A/N: First off, apologies to all reading "Beyond the End". It's been a ridonkulously busy week. I apologize. I'll get to it. I promise. But, having watched "When I get you Alone" I had to give my take. So, very quick, very silly drabble. Enjoy!
It was the perfect setlist. West stared at it in intense satisfaction. He leaned forward, peering more intently at the dark letters on cream paper. There was no way that they would lose at Regionals. "Bills, Bills, Bills" was flawless, "Diamond Dogs" was off the hook and, as much as he hated to admit it, "I'll Cover You" brought an element of sweetness and sincerity to the whole set. Eclectic. Gender-bending. Manly. It was, in short, the perfect manifestation in musical form of the very essence of Warblerhood.
Wes breathed in the scent of ink on paper. He was pretty sure this was what it felt like to be in love.
Wes was not the only one in love, however. Across the Dalton campus, Blaine was anxiously adjusting his tie, deciding just how to tell Kurt that he'd scored one of the two leads in the very first ever, a capella version of a gay love song. Further down the hall, Kurt was nervously asking Pavarotti whether his hair looked alright, and whether it was completely inappropriate to tell Blaine that, although he had a very fine ass, the Dalton slacks did it no justice. And, down in the mailroom, David had received two letters.
One was from his girlfriend. That was the in love part. The other, however, was from the Ohio Glee Club Council. With a gasped "oh my dear God!" that left a pair of freshman questioning the older boy's sexuality, he clasped the letter to his chest and immediately began sprinting toward the choir room/lounge/game room.
"Wes! Wes!" he screamed, careening around the corner, waving the as-yet unopened letter high above his head. "Guess what came?"
Wes, busy cuddling with his set list, just asked "Um. . .this week's issue of EW?"
"No!" David triumphantly flung the envelope into the table, nearly displacing Wes' gavel. Wes drew a quick intake of breath and sat up abruptly.
"Is that –"
"Open it!" David was practically bouncing on his heels as Wes leaned forward and, with shaking hands, tore apart the envelopment.
"So?" David asked when his best friend didn't comment, but just peered, with knit brows, at the contents of the envelopes. "Who are our judges? Is it good? Who are they?"
Wes slowly – ever so slowly, for increased dramatic effect – lowered the letter and smiled at his friend. "Oh yes, my friend, it is better than we could ever have imagined. Our judges. . .are cougars."
David almost fainted on the spot. It couldn't be any better. Cougars, after all, not only had an affinity for younger men, but also for men in uniform. Right there, they'd been given a clear advantage over New Directions, Vocal Adrenaline, and Aural Intensity. . .50% more dicks.
Except. . .there was one problem, which Wes and David realized simultaneously. Together, their eyes went to where the setlist paper lay. The setlist, which only an hour before had been the most perfect setlist of all time, was suddenly lacking. They both knew what they had to do. It was a guarantee win. They could rest on their laurels all the way to Nationals. There was just one problem.
Blaine.
"He's going to be pissed," David whispered. "We promised."
"But. . ." Wes pointed at the list of judges. "Cougars. Cougars, David! We can't ignore that! We must use it to our full advantage!"
But David wasn't so sure. Nonetheless, he picked up his phone and sent a quick text to his second best friend. Within five minutes Blaine was at the door.
"Hey, guys," he said, charming smile firmly in place. He sauntered in, catching sight of the envelope still clutched in Wes' hand. "Oh, is that the list of judges? Cool. Who is it?"
"Cougars," Wes said flatly. Blaine lifted one eyebrow, not understanding why his friend suddenly sounded so guarded.
"That's great," he said. "Older women will love us."
"Correction," Wes said ominously. "Older women will love you."
Blaine was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Wes was looking at him like he planned on either eating him, or sacrificing him to some vengeful god. Having already had one awkward encounter with Wes freshman year (because really, no straight guy enjoyed gripping a long, hard gavel so much), he was pretty sure that Wes had no intentions of licking him any time soon. Which meant sacrifice.
"You're very dapper," David said. Blaine was full out frowning now, because he knew his friends, and he knew that look on their faces, and he knew he didn't like it. He took a step back.
"What's going on?" he asked nervously. Wes leaned down and picked up the setlist. Blaine knew it was the setlist, because he'd personally printed it out. Twice. The first time on plain computer paper, and the second (after Wes had nearly burst into tears at the sheer commonness of it) on cream, heavystock paper.
"We have to change this," he said.
"Why?" Blaine asked. "It's a great setlist."
"It's a great setlist," Wes agreed. "But we have cougars. You know what we have to do."
"No," Blaine shrugged. "I really don't. What do we have to do?"
David began snapping his fingers. "Before you met me, I was all right," he sang in a girly falsetto. Blaine considered. They had a point. "Bills, Bills, Bills" was pretty hot, but he could understand why singing a little Katy Perry to the horny, middle-aged women might be a better tactical move.
"Okay," he said. "You're right. That's a good idea."
"I don't think you understand," Wes said slowly. "No duets. Just three sweet, sweet songs with you singing lead, charming the pants off those cougars."
Blaine couldn't believe his ears. He'd spent three months campaigning for that duet, and another two weeks trying to convince the council that Kurt should be singing it. That had been a lot of work! Plus, it had meant that he wasn't staring in every single song which just. . .it. . .
"No," he said. He tried to sound dangerous. Wes and David were unimpressed. So he tried again. "No. You can't do that. You can't just change the setlist."
"Um, senior council," Wes pointed out. "We can do whatever we want."
"Please, Blaine," David tried to be a little more peaceful. "For the good of the Warblers. With your charm, we'll be sure to win."
"With my charm we'll be sure to win no matter what," Blaine said dangerously. "I only need one song to charm the pants off those cougars. The setlist remains."
Wes and David exchanged a look. They weren't telepathic, but they were very good friends. At that very moment, they could tell what the other was thinking. Wes was thinking "challenge accepted!" David was thinking "Will the cougars even be wearing pants?"
"Blaine, we can't risk the future of the Warblers just so you can give your crush a solo," Wes said. Before Blaine could protest, David cut in.
"You are, however, our lead soloist. If you say that you can charm their panties off with just one song, we believe you."
Blaine began to smile, but then Wes cut in again.
"But we're going to need a little proof."
"Proof?" Blaine asked, his eyebrow raised once again. He was beginning to worry that it would be stuck there, just like his mother had warned him so many years ago.
"Proof," Wes said definitively. "Suit up, friends. The Warblers hit the mall in T-30 minutes."
Kurt was confused. He was all for going shopping – he'd been ecstatic when Luke had run into his room, yelling to "suit up and grease up, beautiful, we're hitting the ma-aallll!" with a glorious gay wave at the end.
But then he'd thought about it. And Wes and David seemed far too keen on this shopping trip. And Blaine hadn't set next to him on the bus, which was weird. He'd sat at the front, instead, staring forward with steely determination. Kurt found it intensely sexy.
But with Blaine occupied with his inner, supermegafoxyawesomehot thoughts, Kurt was stuck sitting with Luke. Luke, who might possibly be more of a flamer than Kurt (and he'd really never thought he'd see the day). Luke had managed, in a short hour, to discuss all of Broadway, guyliner, the sexiness of David Hasselhoff, and how he thought Blaine would look wearing only under armor. Kurt was thoroughly unamused (well, except for the last part, because really. . .Blaine in underarmor was an image he rather welcomed in his head.) Still, when they finally pulled into the parking lot, he was more than willing to get out.
"All right!" Wes ordered sharply, as soon as everyone had disembarked. "Teenage formation on three!"
"One, two, three!" David said, and all of the Warbler's promptly formed two straight lines. Kurt struggled into place, because they'd only rehearsed Teenage Dream, like, three times since he'd joined. At least it was all just step and pop, and thank God he didn't really have to sing anything, because after half a year it still gave him butterflies in the stomach.
"Teenage Girl!" Wes ordered. Blaine instantly spun on his heel, walked up to a girl who looked to be about fourteen, and began singing to her. Which was. . .weird, but Kurt dutifully bleeped along, imitating a weird synch noise. Other than the fact that it was moderately embarrassing putting on an impromptu performance in the middle of the mall, he really did have a pretty good view, and he was pretty sure that he could listen to Blaine sing nonstop without ever getting bored.
The song ended, and Blaine took a step forward. Kurt, fortunately on the side of the formation, could see the massive, charming smile that lit up his friends face.
"Hey, beautiful," Blaine said. "Why don't you and I head back to my place, and I'll help you out of those pants?"
What.
The.
Fuck.
Confused didn't begin to describe how Kurt felt, because #1: he'd been pretty sure that Blaine was gay. #2: the girl wasn't even wearing any pants.
"I'm not wearing pants," the girl said. "Do you want my panties, instead?"
"Too easy!" Wes roared.
In the next thirty minutes they serenaded a half dozen people. One girl, her eyes dazed and somewhat hazy looking, actually pulled her tights off from under her skirt and handed them to Blaine. One of the Macy's designers gave him a pair of pants for free. An elderly woman handed him the pair of pants she'd just bought her husband. A crazy looking man pulled a pair of pants off his dog and handed them to Blaine.
And every time Wes would yell "Too easy!" and they'd run off to sing to someone else.
Really, it was quite bizarre.
They finally came to a stop outside GAP, Blaine looking totally self-satisfied, Wes looking a little panicked, and the rest of the Warblers cackling with glee. Except Kurt, who was still entirely befuddled.
"Do I win, yet?" Blaine asked, hands firmly planted on his hips. Wes bit his lip, seeming unsure. Luke, however, walked over and whispered in his ear.
"Dude, my cousin works here. He's crazy straight. Back when Blaine and I dated they hated each other."
And another whoah moment for Kurt because #1: Blaine had dated Luke? Gross. And #2: Straight men worked at GAP?
Wes smiled evilly. He walked up to Blaine. "Final challenge." He said. "Serenade. . .the GAP guy!"
Blaine looked across the store, sighting along Wes' fingers. He took a deep breath, and adjusted his tie. Took a moment to remind himself who he was doing this for, and then stepped forward.
Befuddled Kurt became even more exasperated Kurt, because without any warning, Blaine had abandoned "Teenage Dream", and was instead belting out the new Robin Thicke song they'd started working on just the day before. Kurt had never heard it all put together. . .he just knew the trilling notes that he had to sing. Still. . .
This was different, though, Kurt realized quickly. Blaine wasn't singing an innocent "teenage dream." This song was. . .well. . .kind of dirty, Kurt realized. And Blaine was. . .really. . .single-minded. Luke's cousin kept trying to escape, dodging behind mannequins and talking into his headphone. Blaine, however, a spark in his eye that Kurt had never seen before, followed him.
"So does she want me to buy her things?
On my house, on my job,
On my loot, shoes, my shirt,
My crew, my mind, my father's last name?"
Kurt was pretty sure that he'd never seen that look in Blaine's eyes: single-minded, focused, intent. He kind of wished that he was on the other side of that look, wished that. . .
Oh, holy Jesus, Blaine had just jumped on top of a display, and if that wasn't hot, then his name wasn't Kurt Hummel. He retreated behind a mannequin, bumped his hip gently into it, because really he didn't understand what was going on.
"Baby Girl, you the Shhhhh
That makes you my equivalent
Well you can keep your toys in the drawer tonight"
Kurt's eyes popped open. Toys? Drawer? His mind immediately went to - no, Kurt, no, dirty thoughts, you're just friends, just friends, just friends
"All these intrusions just take us too long
And I want you so bad"
Check it, Hummel. He fiercely bashed himself into the mannequin, because he was absolutely not going to drool over his personal gay Yoda when personal gay Yoda was clearly on the path to getting some action. He should be happy for his friend. Gap guy was. . .kind of. . .cute. . .maybe. . .if you ignored the horrible hygience and dreadful fashion sense.
Luke gleefully backflipped off a table, and Kurt was reminded once again why they were there. Right. Gap guy was straight. Well, this couldn't end well.
Except then Blaine was grabbing socks and sliding across the floor, and Kurt was pretty damn sure that he was going to ask for pants again, which was going to be horribly awkward because Kurt wasn't completely sure that he wouldn't just offer his own.
"Pair of socks," Blaine said with a grin. "And your pants?"
"Hi, Blaine," Gap guy said. "And no, you're not getting into my pants."
Blaine could feel Wes smiling in triumph behind him. But he'd also seen Kurt's face during that song – Kurt's angelic face, breaking apart in sorrow, no doubt because once again he'd been relegated to the background. And Blaine wasn't going to stand for it, not anymore, and if he had to seduce a straight man, than gosh darn it, he was going to seduce a straight man!
He leaned over the counter, and put a hand on the employee's shoulder. "Listen to me. If you don't give me a pair of pants for free right now, I will sing to you again. And again. And again. And again. And—"
"Give me a second," Luke's cousin said, disappearing into the back room. That's right, Blaine thought triumphantly. When seduction fails, threats are always a reliable secondary source.
"Wow," David whispered softly, when the employee came back out with a pair of pants which he handed to Blaine. "He really can sing the pants off anyody?"
"huh?" Wes asked. He was awkwardly trying to rebelt his own pants. Because, you know, he knew that Blaine needed some pants, and he had pants, and
"Dude," David said with a knowing wink. "I don't think we need to worry about those cougars."
Kurt was lying on his bed, staring at his ceiling. He enjoyed staring at his ceiling, because the warp in the wood just above his pillow kind of resembled Blaine. Or Mercedes, when he was feeling in the need for girl time, or sometimes Puck or, most disturbingly of all, Penelope Cruz (he kind of thought he might go straight for her.) He sighed heavily. He was very good at that. If today had proven nothing (and really it had proven very little, other than the fact that Luke was a total jackass, Wes was possibly insane, and Blaine had a weird obsession with pants) it had proven that Blaine and he were destined to be no more than friends. And he was destined to never have a solo. He wasn't entirely certain which upset him more.
There was a knock at his door. "Come in," Kurt said. A second later he sat up, because usually when someone stopped by they said hello. They didn't' just knock and then creepily enter. When he saw that it was Blaine who had come in, however, he had to revise the earlier thought. They didn't just knock and then sexily enter.
"Hey, Kurt," Blaine said. "I got a surprise for you."
"Let me guess," Kurt said bitterly. "A pair of pants."
"Um. . .no," Blaine said with a chuckle. He sat down on the bed beside Kurt, and handed over an envelope. Uncertain, Kurt took it, and just stared at Blaine. With another chuckle, Blaine bumped his shoulder, and gestured toward the envelope. "Well. . .open it."
There was a single sheet of cream, folded paper inside. Kurt drew it out.
"Diamond Dogs.
I'll Cover You.
Teenage Dream."
"Um. . .okay. . ." Kurt said slowly. "What's this?"
Blaine was still beaming. "The setlist for Regionals," he said. Kurt's heart stopped. Obviously Blaine would be singing "teenage dream", and "diamond dogs" was an ensemble number. But the second song. . .
"Who's singing lead for the RENT song?" Kurt asked nervously. He'd auditioned, of course he'd auditioned, but so had everyone else. And he was new, and they all had seniority, and they cared so much about conformity and
"Me," Blaine said. He was still grinning. Kurt's heart fell.
"Oh," he said. "Congrats."
"And you," Blaine said. Kurt's mouth dropped open. Blaine grinned even wider (how was that possible?) and he clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "Congrats on your first solo," he said. He stood up, and began walking toward the door.
"Blaine. . ." Kurt said slowly. "Did you do this?"
Blaine turned and winked, and Kurt's heart nearly exploded in gratitude. "What can I ever do to repay you?"
"Kurt you earned it," Blaine said seriously. "You sing like an angel. But. . .if you really want to repay me. . .
Just pay me back, with one thousand kisses. Be my lover and I'll cover you."
And with that he left. Kurt fell back on his bed, clutching the setlist to his chest. He was singing a solo. And Blaine liked him (maybe).
But then a horrible (and wonderful) thought occurred to him.
He was going to have to buy new pants.
A/N: Can I just say. . .my favorite theory for that scene is still that Blaine forgot his wallet at home and really wants some pants. Guess we'll have to wait until Tuesday!