"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." Blaine sat still, his hands in his lap. He hated this little room, hot and stuffy. He hated having to sit there, ticking off the things he had done wrong. It made him sick to his stomach.
"It's a good thing you're doing," the pastor said, his voice low and soothing. That was the one thing Blaine did like about confession. "Confessing your sins." There was a short pause. "How long has it been since your last confession?"
"It has been a month since my last confession, Father."
The pastor made a sound, acknowledging what Blaine had said. The silence returned. Blaine knew it was his turn again, but he really hated this part.
"I…" he started, trying to think of what to tell this man. There had been several things he probably shouldn't have done.
"I've been…" he knew what he should say. But he was scared. Too scared. He didn't want to admit it, not to himself, let alone someone else.
"I looked at a boy the other day." There, he'd said it. "I looked at him the way I am supposed to look at girls."
The pastor remained silent for a while.
"Blaine," his finally said, his voice soft. "Thank you for telling me. You are a good boy. The Lord forgives you."
Blaine sighed, relieved, and stood up, turning to go. He was just about to leave when the pastor called after him.
"Blaine, who was the boy?"
Blaine froze for a minute. Then turned to face the man. "No one, father. Just a boy."
Blaine went into shock. It was a body-numbing, hazy-feeling, sort of shock. He couldn't believe he'd actually told someone. For a long time, such a long time, the secret had been eating him alive. He hadn't told anyone. Not his best friends, not a teacher or guidance councilor, and certainly not his parents.
He'd told himself once. It was after he caught himself staring a little too long at a boy in his history class. Blaine stood in front of his mirror that night studying himself. His eyes, his skin, his mouth, the little freckle on his neck. It was all the same. Nothing had changed physically. But there was something different, yet he wasn't sure what.
"Maybe," he whispered to his reflection. "Maybe I…" his nerves went haywire and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.
"Maybe I like boys."
As soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Why had he said that? He sighed and slumped forward, resting his head in his hands; the cold marble of the countertop pressing against his clammy skin.
Monday came. Blaine found himself sitting in history class, staring at that stupid boy again. The New Kid, was how people new him at school. Blaine hadn't really had an opportunity to talk to him yet.
The bell rang, and it was just as the teacher was wiping down the board that Blaine realized he hadn't copied down the homework. Frustrated, Blaine slammed his book shut and began shoveling everything back into his bag. He really needed to stop…stop caring about that boy.
"Excuse me?" Blaine whirled around to see a boy, the boy, standing in front of him.
"Hi, sorry to bother you…" he sounded nervous. "I, um, I'm Kurt. Are you Blaine Anderson?"
Blaine nodded.
"Right. Um, you're name was on the list for student tutors. I really need help in French…" his voice trailed off.
"Oh," Blaine recovered quickly. "Yes, of course. I'm free at lunch, or after school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays."
"Thursday after school would work. How does four o'clock sound?"
"Tu es belle. Très belle. Comme un lever de soleil. La beauté constante. Au jour le jour."
Blaine smiled and set the book down.
"So you write French poetry?" He asked. Kurt nodded, looking a little embarrassed.
"It's a little cliche, I know. But she said to write anything just as long as we used our vocabulary words."
"Well you have 'sunrise' and 'continuous'. What else is on the list?"
Kurt slid the piece of paper towards Blaine.
"You still need to use 'endless'."
Kurt bit his lip and tilted his head a little bit. Unwillingly. Blaine blushed. He'd noticed Kurt do that before, the whole head-tilt thing. He did it whenever he was concentrating, like during lectures or quizzes.
"Our world…" Kurt mumbled to himself, jotting down some words on the page. "Notre…" he stopped for a moment, glaring at the page. "Shoot."
"Monde." Blaine said smiling.
"Monde. Notre monde…est sans fin."
Kurt pushed the paper back towards Blaine, his cheeks red.
"I don't know…is that right?"
Blaine smiled. "Are you trying to say 'our world is endless'?"
Kurt blushed even darker and nodded.
"You got it then."
Blaine did his best not to think about Kurt except for when he saw him in class, after school, and occasionally in the hallways. He knew what he was supposed to do, what his parents expected of him. He was supposed to finish high school, go off to a big-name college, get a degree in law, or maybe poly-sci. Then, he was supposed to meet a nice girl, a girl who goes to church. He is supposed to marry her and have children, and grow old.
There's something about Kurt though. He's not like the other boys at Dalton. He's not like any of the other boys anywhere.
A week later, Kurt comes rushing over to Blaine in between class periods, waving a piece of paper in his face.
"You are amazing!"
Blaine laughs, trying to figure out why Kurt's so happy. Finally, Kurt settles down and hands him the sheet of paper.
"Kurt!" Blaine's face splits into a grin. "97%, nice job!"
Kurt smiles and sighs, looking straight into Blaine's eyes. Blaine can feel his face warming. It's just because I hate it when people look at me, Blaine tells himself. It's just because I'm shy.
"I want to thank you somehow," Kurt says. "What do you charge?"
Blaine shook his head. "No, don't worry about it. I get community service hours. It's all good."
Kurt held his ground. "I'm serious. I want to give you something. Can I take you out for dinner or something?"
Blaine froze.
"Um. I…"
"Come on, I'll take you anywhere you'd like."
"I really shouldn't." Blaine said, apologetically. "I'll see you in history."
He left Kurt standing there, wearing a slightly hurt, slightly confused expression on his face. Blaine felt something in his chest. It was like having the wind knocked out of you. It hurt. Physically hurt.
What was wrong, anyways? He had guy friends, plenty of them. They would hang out all the time, go to a movie theater, get dinner, no big deal. So why did he flip out when Kurt asked him?
Blaine kept walking, refusing to look back. He know that Kurt was still standing there, but he was afraid to look. Instead of going to math, he ducked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, his neck, his hands. He couldn't handle functions and logs, not today.