Title: Heroes and Superheroes
Author: skyfarer (skyfarer dot livejournal dot com)
Pairing: Klaine
Rating: PG-13 to R
Genre: Romance, Action, High school
Chapter wordcount: ~5000
Warnings: AU, Offensive Language, superhero!Blaine
Summary: "All his life Blaine Anderson has wanted a normal life. His secret powers haven't made him a superhero so much as a kid plagued by trouble and regret, and he's determined to start afresh. Hopefully transferring to McKinley will give him a new life, even if the school does have this beautiful lonely kid he can't get out of his mind. Too bad life has other plans." Klaine AU.
A/N: Obviously I own nothing about GLEE. This crack came to me out of nowhere, but as you might suspect, I have a habit of angstying everything (but I promise happy endings!). I have a stronger background in manga than comic books, so 'superpowers' hew more closely to the former than latter style, albeit without the crazy names for attacks. Blaine's characterization is closer to pre-hiatus Blaine, the more conservative, reserved, and 'cool' Blaine. Please keep in mind that I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT FOOTBALL. Be warned, I am very likely making hilarious errors with regards to sports, so suspension of disbelief is MUCH appreciated, as are reviews, cookies, etc.
This series is rather unedited since it's a bit of a diversion from my more serious fics, but I'm hoping that free writing means I'll put out chapters faster and be less depressing, as is my wont. And away we go!
Chapter One
"Well, here we are," Wesley Ming mused, folding his schedule with neat, precise strokes before inserting it in his pocket. He'd memorized it weeks ago. The slight smile he gave the boy beside him was a dry one. "Middle of nowhere, Ohio."
Blaine let out a breath. "Why does it feel like I'm facing the firing squad? It's a high school. And, well, the most mediocre one we could find in Ohio." He gestured vaguely at the jeans-clad, loudly accessorized teens who were already coming through the parking lot in cheerful buzzing chatter. Several of them gave the pair curious looks – Blaine smiled at one, a petite blonde, and she blushed before turning to whisper furiously at her friend – but most of their new classmates didn't seem to notice as they trickled into the doors of William McKinley High like a less-than-thrilled school of fish.
Lima, Middle-of-Nowhere Ohio was less a restless urban jungle for cultivating modern-minded sixteen-year-olds than a premature retirement home for the parents of ungrateful brats, but – that was the whole point. Nothing ever happened here. That sucked for most of the Nietszche-wannabes that made up his generation, but it sounded like a pretty sweet deal to a teenager who didn't much feel like one.
So really, Blaine reminded himself, it was an opportunity, not an exile. He'd made the choice, hadn't he? They were high schoolers, for chrissakes. This was what he owed Wes; what he owed himself.
A normal life.
Grow up, Blaine.
"That's because you slept in your uniform for ten years. The tee must be killing you." Wes blinked. "Wait. I know what this is. Blaine, I swear there's a Gap in this town. I google mapped and everything."
That drew out a surprised laugh from Blaine, who shook his head in mock embarrassment. His friend had inherited nearly all of Thomas's habits, as if the Lee family passed down neuroticism the way others did treasured family heirlooms; Wes had probably scoped out the coordinates and serial-killer-housing potential of every barn, mall, and doghouse from here to the Ohio River. Grinning, Blaine gestured for his friend to lead the way with a grand sweep of his wrist, and the two of them entered their first day as McKinley Titans.
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It turned out the actual McKinley Titans – the football players – were substantially worse than Blaine had thought.
Maybe the football team at his old school was just well above average, Blaine argued charitably to himself. They hadn't been state champs or anything, but their program had been incredibly well funded by alums. His gaze turned to the edge of the field where one of the quarterbacks was running a speed drill to the accompaniment of colorful comments from his teammates and the sort of inept form that would land him spinal problems by the mid forties.
Or the Titans just sucked.
Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but Blaine had used what he remembered of his old school's standards to calibrate his try-outs to what he felt was a reasonable, mediocre level that would get him second string and a secure but forgettable social position at best. His slender frame alone should've raised a few eyebrows regardless of his performance, but high schools this size didn't really cut anyone and Blaine had played enough soccer to take a mean kick if they didn't mind yet another kicker (he'd tried out for the soccer team too, to be safe).
The football coach was a paunchy Hawaiian man called Tanaka who apparently enjoyed buying pizzas (for himself, the team never won). He'd spent a good ten minutes chewing Blaine out for missing preseason try-outs while the generically massive players – especially the pair of guards, Blaine had noted their names – sat on the grass throwing dirty socks at each other, periodically glancing at him and snickering.
That was before he started the drill.
Coach Tanaka's tune changed with the rapidity of a gorilla-sized ballerina. Wait, how long had Blaine been playing? Well, wasn't that something. Shame he'd never had the chance before, but obviously he was a quick study and with that talent – well, well. You never know. Welcome to McKinley, we're the hottest thing at this school. You'll get your gear tomorrow.
The players' expressions had turned to those of shock, unease, even respect. Blaine counted them out of the corner of his eye; there were always a few who could cause him trouble later on, peers he'd have to bring over to his side or at least avoid. There was one in particular: a terrifyingly tall, lanky teenager who was gaping at them throughout this exchange, an increasingly stricken expression discolouring his pale face.
"I don't want quarterback," Blaine said quickly. "I don't throw well under pressure. In fact, I really don't have much time for practice, so . . . can't you put me in back-up?"
"But you're obviously better! If we have more players like you, we might actually win!" Coach Tanaka thundered, looking shocked. Huffing, he began to launch into a sermon of the confidence-building qualities of red-blooded American football when the door slammed open and a wiry mustachioed man Blaine recognized as the soccer coach rushed in, and there followed a long and astonishingly dramatic argument about whether Blaine ought to join the soccer team or the football team, because god knows he was needed and clearly his talents lay more in soccer, no, football – damnit, look at his size, Blaine should know that neurological studies prove that football causes traumatic head injuries – well let's ask the kid if he wants to play some sissy sport –
"Um," Blaine interjected. "Considering we have different game schedules, I could do . . . both? If you don't mind that I'd miss a lot of practice." With a shrug.
The coaches stared at him.
A bit of hand-flustering later, it turned out that both coaches were more greedy for budget-funding victories than fairness or logic, which meant that Blaine could just come in and 'do his thing' on gameday, and so Blaine found himself with two sports and much more of a reputation than he'd hoped by the end of his first day at McKinley. He'd have to reconsider the Plan; it hadn't even included a contingency that he'd end up on the top of the pyramid. Still, it wasn't like scouts were sitting on the sidelines – they probably considered McKinley a hilarious joke – so even success here wouldn't bring him much attention. He'd simply put in a bit less effort now, watch his teammates more carefully and match their steps – not enough to cost them games and make him a social pariah, but enough to keep his and Wes's heads low in a place where anything above a dandelion seemed to be shrieked over as the Devil or the Second Coming. Like Wes had predicted, this was probably the sort of place that found Jesus in grilled cheese.
By the end of his first week, several things were becoming clear:
First, the coursework at McKinley was a snoozefest. He was taking grade-appropriate Honors and AP classes, but the American education system was drunkenly partying its way into the sea and he'd already covered this material well over a year ago with Thomas, who'd demanded that he 'cultivate his intellect, young sir' besides all that other stuff (occasionally this meant solving differential equations while staring at the problem upside down from where he was doing finger push-ups). Some of Latin IV – the greatest hits of Catullus and Virgil – he could even remember learning from his father. The memories were not kind.
Second, apparently teenagers really were the same everywhere. He could draw up a mental chart of the cliques and hierarchies at McKinley by now, color coded and segregated by lunch tables, but he might as well grab one from the internet. Jocks, nerds, emos, artsy types – it was a universal system that seemed both needlessly complex and overly simplistic. Blaine probably couldn't judge, he was weirder than anyone, but this life felt painfully – well, shallow – and then his stomach would twist in guilt because it was wrong to judge people by stereotypes and it wasn't like he was more mature than any of them, and in any case this was what he wanted in the first place. Coming home to finish his homework in half an hour, losing the next few on Call of Duty, spending another more teasing Wes about his cute chem partner and his organic chicken piccata recipe, wasting untold and horrifying amounts of time on Facebook, maybe going to a movie or two to 'hang out' with his peers so he didn't get a rep as the weird one.
Third, he had to polish his polite deferrments of romantic activity. "Thanks, but I'm not looking right now," with a sorrowful widening of his eyes and an ever-so-slightly downcast tilt of the mouth, "I have a wonderful girlfriend in Vienna." And the fifth girl of the day would rush back giggling to her cadre of friends huddled at the next lunch table where they all seemed to have a remarkable ability to abruptly turn around and pin their eyes on him at the same time, like a pack of raptors, and coordinate their fluttering handwaves as he walked past and flashed a blank smile back. His prestige was soaring through the cracked-tile roofs at McKinley (apparently the principal was stingy with repairs) – no one else played two sports, no one else could play them as well, and obviously no one could touch his much-rumored – and, he protested, much exaggerated – three minute mile (Wes sniffed; "three minutes? you're losing your touch, Blaine!").
By his third day he was hearing murmurs of hey, gorgeous and what a hunk in the hallways. At first he thought his control was slipping and the mindblock was glitching on him, but eventually he figured out that they really were whispering those things – and happy to let him hear. Random strangers smiled at him; mini-skirted freshman girls had a habit of dropping things around him; Harry Zhao let him borrow his Geometry notes, and everyone knew Harry hated white people; Trent Ashton, the senior, wanted to invite him to his party on Saturday. With, like, beer dude. And pot. And lots of pussy, obviously. Not only that, but Blaine Anderson was also apparently incredibly nice and polite, not your usual meathead jock. Blaine Anderson was the sort of Christian boy you'd eagerly take home to your parents, the sort that wouldn't get his head blown off by your dad or beg for an awkward handjob in your sixteenth birthday Jetta like a massive loser.
Blaine Anderson was, well, a stud. And Wes wasn't doing too bad either, since they always hung out together.
He'd be lying if he said he were entirely comfortable with all this, but he had to admit the view at the top was pretty damn heady. In any case he'd been stupid to worry; real life was easy. Real life was great.
The soccer team accepted him readily, eager for a striker that could actually score goals or at least shoot on target. The football team was less swift to accommodate him, but after a while even the likes of David Karofsky, who had a reflexive habit of mocking smaller kids, had to pay some grudging respect to him in training. Blaine had pled his way to playing halfback, which had started a tentative friendship with the current starter quarterback, Finn Hudson, who was a pretty awful player but a decent kid (albeit one who routinely got confused by negative numbers and pencil sharpeners). Most of his other teammates were wary because Blaine wasn't as gung-ho and macho as they were, because he took all these smart classes and had all these weirdly European manners, as if he preferred handshakes over chest thumps. How fucking gay is that? They were trying, though, probably on Coach Tanaka's orders. Thus Azimio greeted him with a 'yo dawg' on the way to lunch, Dillon waved him over to their table where the hockey team was also gathered snickering over a girlie mag, and Karofsky thumped his back in approval as they filtered out of the locker room after training on Friday, exhausted.
He could get used to this.
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"Wait," Karofsky hissed, motioning for Blaine to move back against the wall with his free hand. In his other was an extra-large Blue Mountain slushie recently obtained from the nearby Sonic. Blaine glanced to his left; Azimio looked like he was struggling to hold back his chortles. "Here he comes."
"That's a waste," Blaine said quietly.
The two hulking footballers were two engrossed in their ambush to hear him. Tilting the cup Karofsky curled his arm back like an amateur pitcher and in the next beat leaped out, clumsily bumping shoulders with Azimio, crowing triumphantly as he dumped his prize: "Aha! Take that, fag!"
"Oh for Gaga's sake," a clear voice rang out. "You know, in an empty hallway, your attempts to hide are rather less effective when your breathing sounds like a herd of breeding elephants."
"Still got you," Karofsky answered smugly.
"Yeah he got you good," Azimio laughed.
Blaine bit his lip. Man, he wished he were back home rather than wasting his time 'team-bonding'. Wes was probably preparing his special mee udang with the prawns. Meanwhile some of Blaine's teammates were clearly still stuck in a phase he'd outgrown by the time he could tie his own shoes.
Well, he had to suck it up. Sighing, Blaine slunk out from the hallway where they'd been lying in wait.
Karofsky and Azimio were towering over some poor kid who had avoided some but not all of the slushie; everything above his neck had escaped, but the left side of his fire-red jacket and trousers was drenched. Blue liquid and blue ice puddled around what looked like skinny cowboy boots. The outfit made Blaine raise an eyebrow – extravagant, certainly not what he would associate with a student at McKinley – but perhaps the kid was a theater clubber staying late.
For someone so much smaller than the two football players, the kid didn't actually look all that terrified. His hand was cocked on his slushie-stained hips and he wore an expression on his face that was so utterly bored that Blaine had to fight back a smile.
"To what do I owe this pleasure today? It's so sweet that you need your best friend to hold your hand while you ask me out, Karofsky." The boy smiled as if he were holding an especially pleasant lemon in his mouth as he tilted his head in a coquettish fashion. Close up his face, Blaine thought with a hint of discomfort, was conspicuously feminine – well, not really, but the last time Blaine had seen something that pretty and pale and long-lashed was in Lord of the Rings, with the Sindar elves – and something about it was familiar, considering those looks would be pretty hard to forget . . . wait. Spanish class. Blaine couldn't recall the name, but they were definitely in the same overcrowded fifth period with Schuester. From what Blaine could remember, he was usually one of the students already sat in the back of the room by the time Blaine walked in, head submerged in their textbook. Now that he thought of it, Blaine could've sworn there was even one time he was wearing this Jane Austin sort of lavender thing that could only be a joke or a cravat, which made Blaine blink and glance around in stunned amusement when he realized the classmates around him didn't even seem to notice; like it was life at McKinley as usual.
That was pretty weird for McKinley unless you were one of those kids with Satanic tattoos and hitlists (Lima believed in witchcraft). Blaine couldn't tell if the boy fit into this category or maybe emo or nerd. He seemed like a bit of a loner who didn't talk much, which was probably why Blaine couldn't place his name.
Or maybe, Blaine winced to himself, he was in a category all his own, judging by Karofsky's words. Somehow he didn't think gay kids were very well treated at McKinley.
"Yeah? You'd like that, wouldn't you fag?" Karofsky was hunkering forward threateningly. "Well guess what, only fags do that. And I ain't one of 'em."
"Dude, he wants you to ask him out!" The thought of this was apparently very funny to Azimio.
"Congrats. You realize that gay men date other gay men. As thrilling as this discovery is for you, Karofsky, I am in fact not interested in exploring the definition with you or your equally chubby sidekick."
"You calling me fat? My mama said I'm big-boned!" Azimio scowled.
"Your mother also thinks you're a genius for getting a 400 on your SATs, notwithstanding the fact you get 200 points for spelling your name correctly," the boy pointed out dryly.
"You calling my friend stupid, fag?" Karofsky growled, and Blaine wondered with unease if it was time to start dragging them away. "At least he's not some sissy like you. I hear you're doing the pathetic little singing club, Hummel. What'd you do, suck Schuester's dick to get in?"
"Jealous?" With an arched brow.
Blaine grabbed Karofsky's sleeve without thinking as the football player tried to lunge forward, shifting his stance in front of Azimio's at the same time. The boy took a step back. "Dude, we'll be late to practice," Blaine murmured by Karofsky's side. A half-beat later, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized that he'd accidentally shown much more force than he should have – but luckily neither football player seemed to notice. Their attention had been captured by their quick-tongued little victim.
What the hell are you doing? Blaine wanted to admonish him. Inside he was shaking his head at this Hummel's massive – well, balls – but seriously, considering his size the kid needed to learn some caution; he would've been crushed if he'd been cornered by these two alone.
"What's this." Hummel's sharp gray eyes flicked to Blaine. Blaine flushed. "Ah. Introducing the new kid around? Charitable of you, but I hope he knows the Titans spend more time hazing freshmen and conducting beer experiments than winning games."
"Yeah? New boy here's one of the best in the state," Karofsky sneered. "So you talk to him with some respect, fag."
"We haven't even played our first game, Karofsky." Blaine laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. "And more practice is a good thing. So come on, let's get going."
"No. No I think he should apologize to his superiors." Karofsky's sudden step forward forced the boy back against the lockers, until it seemed that the football player's breath must have been close enough to stroke his face. Beneath the oversized right guard the kid seemed incongruously, painfully slender, the lines of his body still as the rusted metal beneath him, his face frozen, refusing to budge from its haughty coldness.
"Yeah, yeah I think he owes our bro here –" Azimio patted Blaine's shoulder, "and me an apology for his disrespectin'. My mama'd be whupping my ass if she heard me sayin' those things."
"And her discipline has produced an exceedingly polite young man," Hummel muttered. "You'll excuse my employment of the oldest complaint in the book – you started it. If you left me to be gay on my own, you will find that I am quite happy to part ways with you gentlemen."
"Yeah? What about that stupid little freshman you had to butt your faggy nose in –"
"You were stealing the money he needed for his band trip, you jackass –"
"I didn't see no one else complaining –"
"Because they're all afraid of you morons – !"
"Or maybe you're the moron!" Karofsky leaned in, sneering. He punctuated every sentence with a jab of his meaty finger to the boy's shoulder: "Guess what? No one likes you, Hummel! You think you're some sort of high and mighty princess but they didn't even want to say anything once they saw you and faggy little ass camping up the place –!"
He punctuated: "Even the fucking freshman got pissed at you – he'll be lucky to get invited to anything again, now –"
The boy's chest was heaving; even behind Karofsky Blaine could see that his eyes had become suspiciously bright. Something ugly was beginning to twist in Blaine's guts and he yanked at the hem of Karofsky's sportsjacket, but the man-mountain resisted almost in desperation, continuing: "Yeah, go ahead and start crying, ya little crybaby. You think you're all brave and special for flaunting your girly clothes and hair in the hallways but in reality you're just a pathetic little faggot your own parents can't stand –"
The smack that rang out stopped time in its tracks.
Blaine didn't see it, but he could feel it by the way Karofsky's body jerked, stiffened. For a moment, neither bully seemed capable of even comprehending what had just happened; it was an impossibility in every universe imaginable, every possible combination of events. Hummel was staring at where he'd apparently struck Karofsky with a look of growing fascination – and horror.
The next moment was a blur – Karofsky surged forward, hauling the boy's collar, Blaine slipped his hands beneath the man's armpits to lock his arms back, behind him Azimio's shape reached out blindly, footsteps squeaking on the wet floor, shrieking – "Oh no he didn't!" –
"For god's sake, just leave it!" Blaine snarled – his own anger surprised him –
"I'm going to fucking kill you! You fucking little – fuck –!" Karofsky struggled in his grip as the boy stared huge-eyed.
Azimio's head whipped between the two in confusion. "Come on man, let him at 'im –"
"No. No I think we should leave," Blaine replied coolly. "We're late to practice. Do we really have to waste time beating up some kid when Tanaka's about to give us fifty pushups . . .?"
"I don't give a shit about Coach – I'm going to teach the little fag A FUCKING LESSON –"
"HEY!" Footsteps, jogging. "Hey, what's going on here?"
Every head jerked to the right. At the intersection down the hallway Blaine could see, thank god, the small and frowning form of Principal Figgins rushing towards them, waving a manila folder. Karofsky slacked in his grip and Blaine hesitantly loosened his arms, stepping back.
Their principal looked like he'd just run a marathon. Panting, fists on his knees, he took a moment before snapping: "Well? Explain yourselves! This is what I find when I stay late for the re-budgeting? Don't you kids have anything better to do?"
"I'm sorry," Karofsky said humbly, his features rearranging themselves to one of innocent consternation. Blaine stared. "He was trying to come onto me, Principal, but you know I don't take that gay shi– I mean, I don't appreciate being harrassed."
"What? Principal Figgins, they were trying to beat me up! They dumped a slushie all over me – "
"He hit me first!" Karofsky motioned at the right side of his face, where Blaine could see a distinct pink mark of slender fingers. "He slapped me, so I was just trying to defend myself."
"That's right," Azimio added quickly. "He got all violent when we told him to fuck off. Um, leave."
"Kurt, is this true?" Principal Figgins turned to the boy, frowning. "If so, I'm disappointed in you. You're one of our best students, there's no need to start all this trouble."
"I –" Hummel – Kurt – stopped. Red spotted his cheeks. His eyes flickered to the floor, which was smeared with blue sneaker footprints like a kindergartner's handpainting. "Yeah, I slapped Karofsky without thinking. But I wasn't harrassing either of them . . . they slushied me and wouldn't me alone."
"He's lying," Karofsky said flatly. His voice was utterly calm. "He made me drop my slushie when he shoved me. Azimio and Blaine here can back me up. Right guys?"
"Yup." Azimio.
At the mention of Blaine's name, the principal seemed to notice him for the first time. His back straightened. The look he gave Blaine was one of disbelief. "Blaine Anderson? The Blaine Anderson? Well, I must say – this isn't what I was expecting from you, Mr. Anderson, with what the teachers have been telling me. You're one of our brightest stars."
"I apologize," Blaine said. "We won't bother you again."
"Well, I must admit Karofsky and Azimio here have an impressive track record of delinquency at this school, so I'm less than inclined to believe them. If Coach Tanaka weren't so adamant, I'd have the both of you off the team long ago – so don't look so pleased," Principal Figgins said sharply as the two turned to each other with grins. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "But as I am told that your own character is upstanding, Blaine, I'll take your word for it."
"I," Blaine said. He glanced at the window. "No."
He could feel his head beginning to ache. Could feel Karofsky's eyes boring into his side. Could hear the words, what the fuck you doing man? Could feel on the other side, Kurt Hummel's gray eyes watching him.
What the hell *am* I doing?
Principal Figgins' eyebrow raised. Slowly, he strung out the words, "You mean you disagree with Mr. Karofsky's version of events?"
"No he doesn't," Karofsky interjected hastily. "But he doesn't know anything about Hummel's – tactics – so he's gotten confused. In case you didn't know, Blaine, Hummel's not actually a girl."
"I know that," Blaine said quietly.
"Yeah, Karofsky's right," Azimio added casually. "See, we were showing our new buddy around the premises so he'd get a feel for the school. And this kid came along and started with that girly crap he does around all the footballers. Bet he's got a thing for you already, huh, bro."
"Is this true, Mr. Anderson?"
The kid was so silent beside him.
God, right at the beginning of everything. He should back out; hadn't he learned that lesson at his old school? Don't get involved. Keep your own life in order. Keep your head down.
You owe Wes that. You owe yourself that.
Outside, the sun was setting. Warm rays spilled over the hard line of his jaw, got in his eyes.
They didn't even want to say anything once they saw you and faggy little ass –
"No," Blaine said. He cleared his throat. "Actually, my teammates here are completely wrong."
"I appreciate it guys, but it's not necessary." He turned to Karofsky with a minute nod before diverting it back to the principal. "Principal Figgins, I am so, so sorry, but –" he raised his hands helplessly, "it was me. These guys here are trying to protect me."
"What?" Figgins stared. "So you're saying . . .?"
"Yeah. My buddies here are trying to take the fall for me, as I'm new to the team." Blaine motioned to Karofsky and Azimio, who were blinking at him with twin expressions of incredulity. "I'm ashamed to say it, but this whole incident was my fault, sir. I dumped a slushie over Mr. Hummel and . . . assaulted him. In the fight, he accidentally struck Dave's face."
"I – well, Mr. Anderson." Principal Figgins seemed to recover himself quickly, drawing himself to his full height. "And what was the reason for this?"
"Homophobia," Blaine said quietly. "I used homophobic slurs on him."
"And is this true, Mr. Hummel?"
"There were slurs," the boy said, after a moment had passed.
"Well," the principal sighed, shaking his head, "I'm extremely disappointed to hear that from you, Mr. Anderson, especially considering that it's barely your third week at school. Homophobic slurs are not tolerated at this school. And neither, obviously, are bullying and assault. I'll be speaking to Coach Tanaka and Coach . . . um, the one who does soccer – and I'll be expecting you in detention for the next two weeks, three thirty in my office sharp. I'll also be calling your guardian. However," he raised a finger, "as you are new to this school and I have had no reason to believe that you have been anything less than an exemplary student before, I will not be following the usual practice of suspension in these cases. Instead, I will ask you to speak with Mr. Hummel personally and develop an essay or some other approved project on why homophobia is wrong and deeply hurtful to your peers."
"Hey, he already apologized!" Karofsky protested. "You can't make him suck up to Hummel!"
"It's fine," Blaine said coolly.
"And I expect this essay to be approved by Mr. Hummel. If he gives me reason to believe that you are still subjecting him to homophobic bullying, you will be in grave danger of suspension and a long period on the bleachers. Understand?"
"I understand," Blaine murmured, glancing pointedly at his watch. He refused to turn to where he could feel the boy practically pleading for him to look, as if there was something they needed to say. "I'll get in touch with Hummel in Spanish class. Right now we're running a bit late for practice, sir. Can we leave?"
With the principal's despairing nod, Blaine turned around and began to walk away, steps clipped.
"Wait."
Blaine looked. The boy's expression was difficult to decipher. It was not smiling. It was – perplexed? Wary? He'd dried his eyes but his face was still flushed in the golden sunlight. He was pretty, and something in Blaine halted – spun back – recalculated the locks.
"Never mind," the boy called Kurt Hummel said, after a beat had passed. He was no longer looking at Blaine, but out the window, and maybe he hadn't completely dried them. "I'll see you in Spanish."
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To be continued...
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Another note: I know people have been wondering when I'll be continuing PACK, and I am planning to put out the third chapter sometime between the 15th-22nd since the next three weeks are finals weeks for me. I've been writing the first chappies for three other Klaine fics (not yet published) in the meantime, so I apologize for the delay; I have a habit of writing several things at once so it takes forever for me to get around to finishing one. Many thanks for your suppor t!