The Pretty Ones

Disclaimer: Not mine.

one.

"It's not that we're tolerating such behavior..."

Oh yes, Kurt Hummel thinks, stewing in the chair facing the desk of the school principle. Actually, you are.

"But we try to be very patient with him, Kurt." Principal Figgins is an aging, balding man, with bad fashion sense and who seems to be kind of a pushover. Kurt supposes he really can't hold the first two things against the man, but the latter two does nothing to endear Kurt to him.

And Kurt doesn't even know his first name yet.

"His parents died in a tragic accident. He's raised by his older brother now and we'd expel him if we could, but for the generosity of his brother's yearly donations."

He is probably somewhere nearing fifty, Kurt only just turned twenty-three. He is nearing the age of Kurt's grandparents and he'd probably live that long, too. Kurt doubts it, though; he works as the principal of a public school. A principal whose logic Kurt can't quite follow.

He sits up straighter in his chair, but he's towering over the principal enough as it is. "So, I can't give him detention because his brother keeps this school afloat?" Kurt feels it, the budding disappointment, the small voice in his head, telling him I told you so. "The nurse said that Mike's wrist was broken. Broken. How would he have been, if the fight had lasted for even longer?"

Kurt glares. He can almost grasp the many times in high school he had wished for someone to care, and for the people who were supposed to, to just turn away. He is not going to be that kind of teacher, not when he knows what it feels like to be on the other side of the field.

Figgins shrinks at his gaze. "The other teachers... they don't give him... when he gets... violent." Pausing, the principal takes a deep breath. "Kurt, you're young, and new, but there are things we don't do at this school."

"So, he gets to push other kids around, without any consequences whatsoever," Kurt feels numb. He's had such high hopes. WMHS has a good enough reputation, with a cheer squad and a glee club all with national championships on their pockets.

Things have changed, he'd thought.

But it seems, money and reputation talk everywhere.

"I'm sorry, Kurt, but as long as his brother is generous to us, and he's the lead singer of the Glee Club, my hands are tied," Figgins shrugs, showing off his wrists, peeking through his horrible suit's horrible sleeves. Kurt can barely stand looking at them, and bites back a retort about his failing fashion choices. "There's nothing I can do."

It's the wrong thing to say.

Kurt averts his gaze, and pushes back his seat. "All the same, Blaine Anderson will serve detention with me, from four to six-thirty." He saunters towards the office door. "If you'll excuse me, Principal Figgins, I'm sure you're very busy."

Kurt lets himself in his classroom as quietly as he could. He half-believes that the classroom would be empty, but by some sort of miracle, there he is, sitting at the farthest desk at the back, the one in the corner that turns dark when the sun is in the right enough angle. He has a book open, and is smoking a cigarette.

Kurt has heard a lot of things about this boy. He's the famous glee club's oh so beloved lead singer. And here he is, destroying his lungs.

It doesn't compute in Kurt's head, somehow.

"This is a school," Kurt starts to say.

The boy barely even acknowledges his existence.

Kurt tries again. "Schools are non-smoking zones."

Still no movement.

"Does your precious glee club know you smoke?" Kurt asks, feeling slightly unnerved. But he pushes the feeling aside, and raises his brows defiantly. "Better yet, does your brother know?"

No answer again.

Kurt clenches his fists where they lay on top of his desk. Authority, Kurt. Don't let him undermine your authority.

So Kurt gets up, went around his desk, and walks as steadily as he could to the student's dark, back corner. He pauses for a moment to make sure his hands aren't shaking (with rage, mind) and reaches out a hand to pluck the cigarette off of his student's fingers. He catches a flash of hazel, but Blaine Anderson allows him to take it. There is no other movement otherwise.

Kurt's almost tempted to take a puff out of the cigarette himself.

As it is, he stubs it out quickly, before he can be anymore tempted into becoming a delinquent.

Kurt notices, the book the boy has been reading is French.

At five o'clock, Blaine Anderson lights another cigarette. Kurt watches him do it, thinks about stopping him, decides against it. But after a few brief moments he realizes that he's starting to think like every other teacher in this godforsaken school (if they ignore the problem, it will go away). And that can't be.

Plus, his classroom is starting to smell like cigarettes and smoke.

So he marches all the way back to Blaine Anderson's desk, and plucks the second cigarette off of his hand. Blaine lets him do it again, but catches his gaze with wicked hazel eyes and smirks.

Right before he blows an entire lungful of smoke in Kurt's face.

Kurt throws the cigrette on the ground and stubs it out once again. "Mr. Anderson," he says, smiling thinly. "Has anyone ever mentioned that you are incredibly rude?"

Blaine's smirk only widens. "Some have, yeah," he replies, dropping his gaze back to the French book, that he has actually been reading (he's a fourth of the way through).

Belatedly, Kurt notices that Blaine Anderson doesn't fit the normal, typical badboy stereotype. He smokes, and is violent, but he's wearing unassuming, neat, very well-pressed clothes and his hair, without tints or highlights, is slicked back in gel.

Actually, he looks every bit the perfect poster boy for dapper.

Until he starts smoking, beating other students up... Well, Kurt isn't going to fall for it. "And it doesn't upset you?"

Blaine looks back up at him again, face morphing from smug to are you crazy? "Of course it does."

"And that's the reason why you beat up Mike?" Kurt remembers the broken wrist, the nurse shaking her head at him, storming into Figgins' office and being told that he can't give detention, because Blaine is rich and untouchable. "Because you were upset?"

"No, I was trying to prove a point," the boy answers without missing a beat. He glares when Kurt makes himself comfortable in the desk across of his own, stretching his legs against the no man's land between the two.

Blaine looks like he's about to say something else, but thought better of it, and starts rummaging his pockets. Kurt takes it all in, from all the way across the desk, and Blaine pretends not to notice, finally pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Kurt watches him twirl one around his finger. "No smoking in my classroom," he reminds before moving back to his desk, knowing full well that Blaine Anderson is not listening.

At five-thirty, Blaine has consumed about half of his cigarette pack. Kurt's kept the windows open, at least, so all the way up in front, it's all fresh air. If Blaine Anderson wants to choke on his own smoke, Kurt isn't about to stop him, but he's sure as hell not going down with him.

A hazel eye catches his gaze once again. Blaine watches him stonily for a moment, before he stubs his cigarette out on the corner of his desk.

Kurt steadily tries to pretend that he's not surprised.

"You know, my friends are made to write lines in detention," Blaine begins, tone icy. Implying, of course, that he's never been in detention himself. "Or they stand against the wall or the teachers yell at them or whatever. Not going to do the same, Monsieur Hummel?"

There's a bite to the tone that brings all of Kurt's hackles rising. "I'm sure they did," Kurt replies. "Nice to know you did your research before coming here, Mr. Anderson, but yelling to you would do me no particular good, there's too much gel on your hair to actually allow my point to get across." He picks up his pen again. "And I'm too tired to think of a sentence. Of course, you're welcome to stand against the wall, if you like."

"It's detention," Blaine chucks his cigarette out of the open window by his desk. Kurt pretends he doesn't see. "Punishment."

"I am punishing you," Kurt begins grading again, picking up where he left off. "You're getting bored to death, that's your punishment. Savor it."

It's six, and Blaine Anderson could probably have told anyone just how many grooves and nicks there are on the desk. He's had them memorized, he doesn't exactly have much to do. He's run out of cigarettes long ago, all steadfastly thrown over his darling teacher's wide open windows. He hopes they start a fire, but probably not.

He is angry. Inwardly angry, but still.

Everyone had said that the new French teacher is a prude, and not someone to be messed with, so making a scene with Mike in Monsieur Hummel's class is probably not one of the best ideas in Blaine's book. But it had happened, and that's that.

There's a steadily growing pile of papers at the side of Monsieur Hummel's desk, all marked with bright red. Blaine realizes that he didn't remember taking that test.

The asshole.

He glances up at the clock. It's like time has stopped, it hasn't moved at all. "You know, detention usually ends at six." Brittany told him that. She serves detentions with her Home Ec teacher all the time, because she always ended up setting things on fire.

It is cooking class, Blaine can't fault her for that.

"You don't like sitting there and watching me and doing nothing at all?" Monsieur Hummel doesn't even bat an eyelash, still grading the few remaining papers of poor souls on his desk. "How disappointing."

For the millionth and one time that hour, Blaine's infuriated with the new French teacher.

It feels like years when he glances up the clock again. Six fifteen. God, has it really only been fifteen minutes? "Why do I have to stay until six-thirty?"

"I'm the teacher, go figure," Monsieur Hummel relegates another paper on top of the pile on the side of his table.

"I have glee club," Blaine informs him, crossing his arms. "Schuester will not be very happy."

"The same way he's not happy about you smoking?" The teacher finally looks up. Blaine can't place the color of his eyes. "You weren't going to go to glee practice anyway," Monsieur Hummel continues, smiling. "You were going to go off in the little janitor's closet and have your fun with darling Mr. Smythe, or whatever it is you kids get off on nowadays."

Blaine has almost forgotten. He's been too busy being angry at Monsieur Hummel that he's completely pushed the fact that Sebastian is probably going to be beyond furious, out of his mind. How his new and infuriating French teacher knows about his relationship with Sebastian... well, that's a different story altogether.

He's probably never going to get it, either.

"You're not that much older than me."

The smile turns into a smirk. "Which is probably the reason why you're in detention."

...Monsieur Hummel is mocking him. He's probably been mocking him the moment he decided to give Blaine the first detention of his life. It's the first time Blaine Anderson had ever been mocked in his territory. He doesn't like the feeling at all.

He walks the wide berth between him and his teacher. "You really shouldn't talk to me like that, Monsieur Hummel."

"You really shouldn't talk to me like that, either, Mr. Anderson." Monsieur Hummel's voice is like liquid steel, cutting the tension in the space between them with a knife. His teacher rests his chin on the palm on his hand, propped up on the desk, observing Blaine calmly.

He would have been fooled, but for the stormy gray-blue-green eyes.

"Has anyone ever told you that you were incredibly unreasonable?" Blaine asks, fingers tapping against the test papers. The one on top of the pile is marked with a D. Better than Blaine, at least. He's perfectly fluent in French, but he hasn't taken the test, and Hummel's probably beyond giving him a make-up exam.

That's an F.

"Countless occasions."

"And it doesn't upset you?"

Monsieur Hummel returns his stare steadily, his eyes flashing color that somehow changes in different angles. He's staring at Blaine so intently, Blaine almost wanted to back away. "No."

"...Well, you should try not to be unreasonable." Blaine can feel the smirk tugging at his lips. He reaches out a hand, tilting his teacher's face away from his palm with his forefinger. "It might be easier if you date. Do you date?"

"Do I sleep around with anything that moves?" Monsieur Hummel jerks his head away, like Blaine's touch burns him.

"Just the pretty ones," Blaine murmurs, leaning a little closer in response, just enough so he's in his teacher's breathing space. The breaths puffing against his face are uneven. "Besides, I have a boyfriend."

"And let me guess: he's okay with it, if you're okay with it."

Well. Blaine has to give him credit, he's sort of right.

Sort of. "You know, I really don't like you."

"Good," Monsieur Hummel finally starts to look the slightest bit uncomfortable. "I'm not crazy about you, either, Mr. Anderson, that's Sebastian Smythe's job, the poor soul."

Blaine's eyes narrows. "Well I, for one, don't think you date. You're rude and unreasonable and infuriating."

"Well then, I'm expecting dates to line up my front door, considering I sound exactly like you. And you're quite the charmer." Monsieur Hummel slaps his hand away, directing his glare to the open window, avoiding Blaine's eyes. "Don't touch me."

Blaine glares right back, opens his mouth to speak, but the watch catches his eyes.

Six-thirty.

He turns, covers the distance between the teacher's desk and his own in three long strides, grabs his bag, and without another word, makes his way out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a resounding bang.

Next chapter:

"You broke the rules and gave me detention."

"I do like you, Kurt."

"You lied."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

AN: Hi :)