A/N: Hi everyone! Because The Warbler is a Tramp is told purely from Kurt's POV, there's only so much insight I can give into Blaine's character. So I decided to write this one-shot, and give you guys (and myself) the chance to know his mind. If you've read the main story, you'll know how Kurt feels about him, but how does Blaine feel about himself?

Thanks as always to the incredible AncientGleek, who gave up her time during the holidays to edit this.

And please think of this as an apology for not updating the main story for almost a year. And if there are any scenes you'd like to see from Blaine's perspective, let me know and I'll seriously consider writing it. I really enjoyed this.

So, here we go: Chapter 6 of The Warbler is a Tramp (Blaine's POV)

"Oh my love, for the first time in my life," Blaine softly sang. "My eyes are wide open…my eyes can see—"

"Blaine, give it a rest, would you?" Nick griped.

Fingers falling from his guitar, Blaine scowled over at his longtime friend and songwriting partner. Nick was curled up in a ball with his head on the armrest of the sofa across from Blaine.

The Warblers' last CD signing of the second album era was being held in Oxford Street. The five band members—Blaine, Trent, Jeff, Nick, and David—had been shepherded into the staffroom of a high street music retailer more than an hour ago. Every so often, when the main door separating them from the shop floor opened, they could hear the crowd singing their biggest hits while they waited.

These kinds of events always put their fans in a good mood.

If only it were as happy an occasion for them as a band.

It's not that they didn't love what they did. The last year had been filled to the brim with career-defining milestones for The Warblers. Their latest album topped the world wide album charts, they took home every award they were nominated for at the Brit Awards in January, last year's worldwide arena tour had broken records, and they'd finally rid themselves of their greedy succubus of a PR representative, Hunter Clarington.

The thing was that, their work wasn't the only thing they had to contend with. And while they had once been able to make their personal lives and jobs coexist with ease, they were getting older, and their problems often disturbed the careful equilibrium of the team.

Or, at least, Blaine's seemed to.

Even his mum had stopped calling as frequently, fed up of only talking to her son when he was hungover or dropped himself in the tabloids again.

He didn't blame her. Not really. Pam Anderson had always felt too strongly. When he was sick as a child, she used to fuss over him until she passed out from exhaustion. He suspected that, if she were able to work out social media, she would spend all her time defending him from the trolls who dared judge her youngest child. No, she was better off staying away until Blaine found a way to stop acting like a version of himself that he knew she wouldn't be proud of.

Blaine didn't have the luxury of distance from his best friends, though. They'd witnessed the disaster that was Blaine's pathetic love life, the consequences of his being forced back into a closet he'd stepped out of years ago, and the hard-partying that had followed, from the front row. And Blaine had been pretending for almost a year that he didn't know that he was responsible for the tension that now existed among the five of them.

They used to playfully bicker like brothers. Now arguments were easily triggered, and it became more and more apparent with each passing day that Blaine's four bandmates would rather he weren't there most of the time.

"I'm just trying to pass the time," Blaine mumbled in reply to Nick's outburst.

"Well, don't," Nick warned. "I'm not in the mood."

Are you ever? Blaine slumped back and played a few chords. When Nick didn't react, he figured it was the singing he'd taken issue with, and allowed his fingers to continue shaping the melody.

When Blaine had met David, Wes, Trent, Jeff, and Nick at the auditions for their school's acapella choir when he was thirteen, he never would have guessed it would lead them here. He'd just loved singing, and figured joining the Dalton Academy Warblers would be his best chance to turn his passion into a hobby.

What he'd actually gained was a bond that would last a lifetime, and all that sentimental crap you hear on teen dramas about bro love.

Or so he'd thought. Now he wasn't so sure.

The truth was, had he known entering a televised reality show would lead to the slow demise of their friendships, Blaine would have voted against signing up. He'd worked his way up to lead soloist; the others would have fallen in line with his opinion.

He'd done no such thing, of course. The temptations of fame and fortune had been too great for a group of teenage boys with high ambitions. And, despite only coming in second place in the competition, they were flooded with record deal offers before the show was even off the air.

Fast-forward four years, and they were adored the world over, consistently outsold most of the major competition, toured the world twice, and had made so many naïve decisions along the way, that barely a civil word was spoken among them these days.

Actually, that wasn't true.

David, Trent, Jeff, Nick, and Wes were as close as they'd ever been. It was Blaine who had fallen out of favor. They tolerated him. They didn't care to know what was going on in his head, as long as he did his part on stage, and kept his personal activities away from the spying eyes of social media. If they disbanded tomorrow, he was certain they'd never contact him again.

"Think of it like a production line," David's voice interrupted his morose reflections.

It was coming from the corridor. Blaine sucked in a breath to settle the flip-flop of his stomach, and tried feebly to keep himself from watching the door. Because there was only one person David would need to explain the signing process to, and that was their new assistant.

Kurt.

He was the only good thing about coming to work these days—a fresh breeze Blaine hadn't known he'd needed to fill his lungs to clear the stale air that had surrounded him since his messy break up with Jeremiah.

Kurt was witty and sarcastic, clever and unafraid to speak his mind. There was an easy poise and strength about him, and he conducted himself with such integrity and warmth, that the entire team had promptly fallen in love with him.

Above all else, and the biggest frustration of all for Blaine though, was that he was unfairly, undeniably gorgeous.

And completely untouchable.

David stepped through the door, Kurt following close behind him.

Blaine kept his head down to watch discreetly. Not that pretending he was focused on other things was necessary. Kurt rarely engaged him unless he was running an errand. And, even then, he addressed Blaine with a wary politeness that did nothing but contribute to Blaine's self-loathing.

Because it was Blaine's fault that Kurt got along with everyone around here, except him. Blaine, who had been so awful to Kurt when he joined the team, that he was tempted to wear his shame, crawl through a barn full of poo, and lie in it for the rest of his life.

It had started during Kurt's first week of work, when Blaine had come onto him so strongly that Kurt felt sexually harassed. Then, because Kurt dared exercise his right to the word 'no', Blaine let his bruised ego rule over common sense, and childishly forced Kurt to run moronic errands all over New York City. And Blaine didn't think he would ever get over the embarrassment of the night Kurt was forced from his bed in the early hours because Blaine was drunk, lost, and at risk of missing their flight home.

He'd almost thrown up on Kurt's shoes, for god's sake! His designer, stupidly expensive shoes.

And while, yes, Blaine apologized and they had reached a civil understanding, there was no going back, was there? He'd botched his chance to be more than a casual acquaintance to Kurt.

Didn't stop him pining for the scraps of Kurt's attention, mind.

"Dean's usually stationed behind us telling the stragglers to hurry up," David continued, settling on the couch opposite the one Blaine had commandeered. "Puck stands at the entrance to the table area, telling fans they can't take pictures with us, and when to move forward."

"They can't?" Kurt asked, surprised.

David grimaced, eyes flitting towards Blaine, before he replied, "We want to see all of them, and the powers that be think it slows down the queue too much. Plus, a lot of them use the flash, and it stings the eyes after a while…it's not fair, but—"

"—it's bullshit," Blaine spoke up bitterly.

And then Kurt was looking at him, the confused tilt of his head so endearing that Blaine nearly flubbed a chord.

Kurt's eyes were unconsciously assessing his hair, and Blaine's cheeks pinked self-consciously; he knew it looked bad. Sugar slathered it down like an oily helmet, and it drove him mad! Unfortunately, there were only so many one-sided arguments you could have with the woman before you lost the will to live.

He was Blaine Warbler: debonair grease-ball. May as well look the part.

Not wanting to waste this rare moment of Kurt's attention, Blaine smiled crookedly and winked, nodding to the seat beside him hopefully. Instead, Kurt perched primly on the other side of the three seater sofa.

Well, what did you expect, Anderson? He's not gonna forget you're an arsehole overnight.

"We'd stay all day if it meant making every fan feel special," Blaine murmured, his fingers still playing the opening chords to John Lennon's "Oh My Love".

"Don't start...," Nick groaned.

"He started five hours ago, Nick," Jeff said, but Blaine's attention was only on Kurt.

"Fans rarely get to take pictures with us unless they've paid for it," Blaine explained, "or if they stumble across us on the street. Every time we've tried to take photos at events like this, we get shot down."

Kurt's mouth formed a pretty O, and he shifted so his body was facing Blaine. "Why?"

Because Wes is spineless with the record label.

He rubbed his fingers together and sang, "Money, money, money, something funny, in a rich man's world!"

Kurt's eyebrows knitted together, color high on his cheeks, and his gaze dropped to his lap thoughtfully. Blaine had the sudden irrational desire to boop his nose, or jump up and tap dance; something random that might make him smile again.

He didn't, of course; that would be ridiculous. And probably further convince Kurt of his idiocy.

"What did Wes say this time?" Trent asked from the floor.

"Well, if you can somehow acquire a Tardis, Blaine, then by all means throw an all-day signing," Blaine mimicked scornfully.

"Doctor Who!" Kurt blurted out.

Everyone in the room turned to Kurt, who flushed in embarrassment and mumbled something about understanding the reference. Blaine had to bite his bottom lip to keep from openly grinning.

God, this was becoming a problem.

Most of the time Blaine wanted to tear Kurt's many layers of clothing off his tall, lithe body. But every now and then he did something so adorable, he made Blaine's teeth hurt.

Blaine didn't want Kurt to think he was mocking him; so he focused in on his guitar again. He'd barely started playing, though, when Wes bustled in to shoo them out for the signing.

Taking his place ahead of the others, Blaine breathed deep for courage.

The wall of energy that met them as the doors swung open was something he'd learned to brace for, but would never get used to. The shop floor was chaos all around, rammed full of fans of all ages, squashed together in a queue that wound out of sight between the shelves.

Blaine laughed when his awkward wave of greeting was met with a higher pitch of shriek, and took his allocated seat at the table beside Jeff. Hands trembling a bit, he fumbled with his bottle of water, took a quick sip, and sat back to take in the scene before him.

Meeting the fans was nerve wracking, but his absolute favorite part of being a Warbler. One-on-one time with the people who bought their music was surprisingly rare though.

Sure, when a fan recognized them in the street, they went out of their way to be gracious and friendly, but Canary Records cared more for profit than the happiness of the fandom. And they took every opportunity to limit the band's 'free' time with the fans, because they knew they were willing to spend more money to get up close.

Actually, it was one of the aspects of band life that made Blaine deeply unhappy.

Why should people have to pay like they're a zoo exhibit? Hours and hours their fans would queue, and for what? A thirty-second meeting they weren't even allowed photographic evidence of?

It was such a load of crap!

Signings and meet-and-greets were some of the few events that enabled Blaine, Nick, David, Trent, and Jeff to talk to their fans away from social media. To thank them for supporting their dreams.

And in Blaine's opinion, hearing their stories, reading their letters, and thanking them in person, was the very least they could do for the fans who supported their careers so unconditionally. Why was that so difficult to understand?

"BLAINE YOU'RE SEX ON A STICK!"

The girl's scream came from the middle of the room, breaking Blaine from his bitter musing. Jeff elbowed him playfully from his right as a titter of amused shushing swept through the crowd.

Blaine ducked his head, a little embarrassed.

You never could predict a fan's behavior; some were bolder than others.

And despite his sexuality being common knowledge now, many female fans still shamelessly objectified him. Not that he minded. Most of them didn't mean anything by it and, truth be told, he was relieved he even had female fans.

Canary Records, their former PR manager, Hunter, and pretty much everyone with a stake in the band's success (not counting his band mates, for which he was grateful), had advised against his coming out. They assumed his female fans were hormone fueled cash machines, who would lose interest in him if they knew he would rather eat sand than get in their panties.

Personally, Blaine had always thought they weren't giving their fans enough credit, and he was insulted on their behalf at the insinuation, but what did he know? He was just a know-nothing singer. Why break a formula for success that had proved lucrative in the past?

A backlash against him would have cost the whole band.

Luckily, his instincts about their fans were proven correct, and his 'accidental' coming out on the Ellen DeGeneres Show a year prior, was met with an overwhelming flood of support from their fans, as well as LGBT groups all over the world. And, in its wake, the sheer magnitude of media attention resulted in a dramatic spike in album and single sales.

Blaine had been so happy to no longer have to hide such a fundamental part of his nature that the majority of the nastiness that inevitably came his way was drowned out.

Kurt scuttled past their table, drawing Blaine's eye to where Puck was directing the first fans through to the table. Instead of relaying whatever message Wes had surely sent him to give Puck, though, Kurt was talking to a woman and a young girl at the front of the queue.

Blaine narrowed his eyes curiously, but had no time to think on it because said young girl was approaching him, guided along by her mother's comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Hi, sweetheart, what's your name?" he asked, smiling widely as she stepped timidly forward.

"Gemma," the girl replied bashfully.

Reaching out to take the CD case from her trembling fingers, Blaine was caught unawares and dazzled by a sudden bright flash from his left.

Confused, he peered around the girl's mother for the source, mouth falling open in surprise when he saw Kurt, beaming at him from behind a bright pink phone that most definitely was not his.

Sorry, Kurt mouthed and tapped at the screen, presumably to turn the flash off.

Blaine's eyes met Kurt's own in that moment, and though the connection lasted only a few seconds, it was enough for the meaning behind Kurt's strange behavior to become apparent, and a warm flush spread from Blaine's fluttery stomach, to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Attraction had made itself known to Blaine in many ways over the course of his nineteen years. Sexual attraction, for example, had been the cause of many of his dumbest blunders in the last year, stirring molten hot and irresistible in his groin every time a man with an incredible ass made his acquaintance.

The problem with this form of attraction, though, is the feeling never lasted. The more sex Blaine had, the less satisfied he was. And Blaine had had a lot of sex. People just seemed to throw themselves at him these days, completely blind-sided by his status in the music industry and his charming (so he's told) smile, and he'd long since worked out a routine with his conquests that lead to its temporary sedation.

So these days even the most intriguing conquests left him feeling…well, flat.

Pun intended, Blaine snorted internally.

And then there was another kind of attraction that Blaine had learned he was better off ignoring. The kind that turned him into an embarrassing idiot who thought serenading boys in the middle of busy shops was a good idea, and assumed the boy who gave you your first kiss became your boyfriend by default.

This kind of attraction did not have a simple and quick fix. And—while logically Blaine knew it was really shit timing to have an epiphany about his assistant in the middle of a shop crowded by his friends, colleagues and fans—there it was.

Blaine Anderson was a goner for this man.

Because Kurt knew the rules. He had just had them explained to him not five minutes ago. And yet he just broke protocol, taking pictures on behalf of the fans without a second thought, so they could look back on the moment they met their idols.

No one around here ever listened when Blaine ranted about how unfair the rules were at signings. A compromise had never been met. Kurt Hummel had known the situation for five minutes and came up with a solution that was so simple and obvious, that he didn't know whether to smack himself in the head or launch himself over the table and kiss his gratitude into every inch of Kurt's skin.

Blaine was smiling dopily at Kurt, when he should be focused on Gemma, but he was so grateful that someone had finally heard him that he didn't care how obvious he made his gratitude.

Quickly signing a message for Gemma, Blaine handed the CD back to her, allowing time for Kurt to snap a better photo, and, once she had moved along to be greeted by Jeff, mouthed a 'thank you'.

Kurt handed the phone back to Gemma's mother, tossed a wink at Blaine in response and strolled back to Puck with extra pep in his step.

"Hi, girls, do you have cameras? If you like, I can take a quick photo of you guys at the table?" Kurt enthused.

Blaine openly chuckled as the three friends at the front of the queue squealed and clamored to allow him to do just that.

Kurt tossed a panicked glance over his shoulder and laughed, "Whoa, whoa, slow down, ladies, one at a time!"

For the next hour Team Warbler fell into a routine. Puck allowed the fans in the queue to approach the table one group at a time, where they were greeted in turn by Blaine, Jeff, Nick, David and Trent.

It didn't take long for the news of Kurt's role in the signing to spread through the room, and before long the other four Warblers also had thrown the rule book out, and were posing openly for Kurt. The fans handed over their phones before Kurt could even ask.

Not that Blaine was watching Kurt. That would be unprofessional considering how little time each fan had with him. Every now and then though, Kurt would laugh or crack a joke that had their fans cackling along with him, and his eyes would flicker to him of their own accord. Noticing the slight crease in Kurt's forehead when he assessed the photo he'd just taken, or the stretch of his jeans over his backside as he hurried back to Puck to greet the next group.

God, what he'd do to get those jeans off and spread his che—

No! Don't think about that. Bank it for later. This is not the time to pop a boner, Anderson.

He couldn't help it though. Kurt was just so…vibrant. It was tiring to watch him running back and forth between the table and the queue, but Kurt was so clearly enjoying himself. And his enthusiasm was infectious. Blaine and his friends had gotten into the habit of going through these events on autopilot, but not today.

Blaine even spotted Wes shaking his head incredulously at Kurt, but he didn't move to stop him.

It always amazed Blaine how incredibly different each fan's reactions were at these events. While some were calm and collected, others were so nervous they either couldn't stop speaking, or utter a single word. His greetings were often met with tears of joy, while others could barely look him in the eye, no matter how hard he tried to engage them.

In the last four years, Blaine had been responsible for many a bizarre turn of events at signings and meet-and-greets. Sometimes just a smile was enough to make a fan sob hysterically. On other occasions, he had caused young girls to hyperventilate until they passed out. During one particularly memorable incident, a teenage boy had worked himself into such a state, that he projectile vomited before he even made it to the table.

Blaine had felt terrible for days after that incident, and had gone out of his way to soothe the boy's mortification. He knew how terrifying it was to meet your idol—he still squirmed over the time he met Katy Perry and choked on a canape—even if he couldn't fathom why anyone would react so strongly to him.

Finally, Wes called for them to take a break, and Blaine watched Kurt make his way out back until Puck clicked his fingers in front of his face.

"Quit gawking at his ass and get moving, pervert," Puck said sardonically.

If there weren't hundreds of fans and their parents watching, Blaine would have flipped him off and demanded he ask nicely. Instead, he rolled his eyes dramatically to distract from the sudden warmth in his cheeks from getting caught, and did as instructed.

Shit, if Puck noticed, then there's probably video evidence of him stored in more than one phone now. It was probably already on Tumblr.

Despite being farthest from the door that led back to the staffroom, Blaine made it there first, and stopped short when he heard raised voices from inside.

"I have 24 jobs for you to do, half of which you could have done by now, if you hadn't decided you're too good for them," Quinn was snarling. "Go do something useful and buy coffee for those of us who are actually working hard at the righttasks!"

"Piss off, Quinn, we asked him to do it," Blaine found himself calling out. Of course Quinn would be the one to plunge him right back into a bad mood. She and Blaine had never got along from the moment she started as Wes' assistant back in New York, and he wasn't about to put up with her bullying Kurt just because she had some false sense of authority over him. Fuck that.

"Last we checked he was our assistant, not yours, angel," Nick agreed from behind Blaine. He stepped out of the way so the other four could get through the door too.

"Wes said—"

"Wes saw him doing it," Blaine argued, looking between Quinn and Kurt, who had shrunk back from them a bit, his back almost to the wall. He seemed as befuddled by this turn of conversation as Blaine was, and happy to let Blaine fight in his corner. "He could have ordered Kurt to go do something else at any time. And you just want him to do the 24 jobs you can't be bothered to do, because the stick up your arse is too firmly wedged now for you to realize: You. Are. Not. That. Important."

Okay, so maybe that one was a little mean, but Blaine still felt a rush of satisfaction when her answering scowl was followed by her quick surrender. Pretentious ponytail flicking behind her, she turned to Kurt. "Go and get the coffee. You can carry on being incompetent when you get back."

Unbelievable. She couldn't resist giving out one final order, like the little wannabe dictator she was. Quinn shoved past Blaine and stormed out of the room with a dramatic flair that Blaine's brother Cooper would have been proud of. Seriously, Blaine would introduce her to him, if it wouldn't increase the chance he'd have to put up with her outside of work, too.

"Well, that was fun," Nick said to break the silence after her departure. He turned to Kurt. "Good thinking on the photo front."

Kurt shrugged bashfully. "You said you guys and the fans weren't allowed to take pictures; you didn't say members of the team couldn't."

Praise was coming at Kurt from all sides, but Blaine didn't hear a word of it because Kurt was radiant, smiling around, shy and happy to have done something right. Blaine felt another stab of guilt for how worthless he must have made Kurt feel during his first weeks in the job. He had to fix this. Tentative peace and cooperation between them would never be enough. Even if he only ever succeeded in becoming Kurt's friend, he needed to try, because there was this ache that intensified every time Kurt's eyes passed over Blaine entirely and crinkled mirthfully at the corners for someone else.

He wanted to be the person Kurt looked for in a crowd of strangers when a private joke had to be shared. And was it too much to hope that one day he could be the one to make Kurt laugh so hard that he forgot to be self-conscious about his smile?

Blaine breathed Kurt in a moment and then whispered his thanks in his ear. Kurt's shoulders shrugged up a little as a tremor passed through his body, but he turned to Blaine with that same beautiful smile.

"You're welcome," he said.

Better make this count. "Look, I…I know we haven't exactly hit it off," Blaine said, rubbing the back of his neck, "but we've got a day off on Friday and I know you haven't seen the city yet. If incognito is possible for me, maybe I can show you around? As a friendship gesture—I'm not coming on to you, I swear."

Well, even if he didn't think it, he will be now. You're so stupid, Blaine scolded internally.

The little crease between Kurt's eyebrows returned while he thought it over, but he didn't seem repulsed by the idea, and Blaine's heart pounded loudly in his ears while he waited. Just as he had convinced himself to take it back and run, Kurt cocked his head, assessing Blaine.

"... Just a friendship gesture?"

And just like that, hope bloomed in Blaine's chest like a daffodil in spring. That wasn't a no.

"Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in Jeff's eye," Blaine joked.

A yell of indignation came from Jeff, who at some point had started a chasing game with Trent. And Kurt was laughing again, watching their antics. He wasn't laughing at Blaine's pathetic excuse for an olive branch, though, and when the others had disappeared from sight again, his undivided attention was back on Blaine, bottom lip caught shyly between his teeth.

"Okay, you've got yourself a deal, Blainers," Kurt sassed.

Blainers. The nickname his friends knew he hated, but called him anyway. Nowhere near the 'Honey' or 'Sweetie' Kurt usually bestowed on people he liked, and a far cry from the 'my love' or the 'oh, baby, right there!" Blaine aimed to earn one day, but it wasn't 'asshole' anymore. Blaine would take all the victories he could get.

"Go and get coffee, Sexy."

The name slipped out, unbidden and automatic. And the airy fluttering in Blaine's belly abruptly disappeared. He'd promised himself he wouldn't call Kurt that again. Not after the horrible reaction he'd received last time. It was so difficult, though; everything about Kurt pushed Blaine's buttons, from his broad masculine shoulders, to his pert little ass, invariably squeezed into the tightest jeans imaginable.

Before he could apologize for the slip, something amazing happened; Kurt smiled.

Wary and a little exasperated, sure, but it was genuine. And that meant that for the first time, Blaine hadn't fucked up. Kurt didn't feel threatened. This was progress. Blaine smiled toothily back, and couldn't seem to stop even after Kurt had slipped from the room in pursuit of caffeine.

It wasn't a date. He was just going to show Kurt around the city like friends do…

But he saw himself picking up flowers from a street vendor and presenting them to a thoroughly wooed Kurt. He could imagine Kurt pressed against his back, arms wrapped around Blaine's stomach as they watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Sharing three scoops of ice cream in a secluded corner of a cafe. Humoring Kurt fondly as he forces Blaine to model clothes in stores all over London. Walking along the embankment, hand in hand, talking and talking for hours until Blaine couldn't take it anymore and silenced Kurt with a kiss.

For the first time since his relationship with Jeremiah had collapsed, Blaine yearned for a life spent in the company of 'the one'. And he was terrified. Blaine was awful at romance. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be good at it, always fumbling for words he blurted out wrong, and going a grand gesture too far and humiliating everyone involved.

And Kurt didn't even like him like that; so he was setting himself up for certain heartbreak.

But maybe…just maybe.

And he could pretend for the day. An uninterrupted day of just Kurt's company. Blaine could let it feel like a date. So long as Kurt didn't notice.

"Blaine, you might want to tone down the creepy serial killer staring," Nick said, jogging Blaine out of his fantasy. "You didn't blink just now for a minute. Even I'm freaked out by you."

Reality was a far colder place.

"He said yes, didn't he?" Blaine replied, shoulders hunched up defensively.

"Bee….what are you doing?" David asked. "He's made it pretty clear that he's not into you."

"I'm not doing anything," Blaine protested. "I'm trying to make amends with him. I only want to show him around and see if we can be friends. What harm will that do?"

"So long as that's all you're doing," Nick muttered, eyebrow cocked in condescension.

"Oh, will you just back off!" Blaine snapped. "I get it, okay? You don't like me very much; you've made that perfectly clear. But that doesn't make me a terrible person. I am well aware that I've screwed up with him since day one, and I don't want to hurt him anymore than I already have. So you can all throw your bloody pitchforks away."

"Blaine, I never said I don't like you. Where the hell did that come from?" Nick exclaimed.

"Where did it come from?" Blaine shook his head, incredulous. "You can't be serious. I can't remember the last time you said something civil to me that wasn't for the cameras."

"Oh, don't exaggerate," Nick deflected.

"I'm really not, mate. All day today it's been 'Blaine stop singing', 'Blaine I'm not in the mood', 'Blaine, don't start', 'Blaine stay away from Kurt'. And this isn't just today. You think I don't notice you scowling when we're writing together? I know I haven't been myself since we got back from the tour last year, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm trying to make up for it now. Starting with Kurt. With or without your approval."

Blaine had backed himself up until his shoulders were pressed to the far wall of the staffroom, and he slid down until he was crouched on the floor, the energy that had fueled his short rant draining away.

"Mate…" Jeff said. He and Trent were standing in the doorway. "We don't hate you."

"You've got a funny way of showing it," Blaine grumbled into his knee.

"So have you, Bee. Truth be told, we were starting to think it was the other way around. That you didn't like us anymore," Jeff continued softly.

"Don't be stupid," Blaine dismissed. "I hate what my life is right now. Not you guys."

"Well, that's a relief to hear," Trent said. "Because I don't like feeling like you're slipping away from us."

"Of course I'm not. You've still got your lead singer," Blaine said cynically.

"Oh, now it's you being stupid," Nick grumbled. "We don't want you slipping away. Not Blaine fucking Warbler. YOU!"

"Yeah. It's going to take more than a year of weird behavior for us to give up on being your friend," Trent added, his tone far gentler. "We miss the old you before Jer…the break-up."

Blaine chuffed humorlessly because, "Yeah. I miss that version of me, too."

"And we like Kurt, too," David added. He looked at the doorway again, to make sure Kurt hadn't made it back from the coffee shop already. "I'm sorry if we're a bit hard on you, but…we don't want him to be driven away either. It's not like you don't have a history of fucking and chucking our assistants, and we don't want Kurt to be added to that list."

"I'm not trying to sleep with him. I'm not," he emphasized when everyone grimaced at him skeptically. "I'm not saying I don't want to, because I do, but…" There wasn't any other way he could explain himself than to just come out with it. "I think this might be more."

"More than what?" Trent pried tentatively.

"Love?" Jeff simpered, with a shit-eating grin.

Blaine groaned and buried his head in his arms. Talking to them was so embarrassing.

"What was that? Sorry, you'll have to speak up, lover boy," Nick teased.

"I said: 'I'll never find out unless I find a way to be his friend, will I?'" Blaine repeated, lifting his head up to full visibility. His cheeks were ripe and rosy; he could feel it. "That's not going to happen until I start being myself around him. My true self."

The version of me that is good enough—or true enough—to stand a chance of winning Kurt over.

Something akin to lyrics stirred in Blaine's mind; heartfelt and melodic. His fingers were itching to grab his guitar and form the chords. The notes were starting to take shape when—

"Blainers and Kurtie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" Trent, Jeff and Nick suddenly chorused.

"I hate you all!" Blaine moaned. He was wrong. He preferred it when they hated him.