Chapter 2

It takes you twelve minutes to unpack all of your things. Eight of those minutes go to ironing your extra dress shirts. You've always been a light packer but your male wardrobe isn't extensive by any stretch of the definition. You have two extra sets of the Dalton Academy uniform and the bare minimum of what constitutes casual dress for a twenty-first century teenaged boy. After putting the iron back in the top shelf of the hall closet where you found it, you spend the other twenty three minutes before your roommate arrives examining the room that the two of you will share.

The first word that springs to mind is that it's nice. Your family definitely got what they paid for with Dalton (and your father would never tell you, but you checked it out online; you know exactly how much they're paying.) You're not sure if the stories about the carpets are true or not, but it's polished hardwood beneath your feet and the walls are solid, painted in the school's greys and crimsons. The beds, too, are nicer than what you had at home: the blanket, though unnecessary, is soft and downy, and the pillows are firm, just the way you like them. You decide that something has to be done about the color scheme, though, school spirit is one thing, but this seems excessive. Even the curtains are exhibiting Dalton pride.

Your pyromaniacal musings on how exactly to rid yourself of the offending drapes are interrupted, though, by the arrival of your roommate. You hear the rattle of his key in the door and you rise from where you were sitting on the floor to greet him. He hasn't been told of your situation, you know - Dalton's administration was very keen to assure you that your privacy was of the utmost importance to them, no matter how you identified - and you're suddenly nervous. You slouch a little, pulling your chest in (not that you have any breasts to protrude, but still) and hope that you can deepen your voice enough for this to work.

This is a test, your first test of Dalton, and you know that no Algebra, no Chemistry, no History test is going to worry you as much as this one.

The door opens.

Your roommate has short black hair that he's slicked back. It frames a handsome, boyish face, and he's grinning. The smile elevates him from boy-next-door pretty to movie-star good looking and the fact that biology or not you're a straight man be damned, you catch yourself staring. You're suddenly conscious that you're never going to wear the Dalton uniform quite as well as this boy across from you is. He sticks a hand out and you pause for a second that you hope he doesn't notice before taking it in yours. His skin is rough, much rougher than yours and you wonder if that'll be the give-away. Maybe you should take up rock-climbing or something.

"Hi!" he says brightly, "I guess we're living together this year, then. I'm Blaine Anderson."

"Quinn," you reply as your inner-you exults the happy fact that he is clearly a tenor. "Quinn Fabray."

"Cool," he says, before surveying the room. You've taken the clearly superior bed, the one by the window, and your bookbag is lying on it, school supplies strewn across the pillow.

"Er, sorry I took the good bed," you say lamely.

He looks surprised that you'd even offer. "No, it's fine!" he says, "You got here first. I'd have done the same."

Somehow, you doubt that, from what you've seen, Blaine is the perfect gentleman, but you let it slide anyway.

You watch quietly as Blaine unpacks his things. He's brought a lot, or, at least, a lot more than you did. You're still not sure what a normally stocked male wardrobe consists of, but you somehow doubt that Blaine's can be used as an example. You see far too many bow-ties for that to be the case, and a beret, and- is that a cummerbund? Well, it's better than sweatpants, you suppose.

He puts away the last of his things (honestly, who knew one man could own so many bow-ties?) and turns back to you. "I don't know how often we'll be out of uniform," he admits, "but I felt like it's better to be prepared."

You nod - what can you say? Your own closet is nearly empty, and your dresser has little more than socks and briefs. Hell, Blaine probably brought more shoes than you own shirts.

Unperturbed by your silence, he presses on. "So where're you from?" he asks genially. "I'm from Cridersville. I'm glad I'm here, though - Westerville's much nicer than home. Bigger."

"Cridersville?" you ask, surprised.

"That's the one. Why?"

You shrug. "I'm from Lima. We're pretty close. I guess I didn't expect that."

"Oh hey that's awesome! I know what you mean, though. I think there's a guy down the hall who's from Illinois, and I've heard rumors that there's a New Yorker in another dorm."

"Why would someone from New York come here?"

"Beats me. The weather?"

You snort, and the pair of you lapse into a comfortable silence.

"I came here to start over," he eventually says. The sudden noise startles you but you manage to not jump.

"I- Me too," you admit. He doesn't seem surprised by this, but begins examining you, his gaze intense and careful. You shrink back underneath it, nervous. What did he see?

He seems satisfied though, and he sits back. "I'm gay. It's why I'm here - Cridersville is great in many ways but tolerance isn't one of them." He seems vaguely expectant now; you sense that he's waiting for you to make a similar declaration.

"Oh, I'm not- I mean," you wince, and then you rush out, "I'm not gay."

He blinks, but composes himself quickly. "Oh. I mean, cool! I didn't- I- I shouldn't have assumed anything," he says.

You nod, but don't say anything else. There's a few minutes of silence but it's uncomfortable this time. Blaine is at his desk rearranging the stack of books and you can see the tension in his back.

"Uh," you find yourself saying, "So do you have any siblings?"

He turns and his grin is enormous. "Yeah. I have an older brother. He's an asshole."

Aaaah. Blissful, easy, common ground.