"I promise I'll be back before you even know it, Quinnie." Blaine whispered, brushing one of Quinn's blonde curls behind her ear. She readjusted her parasol and tugged at the fingers on her gloves. "Blaine, men are dying out there!" She said back, her voice thick with tears.

"I know, but I won't be one of them. I'll be home real soon and you and me, we'll get married and live in Charleston and have lots of babies."

The train whistle blew behind him. "That's you." Quinn whispered. Blaine pulled her into a final hug before running to the train. When he found a compartment, he stood on the low seat and opened the window. "I promise I'll come home to you, Quinn Fabray! I don't care what it takes! You'll see me again soon!"

The train slowly began to move and Quinn ran alongside it, pulling her long skirt above her ankles. "I love you, Blaine Anderson!" she shouted.

Blaine waved to her until she disappeared completely from his view. He was about to sit back down when he heard a knock on the compartment door. A tall young man with a boyish face stood outside the glass. He looked to be about Blaine's age, give or take a year or two.

"Finn Hudson. Pleased to meet you." The man said as Blaine opened the compartment door. Blaine noticed that he didn't have a Southern accent. He sounded like one of those damn Yankees, actually. "Blaine Anderson. Pleased to meet you as well, Finn Hudson."

Finn sat down across from him and dropped his pack heavily on the ground. "I'm from Georgia. Originally from Connecticut until my wife and I moved. You?"

This boy sure is friendly, Blaine thought. "Charleston, born and raised."

Finn nodded. "It must sound funny to you, a Yank signing up for the Confederate Army. But my wife, Rachel, she's from Georgia and her daddy is a real smart guy, owns a big old plantation down there, and he's been poking at me to join the Confederacy for years. I finally gave in. Besides, I'd rather fight for the beautiful South than the North any time."

Blaine nodded. "I've always known that if it came to war, I'd be fighting for the Confederacy. My daddy's been talkin' about a war brewing for a long time now."

"Well, here we are, I suppose." Finn said.

A few moments of silence passed. "You know, my step-brother enrolled in the Union army." Finn said. "I just hope to God I don't have to hurt him."


Kurt Hummel stood on the platform of the train station, thinking.

He might never be in Manhattan again. "Kurt, dear." Brittany said, placing a soft hand on his shoulder.

"Yes?" He turned around just as Brittany presented him with a box. It had his name, Kurt E. Hummel, engraved in gold leaf. When he opened it, personalized stationary with the same leafing sat in a neat pile, along with a pen, envelopes and stamps.

"This is so you can write me, all the time. When you're about to run out, tell me and I'll send you more."

"Oh, Brittany, you know I don't like gifts." He said, slowly tucking the elegant wooden box into his pack.

"But you know I love you and I want you to be able to hear my voice every night. Even if I can't talk to you truly, you'll have my letters and you can remember me." Kurt heard the hitch in his fiancée's voice and pulled her close. "I'll be home before you can mail the first letter, Brittany Susan Pierce. And when I get back, I'll make you Brittany Susan Hummel."

Brittany turned away from Kurt and he knew she was crying. "I just don't want any telegrams, Kurt." She sniffed.

"You won't get a single one. I swear on it."

Brittany smiled weakly then. "Well, you'd better be off. You'll miss your train."

Kurt nodded and kissed Brittany lightly. He wasn't one for any public displays of affection, or any affection, actually.

He marched to the train, his back turned, shoulders squared, because he knew if he turned around just once, he would never be able to leave.

Strangely, thought, it wasn't Brittany he was sad to leave. He couldn't bear to turn back and see his beloved Manhattan behind him, calling him back.

He didn't love Brittany, he had known that for a long time now. He was fond of her, yes, and she was special to him, of course. But whenever he tried to picture a life with her, of children, he couldn't picture anything but blurred lines. Every once in a while, there was a blond child with no face because he couldn't picture one, maybe a swim in the lake in Brittany's home town of Pothat, but nothing else. When he had courted Brittany, it had been because he had felt a duty, and when he had proposed, it had been for the same reason.

He wasn't sure he loved women at all, really. They were fickle and cranky and pretty, yes, but as a boy, he had never seen himself with a wife or children. He had seen himself a journalist or a teacher and growing old alone, because no, he didn't love women at all.

He hated to admit that to himself, and would never admit it to anyone else. Men, however…

No. He couldn't admit that bit to himself. Not yet and probably not ever. That wasn't acceptable in the slightest and he was going to marry Brittany and do what he had to.


It was very dark outside. Kurt didn't know what time it was, but he knew that it was very dark and there was no moon tonight. He looked at the boy sitting across from him, his blond hair covering his eyes, his lips parted slightly. Sam Evans, his name was. He was seventeen, too young to have enrolled, but he'd run away from his parents and lied about his age.

He was so young, so fragile in sleep. Kurt felt he needed to protect this boy, but he didn't feel anything else. Not like the other boy from the newspaper…

No. Kurt wasn't thinking about those things and boys and men anymore.

He sighed and looked out at the night. In the miniscule light, he saw things passing, fields and sky and grass. He didn't know where this train was taking him, but it was very far away from Manhattan.

Manhattan…

He turned his face away from the dark window as Sam stirred. "You know where this train is going?" Sam groaned while sitting up.

"Don't know." Kurt replied. "But it seems to be stopping."

Sure enough, the train was rolling to a slow stop. The doors were opened and every one of the men in the car stepped off. A man stood before them, short, but broad shouldered and he appeared to be strong. "I," he began, pacing slowly back and forth, "am William Schuester. I will be your platoon leader. You will address me as Lieutenant Schuester, Lieutenant Schue if that's too difficult for you to remember."

"Sir, yes, sir!" the chorus of soldiers replied.

"We stand here in the state of Alabama. Tonight, we are setting up camp and you will get your first taste of war."

This man, Lieutenant Schue, was dramatic, very dramatic. Kurt liked him. He was dramatic, too.

"Travel light. That's what I'll leave you with tonight."

Lieutenant Schue began walking forward and the soldiers followed, and the soldiers followed him, simply because they didn't know what else to do.


"Hey!" A voice shook Blaine out of his dream. "Train's stopped. Come on."

The source of the voice was another man, blue-eyed and dark-haired.

"Noah Puckerman, Franklin, Tenesee." He held out his hand to Blaine and Finn, who both shook it.

"Blaine Anderson, Charleston, South Carolina."

"Finn Hudson, Atlanta, Georgia."

Noah laughed. "You ain't from Georgia!" He exclaimed. "You're a Yank!"

"No, no! I'm no Yankee!" Finn said, exasperated and turning bright red. "I was born and raised in Hartford, sure, but my wife's a regular old Georgia peach, and I'm sure as hell more fond of the Confederacy than I am of Connecticut!"

Noah stopped laughing. "Well, I guess you wouldn't have enrolled if you wasn't a real Southern boy. Nice to meet you, Finn Hudson."

"Likewise, Noah."

Noah shook his head. "Nope, call me Puck. I hate Noah. Makes me sound like a damn fool."

"Puck, then." Blaine said as they stepped off the train.

"Just right, Charleston." Puck grinned and caught up with someone he clearly knew further in front of them.

"What were you dreaming about?" Finn asked. "You know, when Puck woke us up? What were you dreaming about?"

"Uh…" Blaine hesitated. Should he tell him? No, no. He couldn't.

"Me, I was dreaming about Rachel. My wife. She's so pretty and nice and sings better than a bird. You got a girl back home, Blaine?"

"Yep." Blaine nodded. "Her name's Quinn. We're getting married as soon as I get home. I was having a dream about her."

He let out a sigh of relief. It helped to talk about Quinn. Even if he was lying about the dream.

He loved Quinn, he knew that. She was beautiful and smart and would make a good wife for him, the perfect woman to marry into the Andersons of Charleston.

But the affection he felt for her wasn't the sort of affection a husband should feel for a wife. She was more like…a sister.

"Here."

Blaine jolted. Finn was holding something out to him, a picture. "That's Rachel."

The girl in the picture grinned up at him, her teeth very white. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She was very small, barely reaching the height of Finn's chest. They seemed to be standing under a peach tree, like a true Georgia stereotype.

"She's pretty." Blaine replied, handing back the picture. "Want to see one of Quinn?"

"Sure." Finn said,

Blaine reached back into his pack and pulled out the only picture he had taken with him of Quinn. They were standing on the porch of his home in Charleston together, looking at the fields of the plantation in front of them.

"Well, isn't she a looker?" Finn whispered, handing the picture back to Blaine.

"I know." Blaine said, tucking the photograph back into his pack, being careful not to disturb the other picture, the one that he could never show anyone ever.

His heart ached thinking of the boy in the picture, how he had stood over Blaine so tall, how his eyes had squinted against the sunlight streaming in through the window…

When it had happened, Blaine had just told Quinn's family that he was leaving for the war. He had been in the hall upstairs, looking out the big bay window, thinking, when he'd heard footsteps behind him. He had turned around, thinking it was Quinn. It hadn't been Quinn, but her younger brother Sebastian.

"Blaine." He had said, holding out a firm hand. "Sebastian." Blaine had replied. His heart had been beating so fast.

"I wanted to wish you luck." Sebastian had said.

"Thank you."

Sebastian had nodded then. But he didn't let go of Blaine's hand. "I don't want you to leave, Blaine." He had whispered, checking over his shoulder to make sure his mother or sister weren't down the hall.

"Sebastian, what are you trying to say?" Blaine remembered how he'd tried to rip his hand out of Sebastian's grip but how the boy had only grasped his hand tighter.

"What I'm trying to say Blaine, is that I feel something for you I shouldn't."

Blaine had gasped. "Sebastian, I don't know what you're talking about but-" and then before he could finish his sentence, Sebastian's lips had been on his and they were warm and soft.

All too soon, Sebastian had broken away and they'd heard footsteps coming up the stairs. "I wish you the best of luck fighting for the Confederacy, Blaine." He had said too loudly as Quinn had appeared at the top of the staircase and linked arms with Blaine. "Thank you very much, Sebastian. It's appreciated."

"You do your best to make sure you come home to my sister, you hear me?"

"I'll come home alright." Blaine had said.