April 1969:

Blaine Anderson had gotten a sudden rush of bad vibrations standing in front of the courthouse that spring morning. And to think all week he had gone without worry.

"It's alright mom, it's probably just a mistake."

"No Aunt Nancy, Blaine is not going to Vietnam, they just sent him the draft notice on accident. That's right, he is enrolled in college. Since last October…"

"It's fine. I'll just go down to the courthouse on Sunday and work it out."

Yet now, fresh out of the cab, in suit jacket and tie, he had to wonder, what if it didn't work out? He couldn't go to Vietnam. Not simply because he would have to hide his sexuality (Well he already had to do that but it was the principle goddammit!) but because he was a private school kid bound for college and none of his school friends got draft notices. He just wanted to sing do-wop and study Machiavelli, what was so wrong with that?

He stepped up on the curb and looked for some sign of where to go to talk to the recruiting agents. His eyes drifted to a bunch of guys about his age standing nearby, all with matching notices in their hands.

They stood together in a cluster of five and he'd never seen such a mismatched group. There was about seven feet of handsome whitebread all-American boy standing next to a fish-lipped bleach blond, one with a Mohawk that appeared mixed race, a Vietnamese boy in skinny jeans and tie-dye, and next to him, currently very much in the face of the mixed-race boy, was a brunette.

Blaine's eyes stayed on this one as he shuffled closer. He was white as stardust and his hair was quaffed back so immaculately he could've been a Kennedy (especially compared to the others). He wore a striped v-neck rolled up to the elbows and mod cut jeans. They appeared to be having an argument because Mohawk boy motioned to his Doc Martins (something about ass to kick) and the other one rolled his blue eyes.

"Would you quit being such a priss? I'm not going to war. I'll do what I haveta. I will beat down seven Lydon B. Johnsons if I haveta."

"You'll get yourself sent to jail, you're an idiot."

"You know what, candyass? I'm beginning to think we should've left you at home."

"If I could have stayed at home do you think I would be here right now?" Even though the tone was biting he had a melodic voice, smooth but noticeably feminine. Blaine wondered if he got teased for that.

"Oh like you have anything to worry about. They won't put you on a ship, queer as you are." Blaine watched the pale blue eyes catch fire. Yeah, he probably did get teased for it.

There was the screech of a heel turning before the entire group fumbled after as the pale one strutted into the state building. Blaine stayed on their coattails not so sure about going in alone. Well, he was alone. But at least standing near the rainbow coalition gave him some comfort. Apparently they had made amends within the four seconds it took to walk into the lobby because they were quickly all huddled together as if in a football game and the blonde one was talking.

"Alright, it's phys eval first, then psych so Hummel's golden…"

"Tch."

"Well it's true, okay?" The blond put his hands up. "Mike, where's the list again?"

The Asian guy shifted his eyes to the tallest of the group and as if remembering something the gargantuan dug into the pockets of his Levi's and pulled out a slip.

"Okay uh, ruptured spleen, bad eyes, flat feet, asthma, invalid caregiver, college enrolled, war worker, spinal injuries, epi-"

"Epileptic, Finn."

"Right, epileptic. Um, multiple drug addictions, homosexuality, and bad physical fitness." He crumpled the paper up and shoved it in the pocket of his workshirt. It dawned on Blaine then that these guys weren't only hippies they were draft dodgers. He'd heard of them but never met any because again, boys like him didn't have to avoid the draft. In fact, the cosmic mistake that had him there at all would be sorted out shortly so better not to worry about it.

"A through K to the left. L through Z to the right. Groups of five only." A man in military uniform announced and all eyes seemed to go to the mohawked one.

"Ah shit. Should I tell them I'm Noah or Puck?"

"It goes by LAST name, Puckerman." Blue eyes shook his head and Blaine couldn't help but smirk.

"He's right. Sorry man." Finn shrugged. Puckerman scowled but the crowd shoved him off in the tide to the right and quickly he was gone.

"We still need a fifth." Mike said, dark eyes squinting.

"Hi." Wow. Did he step forward that quickly? They hadn't acknowledged him before so it probably seemed that he came out of nowhere. The brunette raised his eyebrows. "I'm Blaine Anderson. I don't think I'll be taking the evaluations since there's been some mix-up but if you need a fifth guy…" He offered his hand and the tall one shook it firmly.

"Hey dude. I'm Finn, this is Sam, Mike, and my brother Kurt."

"Cool. Curly's with us. We'd better get in there." Sam nodded to the gymnasium-type doors and everyone gave a firm nod of agreement.

Blaine stood on line with the group of them, as the room of young men shuffled slowly towards the exam stations in their groups. Blaine was widely ignored, and almost feeling uncomfortable when he heard that voice again.

"Blaine Anderson, huh?" Kurt asked with a curious twist of the lip.

"Yeah." Blaine offered a charming smile.

"Kurt Hummel."

"Nice meeting you, Kurt." He replied and Kurt smiled in return. "So is that guy-" He looked up at the man about a head taller than the both of them. "Really your brother?"

"Step-brother." Kurt clarified with a coy tilt of the head.

"Oh, I see. And that other one…" Blaine asked nodding his head in the opposite direction, eliciting a laugh.

"No. Puckerman's not my brother. He's our roommate."

"Really? You live with him? The way he was talking to you-"

"Oh Noah's always like that. He won't admit it but he needs me. I'm his sometime bandmate and, more importantly, his mechanic."

"Wow. You fix cars?" Okay, so Blaine didn't mean to be blown away and he realized he probably sounded like a total ditz because of the smarmy look the other boy gave him.

"I know, seems like an awfully straight activity doesn't it? But my dad owns a garage so I grew up with it."

"Oh I didn't mean-"

"It's okay. I know I'm a walking stereotype. But hey, I'm gay and I wear it proudly. That's what's going to get me out of being shipped overseas."

"Yeah I'm not even supposed to be here, either. I'm enrolled at Columbia next semester so… I mean, there is no way I am going to Vietnam. I can't." Emphasis on the word "can't."

"Yeah. I figured."

"Why?" Oops. Good job Hummel, you probably offended him. What could he say? Because you're too Ivy League Prince Charming to be out wading in some swamp under sniper fire with the lower half of your graduating, that's why?

"Well that is… Why fight in a war that they won't even call a war for a country that doesn't even believe in you or your rights?" He answered, taking the political approach. "Besides, the number of times you've smoothed your jacket in the past ten minutes says as much."

"Anderson…" The examiner called and Blaine shuffled in his little cubby of a changing room to pull his sweater off. They had to strip down to their shorts and he was first to step out as the others were called. "Chang… Evans… Hudson… Hummel…" Kurt was the last to emerge and Blaine watched curiously.

He just stood there, arms crossed, hip cocked, the same color as appleblossoms, fashionably thin, and totally out of place. Blaine couldn't help but stare. (Well out of the corner of his eye he stared. He couldn't be that obvious!). He accredited it to simple curiosity because he'd never actually seen another gay guy in just his shorts before. After all, his own torso was scattered with dark hairs and Kurt had just a ghosting of pale brown that led down from the navel of his flat but in differing from the other four's, not muscular stomach.

The doctors that populated the tiny examining room with them had every arm measuring, knee-knocking, face prodding, Victorian-era dentistry doodad known to man. And their group of five got to experience each. Blaine didn't care for leering but the way he caught Kurt's back arching when the doctor pressed the cold stethoscope to his skin was absolutely flawless.

Kurt wasn't for leering either (usually). In fact, he found the whole gay locker room fantasy cliché and completely inaccurate so he just crossed his arms and made like he didn't care. Yet he still found his eyes floating over to the new guy more than once. He was the first to step up in their line and there was nothing less than admirable on that body. He had a slightly olive skin tone and beautiful slicked back curls, short but not stocky, look at how wide those shoulders are, or the delightfully traceable lines of lean muscle on those abs. And another thing was how innocently preppy he was like the fact that he would dapperly avert his eyes whenever they happened to make contact or the way he naively tried to talk to the examiners about some paperwork mix-up as if they'd actually be willing to help him.

In the end, Mike Chang, through the aide of some unfortunate (although handy) racial stereotypes, managed to convince one particularly old doctor that he had 20/100 eyesight. Being that this was justifiably dismal, Mike's slip got a red stamp of "deferred: poor vision" and he was done. The other four of them, however, went on to psychological evaluation.

"I'm hoping we can do this fast." Kurt began tartly as he sat down in front of the psychologist. "I'm gay. You can ask anyone that knows me. In fact, that's my brother over there…. Finn! Hi!" Finn turned from a seemingly very serious conversation and gave a nervous wave. "Until your organization turns around its remarkably backward policies regarding my sexuality, there's no point in you even asking me any questions. Now you may be thinking that maybe I'm faking it, but I ask you-" Kurt placed his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Do you really think I'd be able to fake this voice?"

Homosexual: stamped and filed. Once again, stereotypes save the day, oh bless poor old naïve Uncle Sam. Kurt was thinking on this when he found himself ramming into a rock hard torso covered by a familiar Pink Floyd t-shirt.

"Oh Puck, you got through unscathed I see. Did that penny you so disgustingly swallowed leave a nice mark on your X-ray?" Kurt asked in a mixture of elation and discomfort at the homophobic overtones of the entire adventure.

"Pssh. No." Puck frowned, looking around to make sure no one heard. "But I told them I was the last living boy to take care of poor old Nana Puckerman. They totally jumped at it."

"Hmm. Target shamelessly achieved, as always…"

"Where are the other guys?" Puck asked as Kurt caught a flash of black curls out of the corner of his eye. A very handsome, very distressed, looking Blaine was pleading animatedly with one of the psych guys.

"I'll… be right back."

"Hummel! Hey dude, don't you cut out when I'm talkin' to you!" But it was too late for that, Kurt Hummel was gone.

"No. No you don't understand…" Blaine shook his head, voice growing slightly higher in pitch.

"No, Mr. Anderson, I think you don't understand."

"But I'm enrolled-"

"You're not on the list."

"Not on the list? Mpph… I've been on the list since October! They'll be sending my school ID next August."

"I've seen them faked before." The interviewer replied flippantly, Blaine shoved his fingers in his hair.

"You have to be kidding. I can't go to Vietnam."

"I think you can. You did phenomenally on the physical evaluation and you aren't flat-footed or a drug addict…."

Blaire simply stared at this man in shock as he yammered on. His safe schoolboy world was exploding around him. It was absolutely unthinkable that this could actually happen to him. What would his parents say? Oh my God, what would Aunt Nancy say? His pulse sped up and he began to search for something, anything that could save him, his fingertips grew pink against the table as if clinging to that hardback copy of the works of Machiavelli his father bought him when the family announced that he got in to Columbia.

"I promise you I'll be enrolled by that next term."

"It'll be too late." Shock was slowly melting into acceptance. Blaine had just about begun to plan his own funeral when he heard a melodic voice behind him.

"Having some trouble, babe?" He turned and there was one Kurt Hummel. Blaine shook his head as if trying to shake off the confusion and offered two articulate syllables.

"Wha-t?" The man behind the table paused and set down his "passed" stamp.

"Hi. Are you the one holding my boyfriend up?" Kurt asked, hand poised immediately on the hip.

"Boyfriend?" Thank God the psychologist said it louder because Blaine had to repeat it under his breath as well. He was about to enter a whole new type of panic when he caught that glint in the other boy's eye. Well, it was less a glint and more of a searing force that screamed: "Play along or I will duct tape those pretty curls to your scalp." But either way it got the message across.

"Thought you could hide your little-boyfriend-, huh?" The interviewer asked. "You know the army does not like those who evade its policies." Blaine and Kurt exchanged a nervous glance and Blaine could see the brunette was actually bugging out somewhere behind the sass. The psych must've noticed because he raised a gross furry eyebrow. "If this really is your boyfriend, that is." Blaine moved first this time.

"Well of course he is." Blaine stood up awkwardly and wrapped his palm around the taller boy's arm. "I'm sorry it's been taking so long, Kurt." God, the name felt so forced. He could actually feel those judging eyes leering at them.

"That's okay, sweetie." Kurt leaned a hesitant inch closer, also aware that they were being watched. This had to be convincing. If he screwed this up they'd probably send him to jail or something. Shit! What the hell was he doing? He just met this Blaine guy and here he was saving his ass. Would he really have to kiss him? Well the guy was a dreamboat Elvis Presley Marlon Brando lovechild, but still! Okay Hummel, keep it together. Foolishly sweet guys like him don't belong at war, he'll be torn to pieces out there, like worse than that one time when Santana and Mercedes wore the same Dacron yoke-neck number to Tina's party... so much worse. He looked at the ground and then up at the gorgeous olive tone jaw line and ruddy well-turned lips. Play along, brown eyes, I really don't want you to die.

Kurt moved closer, face angled downward while wide blue eyes ordered Blaine to keep going from behind long eyelashes. Blaine's stomach felt like it was full of electrical conductors but he followed suit. He tilted his head opposite the other boy's and moved into the kissing space at what felt like a ridiculously slow rate. Okay, I can do this. He thought, feeling his heart going at supersonic speeds as that sacred personal space was painstakingly intruded further and further upon. Blaine had always been one to understand the notion of polite distance, polite ways of speaking, polite methods of courting a beautiful girl. He felt a sting of heat on his cheek as the warmth of their breath intermingled in a centimeter of remaining open air. His hand held a touch tighter to Kurt's upper arm and he swore he felt a thin finger looped beneath his shirt collar as he braced himself to kiss a practical stranger. The skin of their noses touched softly when-

"That's it!" The psychologist yelled and they flew away from each other in a millisecond. They didn't even kiss. Still the psychologist was convinced enough. "Both of you beat it! I don't need a couple of queers mocking this army by swapping spit on my watch." No more information needed for Kurt. He made a grab for the elbow of Blaine's jacket and pulled them out of there. Blaine only got a second to glimpse the stamper slam down those two permanent red words on his draft paper "deferred: homosexual."

"Oh-my-God- I never thought he'd buy it!" Kurt exclaimed when they were a safe distance away. He turned to Blaine to stammer an apology or demand gratitude one of the two, he hadn't decided which, when Blaine picked him up in an unexpected hug. They laughed before awkwardly breaking contact again. Puck and Mike had been waiting in the lobby and didn't even ask as the four of them headed out of the courthouse. Mike was the first out as he nearly literally flew down the stairs to Tina who was waiting at the bottom looking as adorable and bright-faced as ever. They embraced as he picked her up and kissed her, legs twirling as he spun her around because somehow she already knew, he was safe. Kurt exhaled, relieved that this was him too, that they made it. The doors opened once again, producing Finn and Sam.

"About time you dorks showed face!" Puckerman hooted. "C'mon lets go, I'm starving! You can tell us how you duped the fuzzheads over fries."

"See that's the thing…" Sam dragged a hand from his pocket to scratch his lemon blond hair before deferring to Finn.

"Yeah. We uh, we actually enlisted."