurt frowned, "Then what is it?"

Finn shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. The little kid playing dress-ups had transformed into the little kid caught doing something naughty: "It's just, well ... Rachel'sRachel," Finn said, "And I'm ... me."

Finn looked at Kurt expectantly. Kurt looked back. The ticking football clock filled the silence.

This was pointless. "Well thank you, Finn. That really clears it up." Kurt said finally, standing up and straightening his clothes. It was late and he was tired, and really, why did he even bother? He'd had a long day and there was the political gala tomorrow...

"What would my friends think?"

Kurt paused on his way to the door. He did not just hear that.

"What?" he said, turning around. He suddenly wished he hadn't said anything in the first place.

"What would my friends think?" Finn repeated. He looked almost desperate, like he needed the answer to live. "Puck? Azimio? They wouldn't treat me the same. It's one thing to date a cheerleader, you know, but Rachel is ... Rachel's different. She's not one of the group and she'd just make everything awkward."

The first thing Kurt felt was disbelief, because as great as Finn was sometimes he could be really obtuse. But the disbelief soon gave way to something else entirely:

The second thing Kurt felt (and this was unexpected) was anger.

Suddenly everything that had been building throughout the day – no, throughout the year – felt like it was about to burst in his throat; spew out his mouth and his eyes and his ears due to the injustice of it all. Watching his friends falling in love around him, clawing down the loneliness and the burning behind his eyes. And suddenly here Finn was, with absolutely everything. Everything Kurt had ever wanted.

And he didn't even give a damn.

"But you love her." Kurt said. His voice was soft; any louder and it would be trembling.

"Of course I do." Said Finn, with what sounded like relief; Kurt was finally getting it.

Kurt stared at Finn. "You love her, but you're keeping her some dirty little secret from your friends." His voice was definitely trembling now. "You've found a girl who you love, and who loves you back, and you're worried about Azimio?"

He hadn't noticed his voice rising as he spoke, but Finn had. Kurt knew what he was thinking: they'd been brothers long enough to recognise a good old-fashioned Hummel-Hudson-sibling-rivalry when they saw one. Finn hated it when Kurt got scathing. He said it made him feel inadequate. And when Kurt got scathing, he didn't care.

"I'm not just going to sacrifice my friendships and my social life just to spend time with Rachel at a restaurant when I see her all the time in practice!" said Finn angrily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It's not like there's some code that says we can't be together if I don't!"

"Uh, yes there is, Finn," Kurt shot back; "It's called not being an awful boyfriend."

"Oh, yeah?" said Finn, insulted, "what would you know anyway? You've never been a boyfriend! You wouldn't know a loving relationship if it hit you in the face!"

This time, the silence was punctuated by the sound of Finn's bedroom door slamming, and tearful footsteps disappearing down the hall.

The Royal Hotel of Westerville's main ballroom glittered extravagantly, the light dancing off of tinkling champagne flutes and expensive jewellery. A harp was playing in the corner of the room, just audible over the babbling murmur of conversation. Bubbling laughter echoed round the room as the guests mingled and made small-talk. The invited entered through polished oak doors, through an archway of patriotic balloons in blue, red and white...

Blaine Anderson was bored.

No, he was worse than bored because not only was he stiflingly uninterested by his surroundings, but he had to go along pretending that he wasn't. In fact, if he had to smile and shake another old man's hand one more time he was going to scream. Or start giggling like a madman (which his father wouldn't appreciate).

He was that bored.

Not that he could say anything, of course. That wasn't what Blaine did. Blaine was nice. Blaine was patient. Blaine believed firmly in the idea that of you don't have anything nice to say, you shouldn't say it at all. Of course, this meant that sometimes he went for rather long stretches of silence, but that was the price one had to pay for being generally likeable. And if Blaine was anything, it was generally likeable.

Maybe if he could just slip away outside...

"Ah, Brom Anderson! Good to see you here, old chap – how's the campaign going?"

Blaine groaned internally as yet another guest came up to greet his father. For such a serious guy, he seemed to have a hell of a lot of friends. It was quite tiresome, really, watching his father make small talk about the same things over and over again:

So, running for congress, now Brom?

Yes, yes. Decided it's time to give the government a run for its money!

Well, if anyone can get this sorry leadership in order it's you, Brom! How's the business going...?

Nobody ever said exactly what it was that made this leadership so 'sorry', and Blaine couldn't care to find out. As far as Blaine could tell, Ohio seemed in rather good shape, but to engage any one of his father's friends in a political discussion about it was a fate worse than death in his eyes. No, he would rather be elsewhere: alone in the garden just outside the ballroom doors. He was so close...

"And Blaine, good to see you, son! How's the singing coming along?"

Blaine let his hand be shaken as he plastered a charming smile on his face. His brain said: I cannot for the life of me remember this man's name; but his mouth said: "Oh, it's good sir, its good. It's a pleasure to see you!"

The man laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Likewise, son, likewise!" before nodding once more to Brom Anderson and walking away. Blaine knew what was coming next, and sure enough, another one of his father's 'friends' seemed to materialise out of the crowd. Before the man could approach, Blaine leaned over to his father and muttered, "Excuse me," before slipping away towards the ballroom's back doors. Before his father could argue, he was shaking hands with one of his colleagues, and Blaine was home free.

Kurt hadn't spoken to Finn all of Friday. The drive to and from school had been entirely silent, and Kurt hadn't even commented before the Gala that Finn's tie was still crooked; Carole had had to straighten it for him. So the last thing Kurt felt like doing at the moment was going to some drawn out event with his family, where he'd have to smile politely and pretend to be happy for his dad's sake. What he did feel like doing was setting his room on fire, but that was probably a bad idea.

Kurt, Finn and Carole stood idly beside Burt as he greeted his colleagues and friends (Carole had to slap Finn's hand away from the champagne every now and then). Burt seemed to have an amazing way with his fellow politicians and colleagues: Kurt could tell that none of the smiles were fake and all the conversations friendly. He wasn't naive enough to believe this was always the case in politics. He only had to glance at the other conversations in the room to see that. Half the guests looked at one another like warring shoppers at a Macy's sale.

As proud of his dad as Kurt was, all he really wanted was to be alone. Finn's words from last night were spinning around in his head, and no matter how many times Finn apologised, they wouldn't go away.

You wouldn't know a loving relationship if it hit you in the face...

It made Kurt's head ache. It made his heart hurt: the fact that any love that could ever be directed at him would be conditional. Any normal boy would never truly love him – hand him to the authorities if they discovered his secret, yes – but truly love him? No.

He needed some air. Hoping to find a place where he could finally be alone in peace, Kurt quietly slipped away from his family, and disappeared into the crowd.

The air outside was cool and frigid, cutting into Blaine's skin as he stepped out into the garden. The warmth and noise of the ballroom disappeared into another dimension, leaving him with nothing but the cool air and moonlight. The garden of the Royal Hotel had been designed to resemble something out of a fairytale, a maze of trimmed hedges, lanterns and cobblestone pathways. Blaine looked out across the sloping lawn towards the cast iron archway that marked the entrance to the garden. The twisting and turning labyrinth began here; curving its way around fountains and garden benches; trees dripping with fairy-lights; hidden alcoves filled with promises.

Blaine took a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. He wondered how many of the guests had already taken up the opportunity to use those hidden alcoves, but then quickly stopped thinking about it. Half of the guests were his parent's age. Gross. With a small sigh, Blaine strolled towards the archway and into the cool green air of the maze garden. Turning left, he wandered down the cobblestones, his fingers skimming for a moment over the tall shrubbery on either side of him. He wasn't sacred of getting lost. Aside from the small wooden signs dotting every intersection, pointing towards the exit, there was also the fact that he had every inch of this maze committed to memory.

If anything, to Blaine this was the one major perk of having his father join politics. Just being out here, in the calm stillness, almost made everything worth it: the boring state dinners, his snotty classmates at Dalton, or his father's scowling face – it all seemed to melt away in here. He wasn't "Blaine Anderson: Generally Likeable" here. He wasn't the lead soloist in the Warblers, or Brom Anderson's son. It was just him and his thoughts.

That is, until he casually turned a corner and-

"Oh, sorry!"

"Oh, gosh, pardon me! That was my fault..."

The first thing Blaine noticed was his voice: It was soft and musical; and it was the first time he'd ever heard anyone say 'pardon me' on instinct. The second thing he noticed was the lantern light. Or more specifically, the way it was glowing on the boy's pale skin.

For the person Blaine had almost knocked over was a boy; one who appeared to be his age, with a musical voice and glowing pale skin. And wide blue eyes, and...

He then realised the boy was saying something.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said quickly. He sounded breathless, why did he have to sound so breathless?

"You're – you're holding onto my arm." The boy repeated, a blush creeping to his face. He looked apologetic.

Oh. Oops.

"Sorry!" Blaine said, letting go like he'd been burned. His face was scorching. "Sorry, I didn't realise."

"That's okay." The boy giggled. He giggled. Blaine wasn't sure if it was the light, or just the whole garden in general, that made him look so magical. He was tall and slim, dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair perfectly coiffed. He took a moment to realise that he was staring again and that neither of them had moved aside, nor spoken. Because the boy was staring at him too.

"My name's Blaine," he said after a while.

"Kurt." The boy replied softly. He was smiling shyly and his eyes seemed to be sparkling. From the look on Kurt's face, Blaine wondered if his own eyes were sparkling too. He felt like it.

"A bit crowded inside, isn't it?" He said lightly and the boy nodded vigorously:

"A ballroom filled with that many vindictive, back-stabbing guests? it's like a game of Cluedo waiting to happen."

Blaine snorted indelicately, what little charm he'd managed to maintain completely disappearing. "I suppose that's politics." He said.

"That's politics," Kurt agreed softly, looking away in the direction of the ballroom. "To be honest, I just wanted to be alone for a while, you know?"

Blaine could feel himself wilting. "Oh, well – if you want me to leave, I can go..." his words seemed to fail him. He'd known this was too good to be true, and now he was wasting the time of a boy who probably didn't even want to speak to anyone, let alone him.

Kurt looked at him alarmed, his blue eyes widening, "Oh, no! I didn't mean it like that, not at all!"

"But it is okay -"

"Blaine."

It was odd to hear Kurt saying his name. He rather liked it. Kurt had grabbed onto his hand, as though ready to drag him back to their conversation. "Please stay?" He said, his voice quiet. He looked at Blaine and Blaine looked back. They didn't have to say anything to know precisely what the other was feeling.

Blaine stayed.

Kurt smiled again, and didn't let go of his hand. "We can keep walking," he said, nervously, breaking the tension that had formed like a layer of ice over the conversation.

Blaine didn't reply; he wasn't sure his voice was working anymore. They continued quietly along the path Blaine had been following. He felt like his head was spinning, or like he'd fallen into a dream. He was walking hand in hand with a beautiful stranger he'd only just met, and he wasn't afraid at all. He glanced over at Kurt; the boy had his gaze trained to the ground, like he couldn't believe what was happening either. He glanced quickly at Blaine to see that he was staring at him. They both looked away quickly before chuckling.

"So, Blaine," Kurt said it slowly, like he was still getting used to the name, "Where in Ohio are you from?"

Blaine glanced to his left, where an ornate bench stood in a small alcove. He led Kurt towards it and they sat down. Blaine realised belatedly that they were still holding hands.

"I'm from here," Blaine answered, gesturing vaguely around them, "born and raised Westerville boy. You?"

He had a sudden feeling of dread that Kurt was going to tell him he lived in Portsmouth or something, but Kurt smiled. "Lima." He replied.

Blaine couldn't hide his grin. "That's pretty close by," he said, leaning forward slightly, closer to Kurt.

"Yes it is," Kurt replied. This time he sounded breathless, and Blaine's head was definitely spinning now. He wasn't sure how his brain could possibly be functioning, but he could hear himself speaking: "We could hang out sometime." Ugh, because that wasn't desperate.

Kurt stared at him, his eyes widening again. It made Blaine want to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. Everything had been so perfect, and he had just ruined it.

"I'd like that," Kurt said finally. It was Blaine's turn to stare.

"You would?"

Kurt nodded, and suddenly he was smirking, "Yes, Blaine. I would. Don't act so surprised."

"I wouldn't act so surprised if I wasn't so surprised," said Blaine. "You really want to see me again?"

"No," the other boy replied sarcastically, "I've just been leading you on this whole time."

Blaine snapped his fingers, "I knew it! This has all been part of your devious plot!"

Kurt actually laughed, "The one to rule the world?"

"Precisely."

And suddenly everything was easier. They were talking, now, and not bumbling nervously. Blaine found himself gushing about music and Dalton and even fashion (a passion he had never outright mentioned to anyone). And Kurt was talking back, smiling and joking and laughing easily. Kurt was easily one of the most unusual people he'd ever met: he spoke like a character from a Sixties movie, he loved both fashion and auto-mechanics, and he seemed to make the oddest references at the most inopportune times. It seemed that as he'd think of something, he'd say it. And with every little fact and admission that fell from Kurt's mouth, Blaine found himself more and more intrigued at how this boy's mind worked. He was fascinated. He almost felt excited.

Neither of them was sure how long they'd been sitting before another one of the guests walked past, his footsteps breaking their reverie.

"What time is it?" Said Kurt, alarmed. Blaine looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

"Shit." He said. His father would be looking for him.

"We should go," said Kurt. Blaine nodded dully, and suddenly everything was back to normal; they were back in the real world filled with politics and parents and everything else. But when he looked over, Kurt was still Kurt, the boy he now felt like he'd known his entire life. The real world still appeared the same, but at the same time everything was so different. It was only when Kurt stood up that Blaine realised they hadn't let go of each other's hands.

"Wait!" He said quickly, "what's your number?"

They switched phones and added in their own details. When they were done Kurt looked up at him breathlessly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "I'll see you around?" he said. He looked hopeful.

"Definitely," said Blaine.

Kurt smiled and hesitated for a moment. "Bye." He said quickly, and before Blaine knew it Kurt was gone, hurrying back down the path and out of sight.

Blaine looked down at the phone in his hands, his new contact the only proof that what had just happened was real. It read: Kurt Hummel.

Hummel. Blaine had heard his father spit that name like poison often enough to immediately recognise it. He had just fallen head over heels for the son of Burt Hummel, his father's arch nemesis.