“I’m sorry, young man, but you’re going to have to lose the hair.”

Blaine had been on the fence about mentioning it, had actually reconsidered twice. He has never second-guessed himself on this with any other student, not since he started teaching college show choir five years ago. Blaine has rules. Strict rules. They’re outlined clearly in the syllabus.

Blaine’s students tend to blur together at the beginning of the school year. It’s not until he learns more about them that they solidify in his mind as individuals and not just sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses. It takes about a week or two for Blaine to fully flesh out their identities and memorize their names.

But this man – it’s hard not to notice him, and that has very little to do with his hair. Or his long legs, as magnificent as they are, the right crossed over the left and bouncing slightly, jostling the untied laces of his white Doc Marten boots; his skin tight black jeans; his leather bomber jacket; his vintage distressed tee; or the teal cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck.

It has everything to do with his smile, which he’s flashed at five people so far (but not Blaine yet); his voice, which is music itself without even trying; and his eyes. God, his eyes. They’re bright, intelligent, and a shade of blue that Blaine is certain nature invented just for him since Blaine can’t remember ever seeing it anywhere else.

But the fact remains that by coming to class with his hair out of order, he’s breaking one of Blaine’s rules. And as much as Blaine Anderson, member of the gay human race, would love to let it slide, Blaine Anderson, college professor and choir director, just can’t Goddammit!

“Young man?” Blaine says, though if the man is younger than twenty, Blaine would be surprised. “Excuse me?” Blaine tries again louder, sighing when the man he’s addressing doesn’t acknowledge him. He seems enthralled by a conversation with the alto sitting next to him. She’s giggled three times already over a response he’s made, and Blaine can’t remember the last time he’s felt this left out. He looks down at his attendance sheet, searching for a name to go with the face … and those incredible blue eyes. “Mr. … Hummel? Kurt Hummel?”

“Yes?” The man puts up a polite hand to his companion and looks at Blaine with that room-lighting smile and those unreal blue eyes, and for a second, Blaine thinks to himself, Shut up, Anderson! Let it go, just this once! But he can’t. He has a high bar set for his show choirs. This one might only be a community college choir, but they are also national champions. He has to maintain their reputation. No reputation, no funding. As it is, their uniforms are older than the school itself. He can’t lose the meager bit of support he’s worked so hard to gain over a handsome man’s questionable style choices.

“Your … your hair.” Blaine clears his throat. “You’re going to have to lose it.”

Kurt’s eyes go wide. He giggles nervously. It’s an adorable giggle, too. Fuck. “What? You mean like …?” He makes a gesture like he’s shaving it off.

“No. The color. Only natural hair colors allowed.”

“Pink’s a natural color,” Kurt rebuts with a flirty smile. “You see it in nature all the time.”

“Not on hair.”

Kurt smirks. He points at his head, obviously amused by this repartee. “You do here.”

Blaine sighs again. Witty, gorgeous … and he’s going to hate Blaine in a minute. This isn’t fair. The college doesn’t pay Blaine enough to shoot down a man this engrossing, not when Blaine’s personal dry patch is creeping up on the seventh year anniversary mark. “I’m sorry. For the purposes of this choir, pink hair is not allowed.”

“But there’s nothing in the college handbook against alternate hair colors.”

“It’s not a college rule,” Blaine explains. “It’s my rule.”

“I’m not sure you can do that.”

“We’re a performance group. We fall under the same purview as competition teams, which give coaches the freedom to establish rules as suit their sport. This rule’s mine.”

“Why?” Kurt asks, quirking a quizzical brow.

“It’s a question of impact. I’m going for a uniform look. Any audience we perform for will get its first impression of us the moment we walk out on stage. Don’t you think that that impression is better served if we look crisp, clean, and professional?”

“I think that that impression is better served if we do our best and enjoy ourselves … but it wouldn’t hurt if we looked like we can kick some ass.”

The girl sitting beside Kurt titters. Kurt turns her way and throws her a wink that makes Blaine a little jealous.

“We’re a classical choir, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says, his personal indignation overcoming his latent attraction, “not a rock band.”

“Why are you so hung up on how we look?”

“Because in the world of musical competition, how you look is almost as important as how you sound.”

Kurt laughs. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

“It does,” Blaine argues, becoming offended. He didn’t spend his high school, and then his college years performing in stiff, ill-fitting blazers to have this man try and tell him his business. Blaine hated the dress code at first, but he eventually embraced its importance. They’re a team. They need to look like one. “People don’t want to be distracted by outlandish hair and clothes when they’re trying to listen to the likes of Beethoven and Mozart.”

“Now, you see, I know for a fact that Mozart would disagree.”

More members of the class laugh. A few of the younger students, the ones straight out of high school, applaud. Blaine feels himself get hot under the collar, and for none of the reasons he wants to be. His class is now a third of the way over, and they’ve spent that time arguing about hair.

This would never happen at Dalton. The students there know what’s expected of them right off the bat, and they accept it. They respect the decisions of their teachers as sacrosanct.

Of course, very few of them go off to pursue a career in music after graduation. As far as Blaine knows, he’s the only one in a decade, and what did he do? Did he write symphonies? Perform in coffee shops? Travel the country, live in a VW bus, play his guitar to support himself, then get discovered like Jewel the way he’d dreamed?

Not even close.

He became a teacher. And along with taking this teaching position here, he went back to teach at Dalton.

If that doesn’t say something about the power of institutionalism, Blaine doesn’t know what would.

This young man, with his eccentric style and his pink hair, probably has a better chance of making it as a professional performer than any of them.

But eccentricity rarely finds a place in show choir.

“Mr. Hummel,” Blaine begins in his sternest, most teacherly tone, “I would really like to put an end to this conversation and get started with this class, if you don’t mind.”

Instead of shrinking at Blaine’s change in tone, Kurt sits back in his seat and smiles from ear to ear (and what a fabulous sight that is). “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I wholeheartedly agree. We need to get to the business of singing.”

“Good.” Blaine spreads his sheet music on his stand, preparing to move forward. “I’m glad you can see reason.”

“Oh, I do,” Kurt says, “but that doesn’t mean I’m changing my hair.”

Blaine slides the last sheet too far down the stand and it goes fluttering to the floor, which prompts half of the class to gasp, and the other half to chuckle, including Kurt. And that - that triumphant chuckle at Blaine’s expense - irritates Blaine to no end. “You’re being a little immature about this, don’t you think, Mr. Hummel?”

“And you’re being a little parochial and obtuse, don’t you think? I mean, times are changing. There’s nothing wrong with changing with them just a teeny bit, is there?”

“My decision here is final, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine declares, his voice getting progressively tighter and tighter. “You either follow my rules, or you’re out.”

Kurt shrugs. “Then I’m out.” He throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder and stands up from his chair. Aside from one or two awww’s from people who don’t want to see the feud end just yet, the room goes quiet.

“What are you saying?” Blaine asks with a condescending laugh. “You’re choosing pink hair over this choir? Over a nationally ranked show choir? Aren’t you a vocal studies major? Don’t you need this class for your grade?”

Kurt stops in the middle of gathering his things. “That sounds like blackmail.”

“It’s not blackmail. I’m just making a point.”

“Yeah, and your point is that if I don’t follow your rules, rules that aren’t laid down by the college I’m paying good money to attend, I don’t get my degree. And that sounds like blackmail.”

“Well,” Blaine says, squaring his shoulders for this showdown, “I’m sorry if you think that …”

“Technically, I don’t need anything,” Kurt interrupts, sounding tight himself. “Plus, you make it sound so simple – my hair or this class. But those aren’t really the stakes, are they?”

“What do you think they are, Mr. Hummel?”

“I’m choosing myself over unnecessary and mindless conformity. Times change, people change, standards change, hairstyles change – mine almost daily. Music reflects those changes, more than anything else in our culture. Music is about expressing yourself, not keeping yourself stuck behind safe little walls.” Kurt walks towards the door, shaking his head. “This is a community college choir. This campus is full of people breaking out of their molds and finding themselves. People starting over, people trying to change. They’re here to start a journey, or to pick up where they left off. This would be the perfect place, the perfect opportunity to buck the system. And personally, I would love to help you with that.” Kurt stops walking when he reaches Blaine’s chair, the height of it putting the two of them eye to eye. “Pull yourself out of the Dark Ages, Bowtie. And call me when you get that stick out of your ass.”

Getting the final word, Kurt strolls through the door, a chorus of ooo’s following him out.

***

Blaine spends the remainder of his work day, and then his forty-five minute drive to The Lima Civic Center, thinking about Kurt Hummel. The annoying part about their confrontation, the truly frustrating part, is that Kurt wasn’t entirely wrong. Times are changing, and show choirs haven’t been immune. Blaine has seen choirs he competed against as a teenager completely transform themselves to align with the times, and they’re doing alright on the competition circuit. It hasn’t been a strike against them. But at the college level, judges seem to appreciate Blaine’s more traditional approach.

He’s found a formula that works. It wins them trophies. Those trophies impress alumni – especially the tacky, gold, five foot tall Best in Show trophies, the ones with the huge cups mounted on top, and weigh as much as a toddler. And when you impress alumni, they give you money.

Blaine knows it shouldn’t be all about that. Like Kurt said, it’s about the music. Once Blaine has five more years’ worth of first place trophies lining the walls of his choir room, then he’ll shift his focus. He just has to get there first.

This isn’t the first time someone has tried to call Blaine out on his “antiquated” methods. But it’s Blaine’s decision to make. Ultimately, Blaine gets held accountable for how his choir fares. He’s confident that he’s not wrong with the rules he’s made, or with his decision to keep them, but he could have handled the situation better. They could have come to a compromise.

But how would Blaine have gotten around the hair? A hat? A wig? Kurt seemed like the kind of guy who might groove on a wig. If Blaine could get his phone number from admin, maybe they could talk it over. Kurt did say call him. Blaine wouldn’t be violating any rules regarding privacy. Blaine could even invite him out for coffee to apologize. He could find out how much experience Kurt has in show choir, maybe give him some tips on how things usually go.

And from there … well … who knows what might happen?

Blaine sees The Civic Center parking lot come into view and decides not to dwell on the events of today. He’d made a vow a while ago that there are two places he wouldn’t bring work with him – bed, and orchestra rehearsal.

And tonight, he has more reason to be focused than ever.

He pulls into his parking spot – his new reserved parking spot - right by the door … after the Board of Directors, three major donors, and their Conductor, Will Schuester. But after that, there he is. His official spot. They haven’t gotten his name stenciled on the sign yet, but that’s alright. What matters most is the title.

Concertmaster.

Tonight is the first rehearsal of the Winter Concert season, and it’s the start of something big. Blaine Anderson is moving up, slowly but surely breaking into new territory … even if that new territory is technically old territory. He’s been vying for the position of Concertmaster for as long as he’s been in this symphony, and he’s been Principal chair of the Lima Symphony Orchestra since he was a teenager, having lateraled over from the Lima Youth Symphony along with a handful of friends.

That’s a vivid example of how his life has gone so far – moving, yes, but not forward. More like sideways, and always within a stone’s throw of home.

Rain had started to fall during his drive over – a drizzle to start off with, but it had become a downpour in a blink. By the time he exits his car with his Stradivarius tucked safely underneath his coat, he can barely see three feet in front of him. He races down the sidewalk, up the steps, and through the back door, coming out of the ordeal mildly drenched. He cuts through the lobby, waves at the receptionist and the theater manager, exchanges the expected pleasantries, then enters the auditorium, walks down the center aisle, and climbs onto the stage.

He’s walked this same route hundreds of times with little or no deviations. He could do it in his sleep.

The second his feet hit the wood, his oldest friend in the world, Unique Adams, descends on him like a sassier version of the storm raging outside.

“Hello, Mr. Concertmaster!” she cheers, then switches gears fast enough to cause a five car collision. “You’re late.”

“Good evening to you, too, Unique. And yes, I know. But if you haven’t noticed, it’s raining cats and dogs out there.”

“Yeah, well, everyone else managed to get here on time,” she scolds, but a second later, another gear shift. “So, how does it feel? Marching into the lion’s den and returning victorious?”

“Good,” Blaine replies with a content smile. “It feels good.” He finds his chair, first one on the end overlooking the stage, down right of the podium, and sets his violin case down. He unlatches the lid, lifts it, and looks at his Stradivarius. It used to be his father’s instrument, and his father’s before him. This violin is an heirloom of two celebrated virtuosos. They were professional violinists in more prestigious orchestras than this, and Concertmasters both. All of his life, Blaine longed to follow in their footsteps.

He did, but he didn’t get very far.

“But if I get the promotion because the previous Concertmaster dies of a heart attack, is it really that much of a victory?”

“Who cares how you get the crown, as long as you wear it? And wear it fabulously.”

Blaine smiles at her, but he doesn’t feel it. He wants to believe that. He really does. But it’s not that easy for him.

He removes his violin and bow from its case, stows the case beneath his chair, and sits. It’s a good chair. It feels nice to finally get the chance to sit in it. He glances around at the rest of the orchestra tuning their instruments, skimming over their sheet music, or in the middle of conversation, when they should be halfway done with warming up by now.

“I thought for sure I’d be interrupting. What’s taking Mr. Schue so long?”

“We’re waiting on our new Artist-in-Residence,” Unique answers, more excited than Blaine thought she would.

“Oh God! That’s right,” Blaine groans. He hasn’t been too impressed by their last three Artists-in-Residence. But since they’re an obscure orchestra, they have to be grateful for whoever they get. They’re not booking Yo-Yo Ma anytime soon, that’s for sure. “That Eli guy’s coming back, isn’t he? I can’t believe the board gave him a second chance.”

“You mean the oh-so-charming cellist who only came once and then never called again?” Unique says with a huff. “No, no way, no how. They got a different guy. And this guy’s the real deal.”

“Yeah” – Tina, a friend of Blaine’s from high school, sitting Principle Chair Second Violin behind them, scoots up to join the conversation - “I saw him perform over the summer. He’s amazing.”

Blaine looks at the two women and frowns. “I haven’t heard. I’m Concertmaster! Why haven’t I heard?”

“Because they switched artists at the last minute,” Tina explains. “Mr. Schue just told us about it.”

“Had you been here on time, you would have heard, too,” Unique finishes.

Blaine waves her comment away, not prepared to go into the sob story of the long day he’d had, and the man who challenged Blaine’s authority.

It’s only a three hour rehearsal. He doesn’t have the time to go into it.

“Here, let me show you.” Unique takes out her phone. “I’ll try to pull up his YouTube video.” She holds out her phone, pivoting in her chair in search of a signal. “Shoot! It’s buffering. The WiFi in here sucks.”

“No need to be so critical of our WiFi, Ms. Adams,” Mr. Schuester remarks. He approaches the podium, rolling up his shirt sleeves and buttoning his vest as if he may have had to change into dry clothes. “And no need to stream any videos. I just took a peek outside, and the man of the hour is pulling into the parking lot as we speak.”

“You know what that means …” Tina flicks the curls at the nape of Blaine’s neck, a teasing habit of hers that drives him up a wall. He bats her hand away as Unique, mildly bitter at being perpetually second chair regardless of the fact that she’s been with the orchestra as long as Blaine, chimes in, “That’s right, Concertmaster. Babysitting duty. How’s that crown treating you now, honey?”

Blaine looks both women down with a smug and determined stare. “I don’t care if I have to hold his hand crossing the street, or if I have to spoon feed him pudding three times a day - the crown still feels good.”

“While we’re waiting,” Mr. Schuester begins, “let me give you a little background on our newest, and most exciting, A.I.R. to date. In a departure from tradition, our Artist-in-Residence this year is not a violinist, a cellist, or a pianist. He is … a violist.” Gasps circulate through the string section. A few performers sound positively disgruntled. Blaine rolls his eyes. Oh, but the issues that scandalize small town folk. The man’s instrument of choice doesn’t concern Blaine. The problem he faces is that the majority of their A.I.R.s have been divas. Blaine hasn’t had the chance to do this job yet, but catering to a prima donna doesn’t seem like fun. He’s certain it helped contribute to the untimely death of their last Concertmaster. “But you’ll learn that what’s considered unconventional in most musical arenas is the norm for him. He’s been a Young Classical Virtuoso of America, has taken first place at The International Anton Rubinstein Competition, and was the featured soloist with the New York Philharmonic’s Chamber Group when they toured this summer. He had his pick of orchestras to perform with this season, but for whatever reason, he chose ours. He’s a bit on the daring side. He likes to push boundaries. But don’t let that scare you. He’s an exceptional musician. We’re lucky to have him. Please help me give a warm Lima Symphony Orchestra welcome to …”

From the back of the theater, a door slams open, followed by a voice that drowns out Will Schuester’s effortlessly.

“I am so so sorry, guys. Look at me, dripping water all over the carpet. I’ve only got my motorcycle with me at the moment, and I got caught in this rain ...”

Blaine doesn’t see the man making his way to the stage from the rear of the theater, but he’s struck by the voice – that stunning high voice … the one that speaks in strains of music without even trying.

Oh God, Blaine thinks with a sinking feeling in every bone and muscle in his body, because what are the odds? What truly are the odds that the man from his choir, the man Blaine thought was so captivating he almost went as far as to bend a cardinal rule, and then pretty much tossed out of his class … would be the man racing up the center aisle to the applause of everyone on stage?

And as if that’s not bad enough, it gets worse …

As Concertmaster, Blaine has to get up and greet him, shake his hand and welcome him to their orchestra … then make a place for him by his side.

How can he do that when his knees have disappeared, and all he seems to have are stumps for legs?

With a hard swallow, Blaine manages it, all the while trying to recall in which Circle of Hell eating humble pie resides. He figures that it’s definitely somewhere after gluttony but before fraud. That’s what he feels like, approaching the man whose hair seems to have gotten pinker since this afternoon.

A fraud.

“Hello, Ladies and Gentleman,” Kurt says, walking up on stage, waving with one hand since his viola case is stuffed under the arm of the other. Kurt sees a man walking towards him like he’s headed for the gallows – head held high, but with a blank expression, his trembling hand outstretched. Kurt recognizes him instantly. How can he not? He’s only been thinking about him all day. “No way! Bowtie? Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

Kurt’s comment sends another murmur through the orchestra, along with earning Blaine disgruntled glares from Unique and Tina.

“You two know one another?” Will asks.

“Not really. We only met today, at Lima Community College,” Kurt replies. “He commented on my hair.” Kurt gives Blaine a wink that sends fire racing from Blaine’s brain to his knees, laying waste to everything in between.

“Hello, Mr. Hummel,” Blaine says in a subdued tone. A humbled tone. Kurt could have told the whole orchestra what happened this afternoon. For no reason that Blaine can conceive of, Kurt helped him save face. That means Blaine owes him one. At this point, Blaine’s just waiting for the stage to collapse in in the three foot spot he currently occupies so that he can be done with this. All he asks is that it be quick, painless, and that someone save his violin.

“Please, please,” Kurt says. “Why so formal? Just call me … His Royal Highness.”

“His Royal … what? I …” Blaine stands with his mouth stuck open, unable to think of a response to that. Considering their argument from earlier, he can see the man wanting to be addressed as His Royal Highness, maybe just to get back at him.

And Blaine would have to. It’s part of his job.

Kurt laughs, grabbing hold of Blaine’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t shake it. He simply holds it, like he’s trying to keep Blaine from collapsing. “No, no! I’m just kidding! Kurt will be fine.”

Blaine hadn’t paid attention to Kurt’s hands before, but now that he knows Kurt’s a violist, his hands become much more important. And they’re sublime – soft to the touch, but not artificially soft; slightly rough in the palm and at the fingertips, as one might find in a string player’s hands. The skin on the backs looks smooth, but intricately lined from the stretching of his fingers along the fingerboard; and his nails manicured, reverse French, the body of his nails a deep blue with the root crescents painted in gold glitter.

God. Just when Blaine didn’t think this man could get any more attractive …

Kurt lets go of Blaine’s hand first, and Blaine lets his arm fall, turning and sitting before this reunion becomes any more uncomfortable. Kurt makes his way to the podium, blowing kisses and greeting people along the way like some sort of celebrity. Blaine watches Mr. Schuester shake Kurt’s hand, then step down, making way for their new A.I.R. to address the orchestra.

“Why didn’t you tell us that you knew him?” Tina hisses in Blaine’s ear.

“I didn’t know that I knew him. You two didn’t mention his name. You were playing the pronoun game. I had no clue who he was. I’d never seen him before in my life until today.”

A replay of their first meeting speeds through Blaine’s brain from start to finish. He becomes sweaty. He feels nauseous, like first day at a new school nauseous. What an idiot he was! How conceited! How in the hell did he not know who this Kurt Hummel was? Had he really been trapped so tight in the bubble of his own mediocre accomplishments that he’d never heard of this man? Where the hell was that hole that was supposed to transport him to an alternate universe? It sure was taking its sweet time …

“I know you’re all expecting me to make a long, boring speech,” Kurt starts, bashful in front of their dinky little orchestra despite his impressive resume, “and far be it for me to disappoint you.” Everyone chuckles. Blaine can’t. If he does anything that comes close to opening his mouth, he’s going to puke. “So here it is – as musicians, performing together, we may think we’re here for the orchestra. Or here for the audience. Our sponsors think that we’re here for them, but we’re not. We’re here for the music. The composers who wrote the pieces we play had a message, and we’re here to convey that message to our audience to the best of our abilities. So put yourself in their shoes, think about what was going on in their time. What was the political atmosphere of the country like? What kind of upbringing did they have? People will have heard Mozart’s Symphony No. 25 in G minor a hundred times before we sit down on this stage to perform it. Maybe we can help them experience it in a way they never have before.”

“And … how do you recommend we do that?” Blaine asks. It’s not asking him out for coffee, but Blaine has to say something. He has to apologize now. It can’t wait.

When Kurt looks at him, he seems to understand what lies under the surface of Blaine’s question.

He seems almost relieved.

“By forgetting what you think you know about this piece, and getting to the heart of the music. Go home after rehearsal and do some research, try to unlock what was going on in Mozart’s mind when he wrote this piece. Put yourself in his shoes. Immerse yourself in who Mozart was as a person outside of the music he wrote. See him as a human being, not just a composer. Let’s step out of our boxes …” Kurt grins “… and stop being afraid to do things a little differently. Anyone here who’s not sure they can do that …” Kurt’s eyes linger a moment longer on Blaine’s face before he addresses the orchestra as a whole “… is welcome to email me. If you’re passionate about the music, even if you don’t agree with me, I’d like to find a way for us to work something out. Does that sound like something everyone can do?”

Agreement and polite applause fill the pause. Kurt turns to Blaine.

“Does that sound like something you can do? Because I have rules, Bowtie, and this one happens to be very important.”

Blaine looks down at his violin, lying in his lap, and smiles, wondering if referencing Blaine’s huge faux pas with veiled remarks is going to be a thing with them. He hopes it will. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Excellent,” Kurt says while the rest of the orchestra looks between Kurt and Blaine, lost in the midst of their banter. “And one more thing, Concertmaster.”

“What is that?”

“Have you lost that stick?”

Blaine looks at Kurt’s smile – the smile that first lured him in; the smile that hid a more intriguing person than Blaine could have ever dreamed. “Consider it lost, Your Highness.”