Chapter 1

Dear Dad,

Words cannot accurately describe the level of loathing I have for this place. I understand you feel I need to "grow the fuck up", as you so eloquently put it, but what I don't understand is why you felt the need to dump my ass in such a sorry excuse for a school. I mean, I'm in shock, father- from a trust fund as overblown as ours, I was expecting a top notch institution with all the bells and whistles that scream "I AM OVERPRICED BUT YOUR PARENTS LOVE IT". So imagine my surprise regarding the mould in the corners and the rats in the kitchen and the suspect green foam growing on the walls of the communal showers. At least at Dalton we had hot water for more than two minutes a day. Disgusting.

However, do please extend my thanks to Mom for her input in the decision. Definitely understand how a building filled with hot army dudes getting sweaty together every morning is going to straighten me out.

"Cadet" Blaine Anderson

5:30am.

Kurt wakes up with the damp first glow of the sun. He yawns, stretches, and peers at Wes's snoring form in the cot two feet away from his own. His jaw is slack, arms draped haphazardly over each other and seeming to reach out towards the wall overhead. Kurt thinks Wes might be drooling and cannot help but grimace in muted disgust. Old habits, you know.

Neglecting to turn on a light, he feels under his bed and swiftly pulls out his toiletry tray with a single practiced movement and slips out of the room. Taking advantage of the Saturday morning lie-in was a time honored tradition, a chance for reflection and deep thought processes, something Kurt had taken solace in during his very first months at McKinley Military Academy. Granted, of course, he had been eleven years old and terrified of the brusque, brutal nature of the place. With time came acceptance, and with acceptance came the sudden realisation that the hulking masses of muscle marching down corridors and barking the morning drills weren't nearly as bad as first perceived. Military school was like a game of manipulation- you just had to learn which buttons to press on which person, and you were golden. Which is how, even as he navigates the linoleum lined corridors in complete darkness, Kurt has come to not only learn every nook and cranny of McKinley Academy but also how to get three extra minutes of water each morning, the art of avoiding evening drills on Wednesday and Thursday ("Sergeant Schuester is asking for me in the rec building- it's urgent"), making friends with the right people and discretely customizing the standard uniform to tailor to his own personal needs. As he peels off his pajamas, Kurt smoothes an affectionate hand over the neatly pressed and awaiting pile consisting of his regulation Academy t-shirt (made from unique white cotton but otherwise identical to the cheap polyester blend version which was enforced by the school) and black sweatpants, the latter of which he has come to accept as a factor of everyday life.

Life lesson #1: Sometimes comfort and practicality outweigh making a statement. And besides, Kurt, you have the hips for pretty much anything.

He shivers momentarily in the cold stillness of the shower quarters, scurrying as fast he can into a cubicle, and then sighs in release as the sheer heat of the water makes his every nerve ending tingle. Feeling the knots in his muscles unclench and taking in a deep lungful of air, the faint scent of regulation shampoo lingering as the humidity brings alive the somehow comforting and user-friendly nature of the showers which he once found repulsive, Kurt closes his eyes and dreams of home.

And then his eyes snap open in alarm. The echo of a tuneless whistle, tinny from the muffling of water spraying down onto Kurt's skin, springs from wall to wall. Kurt's eyes are bulging in his skull, feet rooted to the floor and hands gripped tightly at his chest. He can hear the footsteps of the unknown intruder padding around the room, the telltale heaviness of his boot-shod feet distinctive as a set of uniform combat boots, as assigned to each new Academy cadet. Ideas whirled through Kurt's head but vanished just as instantaneously until he finally settled on one useless thought- How the hell has someone managed to catch me out after six years of this?

Kurt gulps, shuffling to his right just a little so he can see out of the tiny chink in the shower curtain's side. His eyes settle on the back of a boy in black sweatpants which balloon out in a parachute atop his knee-high boots, the line of a thick belt visible just beneath a tight heather grey t-shirt stretched precariously over the boy's seemingly broad shoulders. Kurt can't see his face. Sidling closer to the curtain, Kurt suddenly feels the need to reprimand himself when his eyes skim over the boy's protruding ass for a moment of appreciation when he leans further into the mirror, supposedly resting his hands either side of the sink and staring into his own reflection.

He's nearly as narcissistic as I am, Kurt thinks to himself in awe. But then he becomes awed for a whole new reason because now Whistler Boy's hands are visible and they are gripping the edges of his t-shirt and now there is a shirtless, nameless boy with back muscles which would make a nun cry standing only a few feet away from Kurt Hummel. Having gone to a military academy for his whole high school life, Kurt had seen a great many beautiful backs which had indeed cemented his sexuality as being completely and totally 100% gay, but it was moments like this in which Kurt would literally get down on his knees and praise the Lord if he'd believed in any such Lord.

Life lesson #2: Military school will bring out the gay in each and every person in it. Resistance is futile.

Suddenly the water cuts off and Kurt is standing under a slow drip of tepid water. He freezes in the sudden silence, the ambient shield of water snatched away from him after the allotted five minutes, and watches wide-eyed as Whistler Boy's hands freeze just the same as he holds a discarded boot in one hand. Kurt wants to kick himself but is afraid he'd winch in pain, and so settles to become mesmerized as the boy seems to register another person's presence in the showers- his head certainly turns towards the side table upon which Kurt's change of clothes is sat- and to Kurt's joint dismay and curiosity, tosses his boots away and reaches down for his belt.

And now there is a naked, nameless boy, with back muscles and an ass that would make a whole convent howl in frustration, standing only a few feet away from Kurt Hummel

Well, fuck.

Whistler Boy starts humming softly under his breath. Kurt knows the song, he thinks. It's definitely familiar. But it isn't until Whistler Boy's feet are approaching his very own cubicle that he registers the absurd and crude lyrics of the song. Kurt doesn't even have time to process the second's worth glimpse of the boy's face as he passes the chink in the curtain and now stands in front of the curtain purposefully, casting a black shadow against the flimsy material. Kurt felt faint.

This totally is not happening.

"I wanna see your peacock, cock cock," the boy mutters in tune to the song's beat, a smile almost palpable in his tone of voice, "Your peacock-"

The curtain was pulled aside in one sharp swoop and a pair of dark eyes flicker past his own and settle between Kurt's legs. "-cock."

It takes Kurt approximately 3.45 seconds to not only send his hands flying down to hide himself from Crude Whistler Boy, but also to remember to engage his authority as a senior cadet.

"Cadet, this cubicle isn't available," Kurt spits sharply, setting his mouth into a line and observing with an inappropriate tug at his lower abdomen the handsome, surprisingly youthful features of Crude And Stupidly Attractive Whistler Boy. The boy smirks, stepping back only a fraction of an inch and casting a gaze over Kurt's exposed body than can only be described as hungry.

The pink point of his tongue wets his lips slowly, large hazel brown eyes boring into Kurt's as he cocks his head in question. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"My perfect 360 degree hearing confirms that yes, I heard you just fine." The boy takes a step closer, one hand hovering at chest level and the other one reaching out to pull himself up onto the shower step. He's almost level with Kurt's eyes. Steam still clouds the air in humid, heavy waves, making Kurt sweat under the combined pressure and dire excitement of the situation. He'd never had his authority undermined before- especially by a guy who seemed to be a new student- and a hand belonging to said underminer is currently grazing along Kurt's forearm, sending little electric jolts up and down his body.

Life lesson #3: When in doubt, use status to quash rebellion.

Kurt takes a steady breath, noticing the rapidly shrinking space between his own lips and the lips of his intruder. "Cadet-"

The boy is grinning. Kurt can feel him hovering over his mouth, can taste the zing of lemon-lime in his breath and an undercurrent of stale cigarettes as he laughs softly. "I have a name you know. It's rude not to call people by their names."

Their lips are a centimetre apart, maximum. Kurt can see damp curls winding at the boy's temples, droplets of water clumping his eyelashes. The air is thicker, denser as every second passes, and Kurt nearly forgets to breathe.

Life lesson #4: Brute force is uncomely. Forceful shoving, however, works.

"Which is exactly why I am calling you a Cadet."

Kurt places both hands upon Cadet Super Attractive Whistler's chest and pushes him hard, sending him stumbling backwards. With a suitable distance between them both, Kurt finds it easier to fix him with a steely glare, whipping his towel from the wall and wrapping it around his lower half quickly. The other boy looks disappointed.

"Looks like someone got out on the wrong side of bed this morning, hey, darling?" He tuts.

"Don't call me that."

"Don't call me a Cadet."

"You are a Cadet. We all are."

The boy scoffs, rolling his eyes and placing both hands on his hips, no doubt unashamed of his lack of clothing. Kurt has to take extra careful measures to ensure his eyes stay affixed to this boy's face. "Maybe you're a Cadet, but I have a name. A regular name." He extends a hand towards Kurt, smiling luridly as his eyes scale Kurt's abdomen slowly, climbing higher and higher until their eyes meet. "Blaine Anderson."

Kurt eyes the hand, scowling, before taking three long strides away from Exceedingly Attractive And Disgusting Blaine Anderson and scooping up his clothes and toiletries. "Well, Cadet Anderson, the showers are all yours."

"Leaving so soon?" Blaine says with dramatized sadness. "We were just getting to know each other."

"And what makes you think I want to get to know you?"

"Well you didn't exactly fend me off upon first sighting, did you." Blaine crosses his arms over his chest ("Don't look at his chest, Kurt, whatever you do...") and smiles broadly. It wasn't a question as much as it was a definitive statement.

Kurt narrows his eyes, disgusted. "Don't you dare act like you know a thing about me, Cadet."

"I can't very well act like anything around you unless I get your name," Blaine muses. He pauses for thought. "I bet it's something cute and sweet, something for a little rosy-cheeked little boy. Jamie? Max?"

Kurt's eyes turn stone cold. "I refuse to play meaningless games. Games are for children, and we're here to be men." Alright! Kurt congratulates himself as he turns to tuck his towel securely around his waist, You're sounding like the Sarge now. This could mean extra shower time.

Blaine winces audibly. "Not so sweet, I suppose. How about- Tony? Martin? Edward?"

"No." Kurt hisses, spinning around and heaving for the door. Attractiveness be damned- Blaine was irritating as hell, and Kurt didn't have to put up with it. Saying his name felt like drinking acid. "Have a pleasant shower, Cadet Blaine Anderson."

Blaine watches Kurt from behind, his hips swinging and towel riding low enough to reveal a hint of the swell of Kurt's ass. He salutes the other boy's departing figure. "Will do, Sir."

5:58am.

Life lesson #5: Nothing defeats a restless state of mind better than meditation.

Kurt heaves himself onto his bed and squeezes his eyes closed. Try as he might, his mind refuses to cooperate. Behind the lids of his unseeing eyes, twin pools of molten hazel stare him down, colour his vision, cloud his judgement. It's pathetic.

Wes snores.

Kurt sighs.

Somewhere in the second floor shower quarters, Blaine Anderson is conjuring up lists of names.