If you had asked sixteen-year- old Blaine what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would have immediately said a performer. Being the lead vocalist of the Dalton Academy Warblers, an all-male a capella group, coupled with getting the lead in all the high school and community theatre productions, had pretty much shaped his idea of the future.

But life is full of surprises.

During his senior year due, a change in the curriculum meant that Blaine did not have enough credits to graduate, despite the fact that he was a straight A student that never caused any trouble, always came to class prepared, and always had his homework done.

Unfortunately those things, just like the Warblers, couldn't help him get the credits that he so desperately needed to graduate on time.

So, without any other available options, the only thing that Blaine could do to fill out that last spot was to take an art class. He had never considered himself much of a drawer or a painter before; true, he liked to doodle on the corner of his notebook's pages when math and chemistry classes were particularly boring, but they usually just some silly drawings of superheroes, cute fluffy animals, and coffee mugs.

What Blaine had never expected was to become quite fond of drawing. And to his surprise, his art teacher had thought he was good. Art school good.

So for the next ten months, Blaine learned what a perspective was, the difference between comic and cartoon, which materials he should use to achieve the right affect, how to properly use light and shadow. The list was endless, and Blaine was never happier in his life than when he could express himself, not with words or music, but with drawing.

He still composed music, sang in the shower, and excitedly read the newest Vogue. In the end, he was a young man who was sensitive to the beauty that surrounded him. The only thing that had changed was his plans for future, not his entire personality.

When the time came to choose a college, Blaine did not hesitate to ask his art teacher for help. In the end, he had to decide between the New York Academy of Art, the Art Institute of New York City, Columbia University School of the Arts, and Yale School of Art.

Three weeks later, Blaine sent in his college applications, which included the standard essay, his SAT scores, an art portfolio, and glowing recommendations from his art teacher and other Dalton faculty. Even Dalton's headmaster has sent a letter to the schools, saying that accepting such fine young man would be a wise choice for them to make, and that they would be fools for rejecting him.

In the end, Blaine was accepted into all of the schools. He decided to go to his first choice, the New York Academy of Art. His parents were indifferent to his change of plans, so to speak, since Blaine still had not abandoned his decision of pursuing "some useless degree."

That is how, almost eight months later, Blaine found himself inside an art classroom, positively buzzing with excitement as he waited for his first Live Drawing class to start.

Although Dalton was a very well known and respected school with a challenging classes and well-equipped classrooms, even they could not include that kind of class in their curriculum. No matter how prestigious, it was still a high school.

The classroom was a spacious place with high ceilings and dirty white walls, where some rough sketches hung as an example, and tall windows that provided perfect lighting. The room was mostly filled with freshman like himself, but there were also few sophomores and one or two juniors.

Every student had their own easel with all the necessary equipment. They were set up in a several rings, each larger than the previous, leaving the center of the art-room empty.

Finally, the teacher appeared and after a short introduction - where she explained the class schedule and her expectations for her students - the main door opened a gorgeous man with fair skin, bright blue eyes, and delicate brown hair entered the classroom.

'This is Kurt. He will be assisting us for the rest of the semester,' the teacher said with her thick British accent. At those words the man, Kurt, dropped the robe and sat on stool in the center of the room.

Blaine couldn't take his eyes off of the model. Kurt was slightly older than Blaine himself was, and his body was all smooth and lean, with the perfect amount of muscles. Blaine quickly looked away, feeling the blush start to rise in his cheeks. He also noticed that the rest of the class was deeply engrossed in the assignment, and that he had just wasted ten minutes ogling the model.

Ater a few calming breaths to compose himself, Blaine took his favorite HB5 pencil and started drawing.

Whenever he drew, Blaine felt like he was in his own little world. During 'his time,' as like his friends liked to call it, Blaine did not see things and people as they actually were. An apple was never just an apple, It was various shape and sizes, various shades, and a constant play of light and shadow. His mind was filled with circles, triangles and cubes.

He was so absorbed in the assignment that only his teacher's hand on his shoulder, announcing that the class was over, was able to pull him out from the trance that he had found himself in.

When Blaine started gathering his things, he looked up and saw that Kurt was long gone.

The next couple of weeks passed in the same way. Five minutes after class started, Kurt always came in a white robe, pulled it off, and took his place in the center of the room. After that first class, the background for the model was changed progressively into a more challenging one each class.

And, each day, before Blaine had a chance to try and start a conversation, the model was long gone. He didn't even know if the man was gay or not, but it was worth a shot.

The end of the semester came far faster than the students would have liked. Blaine's day were filled with studying in the school's library for his theoretical tests, and his nights were spent working on his final projects, clothes stained with paint and the smell of graphite and turpentine lingering under his skin no matter how many times a day he took a shower, scrubbing himself to the point where his body reminded him more of a strawberry than his normal olive skin.

The only exam Blaine had to take was Live Drawing.

Fueled with words of courage from his friends, Blaine was determined. He was going to talk to Kurt and ask him out.

He was so going to do this.

He didn't.

The exam turned out to be far more difficult than Blaine had expected. Kurt's background was multilayered with an insane amount of details, and the lightning that was set up by the teacher certainly did not make things any easier.

After three hours of non-stop drawing, Blaine felt like his arm was about to fall off, not to mention that his ass had gone numb long ago. He'd probably need a transplant.

When he looked up again, he felt a pang of sadness in his stomach. Just like the many times beforehand, Kurt was already gone. He had missed his last chance.

Blaine blinked furiously, trying to hold back tears.

Maybe it was for the best? He thought. Who are you trying to fool, Anderson, he wasway out of your league anyway. No older and so stunning guy would be interested in you.

Blaine got back to his easel, where he had left his bag.

When he looked down on it, he saw a piece of parchment, with a number obviously written in a rush, and three words that made Blaine immediately grin like an idiot.

'Call me. Kurt'