Le Masque de Courage
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Chapter 1: The Circus Life
"A banana? Seriously, man! We had to put a condom on a goddamn *banana*? First off, my *thang* don't look like no banana! And I don't get my looksy on in the locker room or anything weird like that, but I am pretty damn sure that's not what a white dude's *thang* looks like, either!" Azimio shook his head in disgust as he began to walk backward down the hall as he talked to Dave, trusting that none of the terrified masses would dare get in the way of the biggest guy on the football team. "But enlighten me, D-Man. You got monkey business going on down there?"
Dave laughed, grinning. "Man, what I got down there puts that banana to shame!" He smirked. "Plus, it ain't yellow."
Azimio laughed and shoved a freshman aside as he turned around so that they could walk shoulder to shoulder. Which, considering how big the two of them were, sort of took up most of the hall.
Just the way they liked it. A living battlement.
"Good. 'Cause I'm thinking that when one's penis turns a shocking shade of yellow with a few black spots, it is most definitely time to seem *immediate* medical atten-ti-on!"
The both cracked up and Dave slapped his friend on the back. "Yeah, I think that's the time for a visit to the ER. Or maybe just the freak show."
"'Sides," Azimio said casually, "what we need to know how to put on condoms for? I say, let the lady put it on! I'm no homo. I don't wanna have to pretend I'm playing with some dude's junk."
Dave flinched slightly. Calm, calm, calm. He needed to be calm. Tense shoulders and red cheeks were *not* what he needed. Az was just joking. It was a fucking joke. He didn't suspect anything. Azimio was a little more straightforward than that. If he suspected anything, he'd have Dave in a headlock, not be walking with him down the hallway.
"Yeah… good point." Dave ducked his head a little to avoid looking Azimio in the eye. Subject change. He needed a subject change. What could he talk about? Monopoly? His family had played Monopoly last night. No, that was stupid. American Idol? No, that was gayer than bananas. Cars? His dad's Smart Car had a flat…
"Speaking of homos."
Dave jerked a little. Since when were they speaking of homos? Had he said the American Idol thing out loud?
"Did you *see* that fairy Hummel this morning? We were partners in French again—I swear to God Madame Russell puts me with him on purpose just so she can hear him be a bitch to me. 'On t'a berce trop pres du mur?' he says. 'Tue es completement debil,' he says. They are both such cunts. Reminds me of the French, actually."
"Maybe you should just tell them that your parents have a chateau in France and you've been fluent in the language since you were five," Dave said dryly, more than willing to direct the conversation away from Kurt and his French curses.
Azimio snorted. "Dude. I'm a football player. Football players do not speak French." He waved a hand in the air. "But anyway, so he's wearing this hat, right?" He laughed loudly, a disbelieving look on his face. "That hat? My Auntie Sue got the same hat! I mean, seriously, she got the *exact* same hat!" He lightly smacked the back of Dave's head. "Can you believe that dude? I think that boy been shoppin' at 80 Year Old Black Churchgoers Department Store! I didn't even know they let white people in that store. I guess they make an exception for fags!"
Dave gritted his teeth, speeding up his pace a little. He did *not* want to talk about Kurt Hummel. He did *not* want to know what Kurt Hummel was wearing. He did not want anything to *do* with Kurt Hummel. "Hm."
Azimio smirked wickedly, flashing teeth. "But I don't think he'll be wearin' it again anytime soon." He reached into the pocket of his letterman jacket. "Want a feather, bro?" He tossed a handful of feathers into the air, laughing as a cloud of colored fluff came down on Dave's head.
Az had ripped up the kid's hat? Weren't those things, like, expensive? He knew Azimio's mom had freaked out when they were six years old and she'd caught them using her hats in a game of African American Cowboys and Caucasian Indians. But the one with the huge peacock feathers had been *perfect* for the Chief of the Puritan Tribe and the one with the fringe had made an awesome James Earl Jones Wayne hat.
Dave brushed a feather off his shoulder, a nagging feeling of guilt rising in his chest. He'd been feeling that a lot lately when he was hanging out with Azimio. They'd never been the nicest guys on the block, but since Az had made the football team sophomore year… really, they'd just become kind of assholes. It wasn't right.
But it was better than getting a slushy in the face every morning.
"Hey man, I gotta get to Calc." Azim punched him lightly. "Seriously, bro, I am in *way* too many damn honors classes. Be glad you dropped the high brow math. What the hell do we need to know this shit for anyway?"
"Um, well, probably for getting your B.S. I'm pretty sure they make you take math in college, even if you won't need it so much to be a marine biolog—"
"Dude, shhhh!" Azimio shoved him lightly, glancing around nervously. "What happened to the Bro Vow of Silence? You don't tell the world how I got a poster from 'Free Willy' on my bedroom wall for reasons other than the oh-so-obvious joke I told Puckerman—why the hell did they name that poor orca 'Willy' anyway?—and I don't tell your daddy that you put your Spiderman boxers in with all his white golf shirts on purpose!"
Dave snickered. "That was pretty smooth of you, explaining that poster away, actually. Puckerman now thinks you have a whale of a dick."
"Dude. Orcas are dolphins."
"You might not wanna tell him that. Dolphin dicks just aren't as impressive."
Azimio snorted and raised his fist. "Later, man."
Dave knocked his fist lightly against Azimio's, shifting his backpack to the other shoulder. "Later."
The boy took off down the hall and Dave sighed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Time for English. He had kind of liked English once, before his hockey buddies had caught him reading 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,' anyway. They hadn't even given him time to explain that it was required reading before they were wrapping duct tape around his balls.
And it had been kind of a cool book, too. Way trippy.
"Did you *see* what she was wearing?"
Dave jumped at the high voice behind him, automatically glancing over his shoulder then jerking his head back, forcing his eyes to the floor.
He did not want to look at Kurt Hummel. He did not want to look at Kurt Hummel.
The fat black chick belted a laugh like she belted those stupid songs. "I saw, boy, but I don't know *what* I saw!"
"I think it was supposed to be, like, an ostrich? Whatever it was, if did not belong on a sweater! And for the love of all things fashion—where did she find a skirt in that *color*? I swear, my eyes were about to *bleed*."
Dave swallowed hard as the voices came closer, hunching his shoulders down. He would not look. He would not look. As long as he didn't see him, maybe he wasn't really there.
Fucked up logic, yes, but it was the closest to sensible he got when it came to Kurt Hummel. Every time he saw that boy he just wanted to run, to scream, to grab the pretty bitch and shake him and yell in his face.
Add a little chest pounding to the mix and he really *would* be the Neanderthal that Fancy claimed he was.
It just wasn't fair. This was a pretty big school. There were more than, like, ten people, anyway. Yet every time he turned around in this damn building, there he was, all shiny and fancy, dressed up in his Freaky Sunday Best. Where had he learned to dress like that? Where did he even *find* those clothes? Not in the men's department at Wal Mart like most of the dudes in this school, anyway. Dave was pretty sure that the sparkly pink thing Kurt had worn to science class yesterday was sold in the women's lingerie section.
Why the hell couldn't he seem to escape Kurt Hummel?
Dave gritted his teeth, jamming his hands harder into his pockets. He *had* to stop letting the fairy get to him. He shouldn't even *care* about the boy. The only reason he even knew his name was because whenever he and Azimio would do their homework together, Az would start complaining about being paired with the boy. That was how Dave had learned to say, 'You think I'm a moron? How about you get on your knees and suck my big dick, you irritating son of a bitch.' in French.
Of course, he never got to *use* his not-so-extensive knowledge of French because football players didn't speak French. Unless you were Azimio. But he didn't *really,* because he pretended he didn't. So, yeah. Speaking French equaled Not Cool if you were a jock. Maybe. Sort of. Oh, who the fuck even knew?
Somebody needed to suck it up and write a damn list of these things, because Dave got *really* tired of feeling mildly sick to the stomach every time he played Farmville on Facebook because it was still up in the air with his jock friends whether that was 'cool' or 'gay.'
"And so I told her—sweetheart, that cannot be your color, because *that* is *nobody's* color!"
A shiver ran down Dave's spine as that girly little laugh seemed to echo through the hallway. It made him feel… strange. In a good way. Kind of like cupcakes and jujubes did. But that wasn't right. Because that girly little giggle wasn't from a girl. So he shouldn't be liking it. Not as much as cupcakes, anyway.
"Please God, please God, please God," he murmured, too quiet for anyone to hear, as he ducked his head, eyes trailing to the side as the pair of Gleeks walked by. He just needed to keep his head low, take deep breaths, and just ignore—
Kurt giggled again and there was a tightening between Dave's legs. DAMMIT!
He didn't think about it. He just did it. Which, in retrospect, was kind of scary. But next thing Dave knew, his shoulder was slamming hard into that slim form, sending the boy flying into the lockers with a loud bang.
Oh, God, why had he done that?
Adrenaline rushed through his veins and Dave choked back the panic, taking off down the hall. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see a pile of pink plaid groaning on the floor. He didn't want to see Kurt Hummel at all. He just wanted to forget him.
Dave's gorge rose a little as his cock twitched again and he continued to race down the hallway, looking left and right for some sort of sanctuary, someplace that he could go. Someplace very, very devoid of Kurt Hummel.
He ducked into the locker rooms, slamming the door behind him, and dropped his backpack to the floor, shoving it hard against the closed door so that he would have at least a few seconds of warning before anyone barged in on him.
Deep breaths. He just needed to breathe…
Dave collapsed onto the bench and dropped his head into his hands, letting out a choked little sob.
"Why?" he said to no one as he yanked at his own hair. "Why? Why is this happening?"
This wasn't right. This wasn't good. And it was just getting worse.
At first it had just been a general feeling. Like he was different. But all teens felt like that, right? It was normal to feel, well, *not* normal. It was part of growing up.
Then he had begun to notice that the things that made his boys get all excited didn't do shit for him. That had… scared him… for awhile. But then he'd thought, okay—maybe he just wasn't as… into it as they were. He believed that you should wait, at least until you were with someone you loved, if not for marriage. So he was just being a good Christian. He could deal with that.
And then Kurt Hummel had come along. Hell, he didn't even know for sure that the kid was queer. He hadn't ever said anything to him that wasn't an insult. And just because everybody called him a homo didn't mean he was gay. Dave's mom knew this girly, flamboyant hairdresser dude who was married with, like, five kids. But for some reason he had just caught Dave's eye. And once he had looked, he couldn't stop.
He just wanted to stop!
Dave let out another little sob. He was losing his mind. And shoving little miss fancy pants wasn't going to help. Being… interested… in boys might not be right, but Dave was pretty sure that Jesus wouldn't approve of him taking out his anger on some kid, either.
Of course, Dave did a lot of things he didn't think Jesus would approve of. Fighting. Cursing. Pantsing freshmen. Throwing kids into the Dupster. But somehow this was just more personal.
Maybe bullying people just so you'd look cool to other dudes wasn't right. But this thing with Kurt? It was so much more. Every time he saw him, he just wanted to do *something,* something he was sure God would not be okay with, because maybe if he could just get Kurt Hummel out of his sight then the things that he thought about him would just disappear. And then Dave could go back to being normal.
Dave took a deep breath. His heart was pounding, there was sweat building at his temples, and he was gasping like he'd just run wind sprints. Why, why, why was this happening to him?
"I'm sorry," he said, fighting back tears. As upset as he was, the last thing he wanted was someone like Noah Puckerman or Finn Hudson walking in on him crying like a baby. Then *he'd* be the one the football team was tossing into Dumpsters.
"I'm sorry, God. I don't know what I'm doing. Father, why am I feeling like this? I don't think it's right, but I don't know how to stop. I shouldn't be taking it out on some kid… I'm the one who…" He rubbed roughly between his thighs, grimacing. "Why won't it go away? Please, please, please just make it go away? I can't make it go away. Especially not with *him* around. I just… I can't, Lord."
His pastor said that God placed angels around the world and that you should always be kind and giving to people because you never knew when it might be Jesus Himself that you were talking to.
Dave really hoped that Kurt Hummel wasn't as much of an angel as he seemed, because if so, then Jesus was probably pretty pissed with Dave. Aw, who was he kidding? He was probably pissed with Dave anyway.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Just… just help me. I don't even know what to ask for. I just need help. Please, Jesus, just give me some help."
The warning bell rang and Dave jumped a little. Class. He needed to go to class. Right.
Dave took a deep breath, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the tears on his cheeks as he stood. He licked his lips as he picked up his bag. He needed to pull it together. Just go to class and act normal.
God help him.
.
oooooo
.
The boy stood out like a straight man in old, grey sweatpants at a Lady GaGa concert. All dressed up in his fancy little jacket, shimmering different colors as the light from the windows set high up in the Dalton hallways danced across it. While it did have a taste of 'schoolboy' to it, the effort was so ridiculous that it should have been laughable. But actually, Blaine found it rather adorable, even if the wide, crossing lapels of his jacket were a bit more Hugh Hefner than Dalton uniform.
A ridiculous effort, but a beautiful one. High fashion that just bordered on the absurd. The circus queen in Blaine approved.
The boy would look lovely in carnival clothes. A ringmaster coat, perhaps? Red velvet with black accents, cut in a bolero style to highlight that delicate chest. A colorful taffeta collar, the updated version of an Elizabethan ruff, and a few carefully placed feathers in his neatly coiffed hair. Black and white striped trousers and snappy Victorian boots that laced to mid-thigh.
A striking image. The boy was a natural performer, Blaine could tell. He would do well in the circus if he could handle the gypsy lifestyle. If not, well, Hollywood was always calling.
Blaine started slightly as David spoke up from behind him, turning his eyes away from the delicate boy up on the balcony to look at his classmate.
"What in the world is he doing here?"
Wes came up beside them, his eyes narrowing, a calculating look on his face. Blaine hid his amusement. Really, the boy needed to *relax.*
"I'm not certain, David." Wes answered. "Perhaps the school hired a new *maid*?" This was received with a wave of chuckles from Wes' collection of adoring underclassmen and Blaine resisted the urge to roll his eyes, flashing a bright smile instead as he raised an eyebrow.
"Now, play nice, gentleman," he chided lightly, leaving off the poetic addendum in which he called them all rich, stuck-up pricks. Blaine loved Dalton—its elegantly winding staircases and arched ceilings made him feel as though he was living on a stage—but the boys who attended the school could be quite the pretentious assholes when they tried. Or didn't try. But it wasn't really their fault—they were born to it. "Maybe he is just considering attending the school. Here for a tour, perhaps?"
David sniffed. "With that rag tag collection of clothing? I seriously doubt he could afford the textbooks, much less the tuition. He looks like a thrift store fashion doll." The boys' underclassmen groupies burst into laughter and David gave a little bow as if he had actually said something of wit.
Blaine just shook his head. Really, someone should let that poor soul in on just how obvious his jealousy was. Every time he saw someone dressed better than a garbage collector in Community Service Orange, he started making smart comments-yet he still managed to dress like a strange combination of Elton John circa 1982 and Posh Spice, even after all those hours spent poring over fashion magazines.
"Hey, I know who he is!" a random freshman practically shouted, looking disturbingly proud of himself. Blaine wasn't quite sure what the boys name was—he was still being hazed and would remain Freshman Number… Something… until the Grand Council of Warblers and Popular Boys decided otherwise. "My brother goes to Lima Heights High and I saw that kid at a football game. Can you believe he plays football? He's so small… Anyway, that's Carl or Chris or Curt or something. He goes to McKinley. He's excessively gay."
Blaine raised a hand to cover his snort of amusement. Excessively gay. They went to an all boys school and wore matching outfits. *That* was excessively gay. If the boy thought 'extravagant' was equivocal to 'gay,' then Blaine must take him backstage at the circus sometime. It would be a whole new world. Of rainbows and unicorns.
"You don't have to be *big* to play football," one of the richer boys, Jameson said, tipping his nose so far up in the air that he could probably see his own back.
"American football, Jameson. You need to be big for *American* football," Blaine said, smiling openly, as if he really believed that Jameson had been confused. American football. The football of the sountry where they *lived.*
Many of the boys at Dalton loved to play old money, though from his meetings of true European 'old money,' Blaine had found that those with royal titles seemed to be the ones most set on pleasing Dionysius. They sure took in a lot of wine, anyway. He didn't know who, exactly, Jameson thought he was fooling. His father was on the city council, not cousin to the Vanderbilts.
"Is he a spy?" Wes questioned, eyes narrowing. "After hearing what went down at the Sectionals McKinley won last year I purchased a safe for our sheet music. But he *is* from a poor school. He may be capable of breaking into it. We can't have them stealing our set list!"
"Perhaps we should call the police," Blaine said dryly, smirking a little. "Or the FBI. He might be on the terrorist watch list."
David gave a sharp nod. "You're right, Blaine. We need to contact someone about this."
Blaine let out a choked laugh. He was right? Really, these boys could be insane at times. If they thought McKinley was poor, they should see the school he'd attended only a few years ago. Those boys weren't capable of breaking into safes, but they could certainly bust your head in and steal your wallet.
"I don't think the stealing of show choir numbers is a federal offense, David. And considering that every song we have considered can be found in the top fifty Billboard charts, well, I don't think he's here to appropriate our sheet music. And I seriously doubt he is a safecracker. Just his undercover wear leaves a lot to be desired."
Which just brought up another question: Why *was* the boy here? Certainly he had something better to so than skulk around their campus. What could he really get from it? That they enjoyed doing acapella pop songs? If he had wanted to see them perform he could have simply Google'd the Dalton Warblers and watched them sing 'Backstreet's Back' at last years Sectional performance on YouTube.
Silly boy.
Silly, but fascinating. *Very* fascinating.
The boy turned on the balcony, his eyes meeting briefly with Blaine's before he jerked his head away, blushing and hunching his shoulders.
Blaine's eyes narrowed. It wasn't just fear of being caught making the obviously outgoing little nymph slump and shy away. Blaine knew that tired, wary, beaten down look. He had seen it before, many times. Every time he looked into a mirror without bothering with his masks.
Oh, the boy wasn't anywhere as broken as Blaine was, but he knew well that the deepest wounds could start with the smallest scratch. A scratch that would fester and grow until you couldn't even bear to show your real face to the world anymore.
It had been a long time since Blaine had seen a face as open to the world as this boy's was. Dalton suppressed the kind of wild creativity that surrounded this boy, that exotic air that practically shouted 'I am a performer, look at me!' A free energy. It was a kind of flaunting, but innocent. Not looking to take, just to grace the world with his presence. An artist to the core. Definitely the kind of boy who would someday put on a big show.
One of the Dalton students passed the boy on the balcony and he flinched a little before he caught himself, straightening and trying to play 'proud'. Blaine frowned. Yes, the boy would put on a big show. *If* he made it intact to opening night. Not everyone did.
This boy wasn't the only one who once been a free spirit.
"How about if you gentlemen let me deal with him?" Blaine spoke up suddenly, interrupting an Unknown Freshman's rant on betrayal and thievery and the 5th Amendment and the various uses of cocoa butter as a form of torture.
"I don't know, Blaine," Wes said, eyeing the boy with the greatest of suspicion. "I don't like this."
David snorted. "No one who dresses like *that* is any threat to us, Wes."
This time Blaine *did* roll his eyes. "Really, David," he said, his usual dopey smile combined with a sickly sweet tone. "It is *not* that little boy's fault that you are incapable of dressing yourself in a manner that is *not* reminiscent of Lil' Wayne in drag. So let up on him already, okay?"
This time the giggles amongst the Freshmeat Brigade were scattered as they cast nervous glances between David and Blaine, obviously unsure where they should side. Blaine took pity on the underage masses and gave them a little wink, halting the giggles. He could understand their fear. David was *not* above reporting students for 'inappropriate behavior' and landing them a job mucking the stables.
Thinking your own thoughts at Dalton was almost as dangerous as speaking your mind. They might not punch you in the face, but 'cold shoulder' took on a whole new meaning. As in your shoulders were really cold as you scrubbed an upperclassman's bathroom in your underwear. Seriously, talk about a ride straight to the social wastelands.
Blaine was lucky that he belonged to the wealthiest father in the school, or he probably would have spent quite a lot of time thinking his own thoughts while covered in horse shit. Especially freshman year, when the ringmaster in him had refused to answer to his Freshman Number, the clown in him had insisted on being front and center for every Warbler number, and the fire dancer in him had decorated his Dalton tie with red and blue sequins. Or perhaps that was just the *flamer* in him.
What could he say? He would always be a child of the circus at heart and he would always define 'home' as a place that traveled like the wind. But not even the Supreme Court of Warblers had dared to challenge a member of one of the founding families of the school. Just like they hadn't dared to speak a word about how his Papa had miraculously found him out of absolutely nowhere, his long lost son, and embraced him fully. As long as he lived at a separate residence that was both an easy traveling distance from the family seat and far enough away that *Mrs.* Anderson never had to see his pretty face. And that he could embrace him very, very fully.
Not that the rumors hadn't flown. Blaine did have a… certain reputation. But it was a better reputation than he had ever had before. He had a gypsy's heart. Being called an aristocratic whore was practically a compliment.
Unfortunately, after a few dozen calls from the principal and a meeting of the Parent/Teacher Association called entirely in his honor, even his most astounding acrobatic moves hadn't been enough to keep his papa from stepping in. And so Blaine's sequins and beads had been retired from the halls of Dalton. But that was all right. Because his most beautiful masks were all in his mind.
Now, he just needed to word his plea carefully… "Look, we were planning to perform today anyway. We might as well let let the spy get a taste of what their little group of paupers will be up against at Sectionals. When he sees how amazing we are, he'll run back to his group and, next thing you know, they will all be spiraling into misery."
Blaine smiled and the Warblers nodded. Of course they would believe that. It was what had happened when *they* visited Carmel High and saw Vocal Adrenaline, after all. One look at that troupe and their spirits had dropped like a rock, leaving them to fail miserably at Sectionals. This was high society and most of these boys had been born to it. The concept of 'working' for something was beyond them. From birth their parents had pounded into them the importance of connections and social status. *That* was what one put one's efforts into. Not into putting on a fabulously fantastic show.
They weren't born in the circus, after all.
The idea that seeing an amazing performance actually made people strive to be *better*… it was just beyond them.
Wes nodded slowly, his face so serious you would have thought he was contemplating whether or not the poor should have to feed their babies to the rich. "All right," he said finally, his Sergeant General persona suddenly coming over him. "Warblers, in the Senior Commons. Ten minutes. Freshmen, spread the word around the school." He pointed at Blaine. "You get the spy where we want him. Afterward you, David, and I will have a little chat with our Glee club pirate."
Blaine choked back a laugh. Maybe then they could rent a ship and make the boy walk the plank, too. If nothing else, the delicate little fairy would look adorable trussed up as a pirate queen.
"Okay, them. Warblers—let's sing!"
Blaine glanced back up at the balcony as the boys all split apart, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, mon petit, God save your soul. You have incited a Warbler riot."
He leaned back with a chuckle as boys in uniform began to rush by, enjoying the wide-eyed look passing over that lovely face. Really, such a delicate boy. Nymph like.
Blaine cocked his head to the side, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied the boy. What mask should he wear to approach him? A little kindness, done up in antiqued pink silk? Joy, in all its purple sequined glory? Some generosity, with its minimalist yet ever entrancing beading? What would the boy like to see the most?
Hm…
One of the Dalton students bumped the boy and he ducked a little, glancing nervously around. A slow smile spread across Blaine's face. Yes, he knew exactly which mask to tie around his face.
The feathers of acceptance arched high and proud, shining colors like a rainbow after the storm.
Voices grew louder as more and more Dalton boys fled into the halls, eager for any chance to avoid sitting through yet another class, and the boy began to move, his steps hesitant as he made his way over to the staircase.
Blaine took a deep breath, brightening his eyes and widening his smile until white teeth sparkled. It was time for the show.
"Break a leg, mon petit," he murmured with a little laugh at his own sentiment.
The flood of uniformed boys washed around him as he started up the stairwell, purposely positioning himself to bump the boy ever so slightly, causing those pale, pretty cheeks to flush with nervousness.
Blaine gave him a comforting look. His 'mon petit' would be all right. Blaine would make sure the other Warblers didn't eat him.
Back and forth, back and forth, the boy shifted as he came to a halt on the stairwell, obviously nervous as he watched the rioting hallway with wide eyes. "Excuse me?" he said, voice a little shaky as he smiled at Blaine. "Can I ask you a question? I'm new here…"
Blaine took his smile up a notch. A true stage smile. His maman would be proud. "Hi, my name is Blaine!" He moved closer to the boy, an intimate, yet friendly, distance.
"I'm Kurt." He looked around again, looking a bit like the lost little orphan in an old storybook. "So… what is going on here?"
Other than the halt of his infiltration? Blaine smiled kindly and gave a casual shrug. Acceptance. He was going for acceptace… He spread is hands wide, a friendly gesture. "The Warblers!"
Obviously. Why in the *world* wouldn't you *know* this, mon petit? Doesn't your school go into panic more at every excuse to ditch class, or do they just throw rotten fruit at you?
Blaine silenced his inner smart ass and let out a little laugh. "Every now and then they throw an impromptu concert in the Senior Commons. It tends to shut down the school for awhile."
The shock on Kurt's face was nothing short of adorable. "Wait, so the Glee club is kind of cool here?"
Rich, powerful people were kind of cool here and the Warblers certainly had a'plenty of those. "The Warblers are like rock stars." Blaine's smile grew wider for real as he watched those eyes light up. So open, so real. It was beautiful.
Innocence was so beautiful. So, so beautiful…
Blaine held out his hand. He shouldn't be flirting like this. His papa would certainly not like it, and it wasn't fair to the boy, either.
The type of high society that filled the hallways of Dalton understood the subtle meanings behind who-and what-exactly a *long, lost son* was, even if no one dared to speak of it. In public, anyway. This boy was below that. Or above it, in a moral sense. But Blaine couldn't help himself. This was a boy who was born to be clothes in feathers and sequins. It felt like home. And Blaine never missed home more than when he was dressed in the drab attire of Dalton, safe as it might be.
"Come on. I know a short cut."
And off they went. The Principal's Hall was actually forbidden to students, but Blaine really didn't care much for authority anyway. It was pointless to tell a gypsy where he could and could not roam.
Blaine let out a laugh as he tugged Kurt behind him. It was like running in slow motion, watching the boy's face flash with pleasure like a spotlight coming to life in the ring. So very beautiful.
He *really* should not be thinking like this.
"Oh, I stick out like a sore thumb," Kurt said, voice obviously stressed, as they came to a halt just inside the Commons.
Blaine held back a laugh. His 'mon petit' needed to relax. Everyone had already noticed him. How could anyone miss him?
"Well, next time don't forget your jacket, new kid!" Blaine tugged at one of those bright lapels. "You'll fit right in!" God, he was enjoying this way too much. He glanced around a little nervously, wondering if any of the boys had noticed just how *much* Blaine was enjoying this. He knew good and well that no one in this room was above dropping a few words to his papa if they felt it might rattle the lion's cage.
There really wasn't much to do in high society. You had all the food, drink, clothing, and shelter you needed, which left a lot of time for pure recreation. After the golfing and the horseback riding and the hunting and the parties got old, there just wasn't much left to do except attempt to rip other people's lives apart.
There were times when Blaine truly missed good, old hard work, be it honest or not. At least it was still work. And at least *he* still worked for his feed, honest though it *definitely* was not.
He smiled brightly, tearing himself away from his thoughts as one of the Warblers gestured for him to join them. "Excuse me." He hated to release that pale hand, but the show must go on.
.
oooooo
.
Maybe doing 'Teenage Dream' had been a bit showy, but Blaine hadn't been able to stop himself. There was just something about this boy, in his velvet jacket that wavered in color like an angry sea as the light shown down on it. So pretty with his flippy bangs and his elegant posture.
Even the way Kurt held himself was lovely, with in inner pride that only the most artistic, outgoing souls possessed. It reminded Blaine of people and places he hadn't seen in years. He was drawn to this boy, and he shouldn't be. It was a recipe for disaster, like poison in his teacup. Blaine wore too many masks, so many that somedays he looked into the mirror and wondered if that face he saw was just a mask itself. This boy was fresh, young, and open. He deserved better than a jester with a thousand different faces.
And Blaine's papa would *not* be pleased. Not pleased *at all.* And, depending on his mood, a displeased papa could very well mean a new collection of colors on his skin. Dark, angry colors, like black and blue and purple and green.
But looking at that bright soul was like looking back into the past. It was addictive.
"Latte?" Blaine held out the coffee like a six dollar olive branch, smiling kindly at the boy in an effort to offset the steady glare Wes was directing toward him. A real, open smile. Not even a mask.
It felt nice. It wasn't often that Blaine smiled for real.
He settled down at the table, gesturing to the boys on either side of him. "This is Wes and David."
Kurt ducked his head a little as he sipped at his coffee, looking embarrassed. "It's very civilized of you to invite me for coffee before you beat me up for spying."
David looked like he was about to say something snippy, probably regarding Kurt's obviously better fashion sense, but Blaine kicked him lightly under the table. He had told the boys to play nice before they entered the room, but old habits were hard to break.
Not that Blaine didn't genuinely like David and Wes—they were two of his best friends—but there was just a natural snobbery to them that, if you wanted to be around them, you had to learn to accept. They didn't even see it, none of the boys at Dalton did. They were all raised amongst people that just… acted like that. You just had to acknowledge the fact that they would always have a superior attitude and accept that they didn't mean anything by it. But it took awhile to process for those who hadn't been raised by the Prince Charles and Barbara Bush.
"We are *not* going to beat you up," Wes said, sounding mildly shocked at the idea.
Blaine his an amused smile behind his coffee cup. No, the Warblers would never lower themselves to beating someone up. They would just make you feel like an unwanted pauper. But, hey, all paupers were unwanted, right?
Really, once you got used to the fact that they were arrogant pricks, it actually was quite funny.
"Especially since you were so bad at spying that it was really kind of endearing," David put in. Probably the nicest thing that Blaine had ever heard the boy say to anyone who knew better than to mix plaids with tie-dye.
But it *was* very true. If Kurt had *really* wanted to spy, he could have done a little better than a jacket that looked like it was woven from peacock feathers. "Which makes me think," Blaine said seriously, leaning forward a little, "that spying wasn't the real reason you came." He gave the other boy a gentle smile and was rewarded with one in return.
Wes looked at him funny, and David just continued to stare at Kurt's jacket like maybe it would jump over the table and happen to land on his back. That would probably make his day.
"Can I ask you guys a question?" An embarrassed pause. "Are you guys all gay?"
Blaine let out a little laugh, shaking his head in amusement. Yes, it was a homosexual boarding school straight out of every pedophile's wet dreams.
He smiled kindly when the other boy blushed. "Uh-uh, no. I mean, *I* am," he put a hand dramatically to his chest. Because he was. He was also the 'long lost son' of a rich man with a fetish for curly hair and underage boys, but that was a different conversation all together. "But these two have girlfriends."
Though Blaine was fairly sure that David's parents were having to pay his girlfriend's parents a dowry. He spent a little too much time looking at fashion magazines for any of the socialite ladies to want to take a risk on him. Next thing she knew, *David* might have a long lost son.
"This is not a gay school," David said, looking pleased to once again have at least the appearance of control, even without Kurt's fabulous jacket. "We just have a zero tolerance policy."
Yes, mon petit, a zero tolerance policy. Zero tolerance for the extraordinary. But Dalton was a safe school, and his papa was a safe man, and maman was in a safe place. For all this Blaine could accept the ordinary. At least for a little while.
"Everyone gets treated the same no matter what they are, it's that simple," Wes said, smiling as if he hadn't had two freshmen folding his laundry that very morning.
The look on Kurt's face was so disbelieving yet hopeful that it made Blaine's heart ache. He cleared his throat.
"Can you guys excuse us?" Blaine said, shooting pointed looks at his fellow Warblers. He needed to talk to this Kurt boy, alone. The fact that the first thing out of his mouth had been regarding his sexuality…
He needed to speak with someone who understood what it felt like to be persecuted for being who you were, and that was certainly not the rich boys that filled this school's halls.
Thankfully the two wandered off with just a few suspicious glares at Blaine, though he would probably have to sit through a twenty minute lecture later on the appropriate behavior of junior students toward the clearly superior seniors. But that was okay if it would give him time to talk with Kurt.
He could always fantasize about making love to Captain Jack Sparrow while Wes babbled.
"I take it you're having trouble at school."
The boy looked off to the side, chewing nervously at his lower lip. "I… I'm the only one out of the closet at my school. I tried to stay strong about it, but there's this Neanderthal who's made it his mission to make my life a living hell. And no one seems to notice."
A little throb of pain rose in Blaine's chest. He understood. He understood very well.
"I know how you feel." More than Kurt would ever know. It wasn't just in the school hallways that Blaine had felt the sharp, slicing taunts. From the day of his birth people had hated him and his broad, extravagant family just for being who they were.
"I got taunted at my old school and it really pissed me off. I even complained about it to faculty and they were sympathetic and all…" As sympathetic as Sarah Palin toward Ellen Degeneres. "But you could just tell no one really cared. It was like, hey, if you're gay your life is going to be miserable and there's nothing we can do about it." He shrugged. "So I left and came here, simple as that."
Simple as that. All the pain, the grief, the hope, and the fear bundled up into those three words, like an elephant stuffed into a circus trailer.
"So, you've got two options." More than Blaine had, at least. This boy was still an innocent soul, his nature pure and his hope real. "I mean, I'd love to tell you to come and roll here—" and not at *all* because he found his 'mon petit' so very enthralling,"—but tuition at Dalton's is kind of steep and I know that's not an option for everyone." It hadn't been an option for Blaine. Not before. Before he had fallen into his long lost papa's arms. Fallen into his arms then laid back and spread his legs, that is. "Or you can refuse to be the victim."
Because boys like Kurt *were* victims. Blaine… Blaine had been many things. But not a victim. No matter how young he had been, how innocent he may have seemed, he had accepted that he was different, and had been proud of the fact. He had chosen to take the chance. From the first time his maman had painted his face in bright colors and stars he had known that he would be scorned, written off as trash. But that was who he had wanted to be, a choice that he had made. Being gay? By the time he was old enough to understand it, it didn't even matter. He had been laying with men for years just to scrape by. Who cared if he didn't like breasts?
But Kurt… for Kurt it wasn't so simple. The choice had been made for him, before he was even born, when God had first decided that Kurt Hummel would love differently.
"Prejudice is just ignorance, Kurt, and you have a chance right now to teach him." Teach him something that might change his life, and the lives of a dozen people in the future.
Blaine's maman had never yelled or cried when people put her down or called her names. She had just smiled, ran her hands through his curls, and told him that in order to lead them down the right path you had to confront them, not with anger or hatred, but with kindness and understanding, because people's hearts were like dominoes. And if you could touch just one, they would touch another, who would touch another, and before you knew it the dominoes were spiraling in until every single heart had been touched.
Blaine smiled kindly as Kurt stared at him with wide, confused eyes. "How?" He sounded so lost.
Blaine understood how that felt, too.
"Confront him. Call him out." Don't let the hatred continue like Blaine had. Don't just lay there while they run their hands across your body and speak hateful words and do nothing. Don't just leave them with hard hearts that will strike another heart and another and another until every heart is broken. "I didn't stand up. I let the bullies chase me away." He'd taken the easy path. But sometimes he wondered if the easy path wasn't the one that hurt the worst. "And it is something that I really, really regret."
He took a deep breath, steadying himself even as he blinked back tears. Courage. He had to wear his courage. Because as long as the mask was brave and strong, no one could see the tears fall.
Kurt stared at him for a moment, then a smile spread across his face.
It warmed Blaine's heart.
Everyone take a bow.