For once, Blaine wanted somebody to understand. He wanted the world to understand that he was just a person, just like anybody else. On a smaller level, he wanted Cooper to understand how much he needed him to come home, needed him to be his big brother again. He wanted his mother to understand that it was okay to be different, to make up her own mind about things instead of blindly following whatever her husband said. And he wanted his father to understand that no amount of therapy or cruel words would change who he was inside.

But Blaine knew that he was expecting far too much. His responsibility was to duck his head and say "yes, sir" when his dad deigned to speak to him. His job was to go where he was sent and try to stay out of people's way.

Which is how he found himself walking down unfamiliar halls at the beginning of the second semester, pulling at his sweater nervously and watching his feet to avoid meeting anyone's eyes. He didn't feel right here. He felt as if he was being watched.

You're being paranoid, he chided himself. You're the new kid, of course they're curious.

He took a deep breath, then leveled his gaze and bravely met the eye of a passing girl. She smiled at him, and he felt marginally better. Maybe his mom was right. A proper attitude and some manners went a long way sometimes. He straightened his back and strode forward more purposefully, bestowing another smile on a big guy in a letterman jacket.

"Good morning," he greeted, silently patting himself on the back for the minimal tremor in his voice.

The guy glared at him, looking at his clothing with disdain. Blaine resisted the urge to look down at his outfit self-consciously. He had dressed conservatively this morning! A knitted sweater, not-too-skinny jeans, and loafers.

"You new here?"

The question, despite its casual tone, did not seem particularly friendly. "Yes," Blaine answered, careful to keep his tone neutral.

The guy smirked, then walked past him without another word. Blaine sighed, then unbuttoned his sweater. It wasn't that cold, anyway, and if it meant getting less stares from the admittedly tamer dressed students of McKinley, then he would take it.

He found his locker, successfully dialing in the correct numbers to unlock it after a couple tries. He shoved his sweater in the tiny square, as well as his textbooks for the periods he had after lunch.

He knew McKinley would be a bad idea. He didn't have a very good track record with public schools. He touched his hair, subconsciously pressing his fingers lightly against the area under which a scar was hidden. He had begged his father not to send him to another public school. He'd done research on other options—Dalton Academy, which had a no-tolerance rule against bullying, or homeschooling, which wouldn't be any burden on his parents since he was old enough to teach himself with the aid of books. But his father insisted he try public school again, because Andersons didn't run away from their problems. He could tell by the way his father had spoken that he was disappointed.

If you're a real Anderson, you'll face your problems like a man.

As if it wasn't bad enough going to public school after the trauma he had gone through at his last one, he was starting late. His time in the hospital after the… incident… the year before had cost him time as far as his education went. He'd had to spend the summer taking courses so he could keep up with his classmates and not be held back a year, and even then, he hadn't been ready to reenter school as a senior at the beginning of the school year. He'd been catching up the entire first semester, and he was on-track now, but it was hard to walk into a school halfway through the year when everyone already had their established groups. This wasn't kindergarten. He couldn't just walk up to someone, tell them he liked their lunchbox, and become instant friends.

Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. He shouldn't expect to have friends. Friends hadn't done him much good at the Sadie Hawkins dance, after all. Hanging out with a friend had been his downfall then. Maybe he should just spend the rest of his senior year surviving, and not try to drag somebody down with him again.

Blaine kept his guard up and his head down until lunch, successfully avoiding the notice of anyone besides a group of giggling girls who seemed to think his inquiry into the location of the cafeteria was the funniest thing in the world. One of them managed to pull herself together enough to point him in the right direction, so he aimed a vague smile at her and left the group tittering behind him.

He turned a corner and entered the first empty hallway he had seen all day. Everyone must be in the cafeteria already. His stomach rumbled loudly, begging for sustenance. He'd skipped breakfast that morning, despite his mother's nagging insistence that he eat something, because his stomach had been in knots. But now, he was starving.

A group of jocks—Blaine couldn't distinguish whether they wore football or hockey jackets at this distance—rounded the corner, laughing loudly. He quickly looked down, trying to make himself shrink in demeanor as much as possible. There were few instances when he was glad for his short stature, but this was definitely one of them. He found that people didn't bother him as much as long as he didn't make eye contact with them.

The pounding of tennis shoes against the flat linoleum floor reverberated against the walls and all around Blaine, sounding louder and louder the closer the group got. They were still laughing, although at what, Blaine couldn't be sure. Maybe at him. He didn't mind. Laughing was better than—

"Hey, new kid!"

Blaine looked up out of instinct, having worn the title of 'new kid' like a loose second skin for the whole day. Instead of a jeer or an insult, he was met with a faceful of what had to be red, frozen needles and booming laughter as the jocks moved past him, high-fiving one another.

He gasped, accidentally sucking in the substance and choking on it a bit. It took him a couple seconds to place the taste, but eventually it registered as slushie. He wiped his face on his hand, then shook it out in front of him. He was a mess. It had dripped down his front from his face, with the remainder splattered over his pants. There was no way he could clean this up before lunch was over, and anyway, he hadn't thought to bring a change of clothes.

Blaine closed his eyes in frustration. Life wouldn't always suck. Things had to get better, right?

When he opened his eyes, the answer to his question was standing in front of him, wearing a bemused smile and jeans that were sinfully tight over legs that went on for days. Blaine dragged his gaze upward, meeting blue eyes that sparkled with sympathy.

"I see Karofsky and his lackeys gave you the McKinley welcome," he said, giving Blaine a once-over. "That's a shame, he ruined your bow tie."

Even though he was freezing with the layers of slushie running down his chest, Blaine felt himself growing warm at the boy's scrutiny. "Yeah, well." He shrugged. "It was a better reception than I'm used to." He held out his hand. "I'm Blaine."

"Kurt Hummel," the boy offered, looking down at Blaine's hand in amusement. Blaine glanced down, confused, only to see red dye and particles of ice dripping from his hand to the floor. Embarrassed, he put his hand down. "I'd say I'm sorry you were slushied," Kurt continued, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "but if it wasn't you, it would've been me, and these are designers." He gestured to his clothes, and Blaine blessed whatever gods were listening for giving him an excuse to unabashedly stare at Kurt's body again.

"Well, we couldn't have that ruined," he murmured.

Kurt grabbed his hand suddenly, not seeming to care about how wet and sticky it was. He started walking, dragging Blaine behind him until his legs started working again and he walked alongside Blaine. He expected Kurt to let go of his hand once he realized Blaine was following of his own volition, but he kept a tight grip on Blaine, who certainly wasn't complaining.

"Where are we going?" Blaine asked, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt. He couldn't help it, really.

"First, we're going to my locker. I always keep a spare change of clothes in there, and I think I have some pants that won't be too long on you," Kurt said, flashing a brilliant smile at Blaine that almost made him trip over his own feet. He wondered if Kurt had that effect on everyone. Apparently not, if he had to keep a change of clothes in his locker. "And then to the bathroom to get you cleaned up."

"Does this sort of thing happen often?" Blaine asked as they reached Kurt's locker and Kurt began spinning the dial to open it.

"Unfortunately, yes. If it isn't a slushie facial, it's being slammed into lockers or finding that your prized possessions mysteriously go missing," he sniffed, rolling his eyes. "And god knows those Neanderthals wouldn't know an edition of Vogue from a copy of—of Muscle Milk Weekly, or whatever they read." He opened his locker, then paused. "Although they did steal one of Rachel's unicorn sweaters last week, and that was more of a blessing than a tragedy, now that I think about it."

Blaine laughed, more out of relief that Kurt was a Vogue-reading, witty guy who wasn't afraid to hold his hand than anything else. Kurt smiled at him again, almost gratefully, as if he wasn't used to people laughing at his jokes.

"Here you go," Kurt said, holding out a shopping bag that he had grabbed from his locker. "Hopefully these work."

Blaine took the bag and peered inside it, raising his eyebrows when he saw a silk scarf and a brand-new pair of pants inside, still retaining their tags. "These are your spare clothes?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, yes," Kurt huffed. "Just because they're only needed for fashion emergencies doesn't mean they shouldn't be fashionable."

Blaine lowered the bag, looking up at Kurt shyly. "Look, I just wanted to say—"

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said briskly. "Besides, this wasn't entirely selfless of me. I was hoping you'd let me borrow this bow tie in return for my martyr-like sacrifice." He reached his hands around Blaine's neck suddenly, his fingers working deftly to untie the tie's knot while Blaine hardly dared to breathe. He held the unraveled bow tie in his hands, wringing it out so that a thin stream of slushie juice dripped onto the floor. "After all, it's not every day that I let strangers wear new clothes before I've even tried them on."

Blaine opened his mouth, wanting to thank Kurt profusely—not just for the clothes, but for his kindness and for giving Blaine a chance before he even knew him. But nothing came out. He closed his mouth, then looked away, afraid that if he looked into Kurt's eyes any longer, he would inexplicably start to cry. He stared into Kurt's locker instead, biting back a startled laugh when he spotted a Princesses of Disney lunchbox.

"I like your lunch box, Kurt Hummel."

"Thank you, Blaine," Kurt answered primly, taking it from his locker before he shut the door. "Now, if you change quickly, I might be convinced to let you try some of my stepmom's magical chocolate chip cookies before lunch is over." He turned on his heel and began walking down the hall.

Blaine stared after him, marveling at his luck.

"Are you following or what, Blaine?" Kurt called out over his shoulder.

"Of course."

Maybe McKinley wouldn't be so bad, after all.