Hands together, palm to palm, the water and soap caressing his skin like a lover the cheek of his mistress. He scrubbed furiously, manically… but the germs wouldn't go away. All he could see was the dirt, the muck, the mud.

(Out, damned spot! Out, I say!)

He didn't know when he had become this way. He'd obviously been born with it… but something had changed. Perhaps as a child you simply aren't taught to see the persecution of supposed higher authorities. Perhaps the only true gift his mother had given him, was her ability to shadow him from the cruelty of the ignorant.

He scrubbed with his eyes closed. Always had. The humming of the water dripping down the drain called to him, its dulcet tones, its familiarity, working with the rhythmical action lulling him into a state of hypnosis… but it couldn't stop the flashbacks.

"We're aware of your… situation… If there's anything at all that we can do…"

He snorted.

"What happened to you… Words cannot express how disappointed I am. You deserve so much better. I am sorry I cannot offer you more… but, Hunter, you have my respect. It's all that I have to give."

… And they say the military is full of honour.

(Don't ask, don't tell.)

Ten seconds on each finger. He didn't even need to look at a watch any longer. Combining sixteen years of practise with five years of running drill, and he could swear his heart was set at 60 beats a minute. Ah, to hell with modesty. He could fault a metronome at 60.

… Time. God. There never was enough of it. And there was a very good reason why he no longer counted seconds… because he could barely stand to think of the 600 seconds he was now washing down the drain, floating away like grains of sand in the wind. Grains of sand, forever lost. And, unlike any other kid around him, he was so aware of their passage, of his little hourglasss, of each grain gliding down through the tubing and buried among the sea of memories down the bottom. Only, while he could appreciate every grain – once they'd fallen, they were gone, melted into the crowd, their individuality never to be found again.

He didn't know the proportions of his glass. He only knew that his was much smaller than any of his acquaintances. And, if the recent test results were anything to go by… there was a lot less sand at the top than he'd prefer.

Supposedly, it was a blessing. The ability to treat every 86,400 seconds like it was his last… the ability to appreciate them, to capture what grains he could and apply the right pressure and turn them into a diamond. Trouble was, you needed to focus to do that, and all he could ever concentrate on was the sand raining down around him like glitter, to try and count each individual raindrop as it hit his hands, his feet, his face.

He paused, turning to the side to smother a cough into his shoulder. He winced as his chest protested… but it stopped almost as soon as it had started. He took this as a good sign – that maybe here, he would finally start to get better…

(Like that could ever happen.)

Maybe Dalton would be different. After all, even in full knowledge of his… condition… he'd still been offered a full scholarship – and he refused to believe any of it was due to pity.

And then there was his roommate, Sebastian…

"I can tell by the way you're ignoring me that I fascinate you."

Hunter jumped, ripping his earphones out and cursing internally as he about-turned to greet his intruder.

But the guy just grinned, his green eyes flashing. He cleared his throat before offering his hand. "Sebastian Smythe. Captain of the Warblers, captain of the lacrosse team, admitted French-whore, and, apparently, your new roommate."

Hunter glanced at the hand before gripping it firmly… another 600 seconds gone. "Hunter Clarington, not even remotely bi-curious, and… you guys don't have a cadet division, do you?"

Sebastian smirked. "That we do not. Though I've been told I run the Warblers a little like one."

"And the Warblers are…?"

"Only our infamous a cappella choir. Got to regionals last year. Nothing big."

Hunter rolled his eyes. The guy was cocky, sarcastic… He liked it.

"You wouldn't be a bass, by any chance, would you? Because I think I'd have to kiss your feet. Or any part of your anatomy, really – your choice."

"I'm not gay. And not a bass – it just so happens that I led my previous choir to nationals with my kick-ass baritone solo."

"Well, you're no fun, are you, Dr Seuss?" Sebastian pouted… but then smirked again. "Still. We do need lower voices. I'll see you at auditions on Friday then?"

"I'm sure you'll see me before then, seeing how we're going to be living together for the next year," Hunter couldn't help but point out. "But, I'm a generous person and I don't like making unnecessary enemies, so I'll audition… with conditions."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, considering. "What do you have in mind?"

But before he could answer, they were interrupted by two other guys flying into their room. Nick and Jeff. Niff, as they were referred to by the entire school – including teachers.

And Hunter had just sighed, grateful that he hadn't begun cleaning before he'd had to shake two more hands, before smiling and introducing himself to more names.

The school was nothing but accepting. Half of his friends here were gay, and the other half couldn't give a crap. They'd even accepted him, and what they were calling his eccentricities, without question… The fact he had perfect pitch and stage presence possibly helping with that…

He still wasn't ready to tell anyone yet. And that was okay. Sure, Sebastian had noticed the compulsive hand-washing and the pills… but then again, he'd noticed Sebastian's own medication strewn throughout the room. Sebastian had come out straight away to him – even taught him some things. But Hunter couldn't do that. Not yet. What had happened at his old school… and at his division… It was too risky.

"Dude… Aren't they clean already?"

"Yeah, washing them too often can be really bad for your skin, mate."

Hunter rolled his eyes at the two boys behind him. "Not if I don't break the skin, Jeff. I'm not scrubbing hard. And, Sebastian, if I'm not mistaken, you were the one who coughed into his hands and then touched mine," he explained with a sigh. "So, you'll have to wait another 75 seconds for me to finish."

Military precision. Nothing would take that away from him.

"Wow. I'm sorry. I… didn't think?"

It didn't take a glimpse to know that was a genuine apology. Though maybe if he had looked over his shoulder, he would have noticed the shared frown between them… the mouthed "OCD" and "we need Wes"…

He wanted to tell them. He really did. From what he knew of the group, pity wasn't really their thing – but then, his situation was definitely unique – especially in the finest nation in the world. And, for just once in his life, he relished the new start. He enjoyed the couple of weeks where he hadn't faced a wall of judgement or prejudice or fear whenever he turned around. And after he got kicked out – after he'd been spat on, had every possible name the kids could come up with thrown at him… he wasn't looking forward to returning to that. Even at a school like Dalton, with enforced no-bullying policies… when they knew…

He sniffed as he ran his hands under the water, fingertips to forearm, in one direction.

It wasn't so much a fear. When facing your own mortality, you have nothing left to lose. He didn't fear their judgement, because, really, they couldn't do any worse to him than had already happened. And Dalton had awarded him the scholarship in full knowledge – they weren't about to take it away. And, he didn't fear dying… but he did worry over what he would miss. And this, he supposed, was why he couldn't do it yet. Not when he'd had a taste of acceptance. A taste of equality. He wasn't about to give that up.

But he would have to. It was only a matter of time until someone – not him –

(touch wood)

– got sick. And then it would all come spilling out, just like before.

Well, he wouldn't let that happen. Hunter was nothing if not strong, orderly and determined. He would tell them. Soon. On his own terms, which he would dictate. And he would accept none of their crap. He just… needed the right way to do it.

… Maybe he could take a leaf out of his final family night at his old division. Only use it to announce his condition, rather than his departure. Hell, it helped unite them all back then – and it sure as hell would now. And, this time, he would use more of that 'integrity' the division used to preach about. This time, he would use it to explain himself, to bond with his choir. Not to spit in their faces.

His final act at his old division had been one of defiance. After his condition had led to his… 'voluntary' resignation… Well, Hunter was only following orders. They'd been ordered to discover their fears and insecurities, and to wear that on their chests for their performance, and the rest of the year…

He swallowed, brushing a lock of honey hair from his eyes, looked out into the audience… His own shirt reflecting in their eyes…

DISEASED

Then he took in a breath, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

My Mama told me when I was young,

We're all born superstars.

He was only following orders. If they weren't comfortable with it, that was their own problem.

This time, it would mean something. Actually mean something. It wouldn't be one final 'screw you'. Screw you for kicking me out. Screw you for treating me like a splinter in your finger or a pellet in your chest.

This time, he would face his group as a human being. This time, they would see that. And (fingers crossed) they would accept him for it. They'd find out soon enough regardless. With Trent around, it was only a matter of time before the rumour mill began churning.

Okay. He could do this. He could set the wheels in motion.

"Hunt? You okay?"

He'd almost forgotten the two hovering behind him.

Lift up right toes and left heel. One. Two, three… one. About turn to face them.

"Peachy," he grinned as he dried his hands. "Now, let's hit rehearsal. I've got some great ideas… if I do say so myself. How do you guys feel about Lady Gaga?"

Hi guys!

So... Hunter... Well, as I've mentioned to a few people, he intrigues me a lot. I've seen a couple of fics on here - I've only been able to read a couple - so I thought I'd add mine to the mix. I'm hoping to explore why he is the way he is - the title is very important for this, if you want clues! I mean... people don't just leave the military. So, this'll be, I guess, his final search for acceptance, with flashbacks and the usual. TSAB-esque, for those of you that have read it, but different main characters, different disorder I'm exploring.

I'll throw in here, because I always forget - I don't own Glee. You'd know if I did - the Warblers would always be there if I did! Damn attractive men in uniform singing... And soon to be marching and saluting, if I get my way with them :-)

Also, what Hunter has - I have no experience with at all. I'm researching and, because of uni I do know a little about what I'm giving him (this makes so much more sense in my head but I don't want to give anything away! :p ) but I can only hope to portray a somewhat empathetic view of it all. I don't know what it's like, what he would be going through... but I'll give it a shot!

You're always welcome to come yell at me if I get something wrong though :p

... I can't think of anything else to add in at this point in time. It is just past 4 am currently. (This is why, Steph, you should not drink coffee after 2pm. Or write after 10... :p)

Oh, wait, there is - just something I put in all my fics. If ever you guys need to talk about anything - I want you all to know you aren't alone. You can PM me here, or hit up my Ask over on Tumblr (pi-on-a-skateboard . tumblr . com), any time, for any reason.

Okay. Like it? Hate it? Want me to turn into a lightbulb and then blow out? Please let me know!

Keep smiling! :D