I do not own Glee. I do, however, enjoy playing around in its brilliant universe every now and then.


Chapter Three

"Scavenging"


(The Question Game)

"Hungry?" Blaine asked as he shrugged his satchel off of his shoulder and closed the heavy mahogany door behind him.

Kurt dumped his bag next to Blaine's and allowed his eyes to wander around the foyer area of the Anderson residence again. He still wasn't used to this kind of opulence—every time he saw it, the wonder began anew. "A little," he said, and then his stomach let out a monstrous growl. Blaine raised his brows and grinned, and Kurt reddened. "Alright, a lot. I'm not accustomed to skipping lunch in favour of serenades."

Kurt's first day had been a strange whirlwind of an experience. His classes themselves all seemed to be fairly run-of-the-mill, but everything else was like a kick to the head—one that was more disorienting than painful. He and Blaine had stayed after school for Warbler practice, and Kurt had been surprised at how vastly different it had been to Glee Club meetings at McKinley. It was as though he was in some strange land of opposites, he had decided. Ms. Harburn had none of Mr. Schuester's unconquerable enthusiasm, often zoning out or doing paperwork during practice. The Warbler boys, on the other hand, were a surprisingly eager, musical and tight-knit bunch. Their love for singing was a welcome contrast to the couldn't-care-less attitude that hung over the heads of half of the members of New Directions. It was hugely refreshing.

Kurt had just started to follow Blaine into the kitchen when there was a heavy sound of footsteps descending a staircase. "Blaine?" Evelyn, hurrying to secure a bracelet to her wrist, skidded to a halt on the landing. "Your father and I are going out to dinner with the Pavlichs." She smoothed down her silky blouse and rifled through her clutch purse for something. "Here..." She dropped a wad of cash into her son's hand. "Get yourselves something to eat. We'll be home late."

All of this was said in a matter of seconds, and Blaine stood still as she pecked his cheek hastily and then offered a tiny wave of acknowledgement to Kurt. The staircase creaked again and Paul appeared, loping lazily down the steps as he finished adjusting his tie. "All set?" he asked his wife. Then, his eyes flicked up and found Blaine and Kurt where they were standing side by side. Something in his jaw tightened. "Blaine," he said shortly, "why don't you head over to the gym tonight? I'm sure Kurt will by fine by himself. He needs some time to adjust." The words were spoken as though Kurt were elsewhere, and not standing right in the centre of the conversation.

Blaine swallowed. There was a hard look in his eyes. "No thanks," he replied, his gaze unfaltering.

Paul stared back, and there were a few highly charged seconds of silence. Finally, Evelyn pulled lightly on her husband's crisp sleeve. "Come on, we'll be late," she said. "Have a good night, boys."

As they exited the house, Kurt felt a tiny sliver of disappointment pierce his skin. Part of him had been hoping that maybe Paul would help him to contact Burt tonight. He was already missing his dad like crazy, and although he didn't want to push the issue, he had been hanging onto the hope that he would get a Skype call at some point in the near future.

"God, I'm sorry about my dad," Blaine muttered as they finally made it into the kitchen.

"Hey, no, it's fine."

"No, it's not. If he has a problem with you and me being alone in the house together, he should just say it."

Kurt blushed at this, coming to a halt by the counter while Blaine dug through a drawer on the other side.

"Sometimes his stupidity just blows me away," Blaine continued darkly as he extracted a little, worn notebook and shoved the drawer shut a little more harshly than was necessary. He adopted a deep, mocking voice. "Oh no, I can't leave my gay son alone with another guy... Clearly, they're going to ravish each other. I know! I'll send him to pump some iron in the gym instead." He snorted and shook his head.

Kurt, who felt something warm coil in his stomach at the word 'ravish' and the look of Blaine's straining bicep beneath his thin Dalton shirt, managed a weak shrug.

"Ugh, sorry," Blaine looked up apologetically through a thick haze of eyelashes. "I don't know why I'm forcing this on you. He just... really pisses me off. Food?" He held up the notebook with a sheepish expression.

"Sure," said Kurt, vaguely wondering what a spiral-bound notebook had to do with dinner.

As if reading his thoughts, Blaine explained: "It's where we keep all the take-out numbers. What do you want? Pizza, Chinese..." He leaned onto the smooth surface of the counter and flipped a page.

"Umm," Kurt deliberated. One night of excessive sodium wouldn't kill him, and besides, he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. "... Whatever you want. I don't mind."

"How do you feel about Baluchi's?"

Kurt looked blankly at him. "... I feel like it sounds a lot like 'blue cheese'?"

Blaine laughed. "It's Indian food. Their samosas are out of this world. As long as you don't have a problem with spicy food."

"No, sounds good," Kurt replied.

They decided on a couple of dishes and Blaine phoned the order in while Kurt headed upstairs to change out of his uniform. He went through three different outfits before deciding on a loose-fitting Alexander McQueen sweater and a dark pair of jeans, and then spent about ten minutes in front of the mirror styling his hair to perfection. It was stupid, maybe, but there was something about Blaine that made him incredibly conscious of the way he looked—even more so than usual, if that were at all possible.

When he wandered back into the downstairs area, he came upon a very strange sight. Blaine was crouched over on the living room floor, black polo shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin at the base of his spine, and appeared to be wrestling fiercely with something.

"Ow! Damn it." He sprang back and a ball of grey fur shot out from under his arms with a loud hiss, firing into the kitchen with the speed and accuracy of a missile.

As Blaine deflated visibly where he sat on the ground, Kurt coughed to announce his presence. "...Are you okay?"

The boy on the floor spun around. His hair was mussed up slightly and he had what looked like scratch marks all down his right arm. In his other hand, he was holding a small pill container. "Fine," he sighed. "Just trying to give Collins his medicine. He's... not exactly cooperating."

"I didn't even realize you had a cat."

"Probably because he hates us and likes to pretend he doesn't live here," Blaine explained darkly. Dusting off his jeans, he rose to his feet. "I'm pretty sure he has an elaborate network of secret passages in the walls or something."

For a very, very short instant, both boys stared at one another. Kurt couldn't help but let his eyes trail over the way Blaine's dark shirt hugged his thin waist, and as he felt Blaine's gaze wash over his own body, a strange thrill passed through him. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before.

In the end, the moment was so short-lived neither of them was sure it had actually happened. Blaine cleared his throat and elaborated: "Anyway, he had surgery a couple of weeks ago and he's supposed to be taking these antibiotics." His cheeks were a little pink, though that could easily have been attributed to the previous cat-wrangling exertion.

Kurt pressed his lips into a sympathetic line. "Anything I can do to help?"

It was a question he regretted ten minutes later when he and Blaine were covered in a myriad of scratches and Kurt had little tooth marks in the sleeve of his sweater that he knew he would forever lament. Collins was a crafty little thing, and his claws were as lethal as a small set of knives. He was proving to be quite the adversary.

"Okay, Plan Q... or is it R?" Blaine panted as he emerged from the kitchen holding a colander. He was wearing knee pads and a helmet, and his pocket bulged with the outline of the cat pill dispenser that was so far failing miserably at its job. "This time, after you launch the skateboard, I immediately set off the laundry basket trap and we use this," he brandished the colander, "to scoop him out and prevent further injury."

Kurt dropped the pillow he had been using as a shield. "Your cat is a ninja," he said bluntly. "I think we're going to need a military-level trap if we want to accomplish this before we hit the end of the Plan Alphabet."

Blaine sighed. "...Ugh, you're right," he agreed, reaching up to pull the helmet off of his head. His curls were in a state of mild disarray that was devastatingly attractive. "This is hopeless. I have no idea how my mom manag—"

" Blaine." Kurt froze suddenly. Barely breathing, he gestured minutely to the couch. Collins was perched on the centre cushion, looking uppity and nonchalant. He was goading them.

The moment Blaine saw this, he became similarly statue-like and his hands tightened around the colander. Moving ridiculously slowly, he began to creep around to the other side of the couch while Kurt remained poised right where he was. Hazel eyes connected with blue ones, and for a moment there was just that—a long, silent stare. Then, Blaine came to a halt behind the cat. Slowly, his hand moved for the dispenser in his pocket.

That was what did it. Collins recognized the action immediately and leapt off the sofa...

...right into Kurt's arms.

Fighting with all his might to maintain his hold on the writhing ball of fluff and claws, Kurt sunk to his knees and held the cat tightly to his chest. "I've got him, quick!" he gasped.

Blaine didn't need to be told twice. He vaulted over the couch from behind as Kurt collapsed so that his back was pressed against the side of the coffee table. Moving in, Blaine leaned over and attempted to locate Collins' mouth amidst the struggling blur. In the confusion, his shoulder ended up pressed tightly against Kurt's chest, and as he bent close to administer the medication, the top of his head brushed against his jaw. His hair smelled like vanilla and he was a hot weight pressed against Kurt's body. The contact was almost enough to distract Kurt from the fact that his skin—and more importantly, sweater—were probably being ripped to shreds beneath the beautiful boy in his lap.

After a lengthy struggle, there was a choking sort of noise, a disgruntled meow, a loud, triumphant "YES!" and then Blaine fell back to let Collins leap out of Kurt's embrace. With an angry noise that sounded more like a dinosaur than anything of the feline variety, the defeated cat rocketed out into the hallway.

Blaine, who was breathing heavily, rolled off of Kurt and slumped back against the coffee table beside him. For a long few seconds, the two of them sat there in silence, the weighty sound of their breath mingling in the hot air. With their hair dishevelled, clothes askew and skin glistening faintly with sweat, Kurt imagined that were Paul Anderson to walk through the door at this moment, he would probably jump to a very distinct, very incorrect conclusion.

Finally, as the heady atmosphere in the room began to clear, Kurt spoke. His voice was exhausted and toneless, and yet there was a hint of amusement beneath the surface as he deadpanned, "That had better not be a daily prescription."

The two of them glanced sideways at one another, taking in the utter ridiculousness of the situation, and burst into laughter simultaneously. As their chuckles died out, they looked down at their laps, residual grins remaining fixed to their faces.

It was, of course, at that very moment that the doorbell rang.

Blaine paid the delivery girl with his knee pads still intact while Kurt hung back and tried to reconcile the strange feelings crashing through his chest. Never before had he felt such an instant, powerful connection to another person. He was trying to think rational thoughts but his mind kept revisiting the fact that Blaine was fun and perfect and smelled like vanilla spice tea. Even with knee pads fastened awkwardly over his jeans and crazy helmet hair, he was freaking beautiful.

"Would you be opposed to eating outside?" the boy in question asked as he pushed the door shut with his foot.

"Not at all," Kurt replied, feigning casualness. "Al fresco dining comes right after Project Runway marathons on my list of favourite things."

"I will make a note of this," Blaine tossed back with a grin.

Kurt raised a delicate eyebrow and wondered: was this flirting? It certainly felt like it, though he did have a tendency to read too much into things. This notion was replaced suddenly by another thought when he remembered where exactly they were and a fuzzy image of eating vindaloo on the curb out front surfaced in his mind. Despite their luxurious home, he doubted that the Andersons had a full backyard with a patio in the crowded metropolis that was Manhattan.

And then Blaine headed for the stairs, and Kurt's confusion doubled. He followed him up two flights of twisting mahogany and slowed behind him when they reached the end of the upper storey hallway. Blaine set the bags down on the ground and reached out to pry open the large picture window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, and as it finally budged, a light breeze floated inside.

Kurt regarded all this with a sense of dawning comprehension. "... Seriously?"

"It's totally safe," Blaine assured him. "Chase and I have been sitting out here since we were in preschool."

A distrustful squint. "Preschool, Blaine, really?"

He waved his hand. "Alright, exaggeration, but you get the point."

Kurt moved to get a closer look out the window. The roof stretched out for a few metres, slightly sloped and mildly precarious looking. "If I fall to my death, it had better be on your conscience."

The two of them stood there in the shadowy hallway, the orange strips of sunset streaking their faces and clothes. "You're safe with me, I promise," Blaine replied in a strangely low voice. His big, watery eyes were reflecting the gold of the sun, and the sight quite literally took Kurt's breath away.

Attempting to regain some oxygen flow, he said, "I request that you be the guinea pig then. If you die, I'll know not to follow."

Blaine shrugged, the very epitome of nonchalance. "Fine. But I will be the gerbil instead. I'm allergic to guinea pigs."

And with this utterly reassuring statement, he swung his leg across the windowsill and hopped over it in a fluid, clearly well-practiced motion. Kurt handed him the food and then followed at a much slower pace, making sure not to catch his sweater on the window frame.

And... wow. He was suddenly in another world. The sky was a vibrant palette of pinks and purples and reds against the silhouette of the city. Below, cars filtered past and Central Park stretched out, a splash of green amidst the grey. Horns honked, pigeons chirped and the gritty smell of New York City was all around them.

"Worth the risk?" Blaine glanced up from where he was sitting, legs pulled up in front of him, in the center of the roof.

Kurt dropped down carefully onto the shingles beside him. "Is it weird that I want to live out here?"

"Bad idea, trust me," Blaine said. "You could like... roll off the roof in your sleep. Or die of starvation." A pause. "Well, unless you could find a way to survive off of pigeons and dead leaves."

"Ew. There goes my romantic vision."

Blaine grinned and began pulling plastic containers out of the takeout bags. Despite everything, Kurt felt his stomach cry out for food. The smell was warm and spicy and absolutely mouth-watering as Blaine divided everything up, and the two of them finally ate in silence for a few minutes. In front of them, the fading sun blazed on the horizon, a strip of tangerine over the city skyline.

"Okay, how about this," Blaine said, leaning back to rest his hands on the slanted roof. "We take turns asking each other questions."

Kurt raised his eyebrows. It seemed a rather bold statement, but if there was one thing that he was learning about Blaine, it was that he was very direct. "Alright, I'm in. But I get to go first."

"Deal."

"Hmm..." He pushed his fork through his chicken tikka, considering. "Most played song on your iTunes?"

Blaine looked mildly surprised. "Interesting way to start."

"Music can tell you a lot about a person," Kurt said with a shrug.

"I agree," Blaine replied, and then pulled his face into a slight grimace. "Which is why this is painful to admit. Teenage Dream." He coughed. "I went through a Katy Pery phase and my Top 25 never quite recovered."

"Oh, god."

"Well, what's yours?"

Kurt smirked. "Does that count as your question?"

"No, I just want to know."

"It's... way too cliché. Defying Gravity, from Wicked."

"Ah, Broadway enthusiast?" Blaine's eyes flicked up from his tray of food.

"As much of an enthusiast as you can be without having actually seen a Broadway show."

"Really?" Blaine said, brows lifting. "Well then, we're definitely hitting the theatre district as soon as we get a chance."

He said it in such a casual way, as though it was simply a given, that Kurt found himself momentarily speechless. Whatever Blaine was, he was not in any way being forced to be Kurt's friend, or tour guide, or anything. In fact, had he been anyone else, he might have just given Kurt his food and retreated to his room, or maybe gone out with some friends. Just the simple fact that he was out here on the roof with him right now, initiating a get-to-know-you thing, was above and beyond anything that he might have expected. "Don't feel obligated," Kurt finally said. "You're probably sick of musical theatre, having lived here your whole life."

"Are you kidding, Kurt? If I could live in the Gershwin Theatre, I would." His conviction and huge smile were so genuine that Kurt did not doubt it for a minute. "No, I mean it. I would watch Wicked on a continuous loop until the actors died of exhaustion and starvation, at which point they would be replaced so that I could continue to cry over the tragic love of Fiyero and Elphaba."

Kurt shook his head. Who was this boy, and why didn't they make them in Ohio? "You're ridiculous. Ask me a question."

"Alright." There was barely a pause before: "What are you planning to do after school?"

Kurt exhaled. "Sort of a tossup between performing arts and fashion. I haven't decided. All I know for sure is that I'm moving here, to New York."

"Wow, impressively ambitious." It was said in a manner so different from the usual skepticism Kurt received with this response—as though the idea were not completely insane, but instead remarkable.

"What about you?" Kurt asked, glancing sideways at Blaine's profile. The boy's impossibly long eyelashes were coated in sunlight.

Blaine swallowed his food and then replied, "Right now, I'm thinking about music at Julliard."

"And I'm the ambitious one?"

"I guess it's probably a pipe dream, but hey," Blaine shrugged, "it's not a bad thing to dream big."

"Better to have big dreams than no dreams at all," Kurt echoed faintly.

"Exactly."

There was a very slight period of silence. Then, Kurt hastily said, "My turn... okay. Um. If you could have any superpower, what would it be?"

"Oh my god, so many options..." Blaine said, leaning forward excitedly. After a lengthy deliberation period: "I think I would want to have like... removable body parts. Or no, not really, but like a crazy suit of armor that I could just pull things from. Like I could pull a light saber out of my arm or turn my feet into springs and jump over things..." He laughed. "Is that a superpower?"

"I think that's called being Inspector Gadget."

Blaine laughed again; the sound was hearty and smooth. "Fine then, what's yours?"

"Definitely flight," Kurt said. "Can you imagine being able to fly? It would be amazing."

"Ah, but with my suit of epicness, I could simply transform my arms into wings and accomplish the same thing," Blaine replied. "Which is why my superpower trumps yours."

Kurt made a face to convey his skepticism. "Except you would be a mutant, light-saber-armed... thing, and I would just be a graceful winged human being."

"Technically, we would both be mutants," Blaine pointed out.

"Yes, but there's a reason some X-Men are rejected as freaks of nature."

They both smiled, and there was a repeat of the earlier redirecting-smile-to-lap occurrence. Blaine's smile faded first, and his face was oddly solemn as he looked up. "Okay, this is kind of personal so don't feel pressured to answer; I'm just curious, but..." He met Kurt's eyes, "...When did you come out?"

Kurt felt his breath hitch. "Um... just last year, actually." He glanced over at Blaine, who was listening interestedly. "I think everyone already knew, though. And, I mean, jocks had been calling me 'Fairy Boy' for years already, so I don't think it came as much of a surprise. Just kind of added fuel to the fire."

"Jerks," Blaine said, exhaling in a kind of wry snort.

"Yeah, well," Kurt shrugged, "I'm used to it." He cleared his throat, suddenly antsy as he mashed his dinner around in its container. "So, what's your story?"

Blaine pressed his lips together. In the distance, a plane streaked a grey path across the evening sky. "Freshman year. At my old school, Balmoral Prep. It... didn't really go over too well." He raised his eyebrows, eyes focused on his legs where they stretched out from his bent knees. "Long story, but I ended up transferring to Dalton, and I've been there ever since."

For some reason, this response surprised Kurt. Blaine seemed so at ease with himself and confident in his sexuality, it was hard to imagine that his coming out might have been so difficult. Regardless, this question seemed to fracture the metaphorical ice. Questions became more and more personal in nature as the sun sank lower on the horizon and the amount of food in the containers was steadily depleted.

Twenty minutes later, Kurt was spearing his last piece of chicken, and he paused before raising it to his mouth. "I'm just curious, but... how many boyfriends have you had?"

Blaine, who was chewing, considered. He swallowed. "Approximately zero-point-five."

"Now I'm imagining you on a date with half a person," Kurt said, scrunching his face up. "How does that work?"

"We never really were officially 'dating'." Blaine shrugged. "We flirted and stuff, went out a few times, but in the end it just... didn't work out."

A beat of silence. "Well, your half a person still beats my zero."

"Seriously?" Blaine looked strangely surprised at this, as though the idea of Kurt never having had a boyfriend was absurd.

Kurt gave a cynical eyebrow-raise. "Only out kid at my school."

"Wow, that's got to be tough." Blaine, who was still blinking at him, the residue of some lingering thought in his eyes, pulled his legs up closer to his body. "Dalton must be a huge change then."

"What, how many gay guys are there at Dalton?"

"I have no idea, but you met two on your first day. Sebastian and Jamie."

"Huh." Kurt paused for a moment, and something crept onto his face. "Would either of them happen to be Mr. Half-A-Person?"

At this, Blaine looked a bit taken aback. "Uh... no, actually. Why?"

"Hmm. Just wondering."

"Next question," Blaine said, his tone becoming upbeat as he continued: "What are you going to be for Halloween?"

"Oh." Kurt's face immediately registered surprise. "Is there really any point of dressing up? I mean..."

"Ah," Blaine clapped a hand to his forehead, "I really haven't mentioned yet, have I? Dalton. We have this annual mixer thing with the Signet girls. There's a scavenger hunt and live music and stuff—it's usually pretty fun. You should definitely come."

"Well, I don't know Blaine, I have so many other plans..."

He laughed. "Tell you what. Let's go downtown tomorrow and find some kick-ass costumes. Trust me, anything's better than staying at home with my parents."

"I'll take your word for it."

They spent the rest of the night engaging in a variety of fruitless activities such as TV-watching and Game Cube rematches. Conversation flowed, and any quiet moment was an opportunity for The Question Game to resurface; their back-and-forth queries wove in and out of the entire evening. Kurt learned that Blaine liked Roxy Music, disco and old-time swing, drank far more coffee than was probably healthy, and was a member of the Dalton lacrosse team. On top of that, he played both guitar and piano at a near-prodigal skill level, had a Vogue subscription, and knew all of the lyrics to the Wicked soundtrack.

Needless to say, when Kurt finally went to bed that night, the last thing he thought of before his mind gave in to sleep was Blaine, the sunset reflecting in his eyes, smiling on the slanted rooftop.

(Mission Impossible)

Blaine's caffeine addiction became blatantly apparent the next morning when he downed one coffee upon rising, another before heading out the door, and then grabbed a latte at Starbucks when they got off the Subway at 34th Street.

Kurt, sipping daintily at his non-fat mocha, stared at everything in the city with big, awe-bright eyes. Cars moved by slowly, filling the streets like Lego blocks, and sunlight filtered between tall buildings here and there, creating a dappled sort of shade pattern along the sidewalk. The narrow walking strip was crowded, and Kurt stuck close to Blaine as they moved along at a brisk pace. He couldn't help but just look at him out of the corner of his eye every now and then. In his dark jeans and maroon sweater, with a black scarf draped tastefully around his neck, and sipping his latte every now and then, Blaine was the very epitome of style.

"So Chase and Dee are going to meet us in Macy's," Blaine was saying as he glanced at the screen of his Blackberry. "I hope that's okay. Apparently, they are also costume-less."

"Fine by me," Kurt replied, because, of course, it was.

In the end, they found the couple sampling perfumes on the bottom storey of the enormous department store.

"I don't like this one," Chase was saying, sniffing at his wrist. "It smells like... artichokes, or something."

Delilah made a face. "Only you would make that connection. Here, how about this one?" She sprizted him several times with a hot pink sampler bottle.

"Ugh." He coughed exaggeratedly and tried to wipe it off of his arm. "Too bubble-bathy."

Blaine and Kurt came to a halt behind them. "Pink Starlight?" Blaine read the bottle in way of greeting and raised his eyebrows at his brother. "I feel like you may be a little out of your target demographic."

Chase grunted.

"He's my test subject," Delilah explained, patting him fondly (if a little evilly) on the shoulder. "My little sister's birthday's coming up. How are you guys? How's Dalton, Kurt?"

He shrugged, lifting his shoulders slightly with his hands still in the pockets of his white coat. "I survived Day One with minimal trauma."

"Good to hear." The girl grinned. "So, ready for some shopping?"

"Always," Kurt stressed.

They unanimously agreed to leave Macy's and begin trawling through smaller boutiques, mostly under Delilah's guidance. The blonde, clearly in her element, led them first to an earthy-looking thrift store called HEMP. The shop was full of drapy-looking fabrics and sticks of incense, with paper lanterns strung around the walls and clothing racks that were arranged completely haphazardly, rather than by size or garment type or anything vaguely logical. Kurt noted an overwhelming number of caftans amidst the merchandise.

"This place is great," Delilah assured them as they crossed the threshold. "You find the best treasures. Hey André," she added, waving to the dreadlocked male sitting behind the counter, who offered a relaxed salute in return.

"I don't know," Blaine said in an undertone. "I feel a little uncomfortable buying clothes from a store named after a hallucinogen."

"It smells like a Patchouli factory," Kurt added dubiously.

Chase was the last to enter. "And I still smell like the freaking Sugarplum Fairy. Dee, can we please stop somewhere with a decent bathroom. And industrial-strength disinfectant?"

"You smell adorable," was all Delilah said before slipping further down one of the incense-bathed aisles. As she walked away, she called back: "Now shut up."

And so the others were left with no choice but to disperse and poke around at the oddities in the store.

"This," Delilah gasped some five minutes later as she pulled a hanger out and examined the affixed garment, "is amazing." It was a thick, woolen poncho with threads of colour woven throughout. It was... something, that was for sure. Delilah turned to Kurt, who was picking through a vaguely promising-looking section of the rack with stiff, careful fingers beside her. "Finding any inspiration?" she asked.

"If inspiration is a powder green peasant blouse, then yes, I'm finding plenty."

"Oh Kurt, I love your wit." As though she'd known him all her life. Then: "What were you last year?"

"What was I?"

"For Halloween."

"Oh. Sort of a glammed up version of Enjolras, from Les Mis."

She made a face of approval. "Sounds hot."

"Yes, the reflection in my mirror was very impressed. So was my table lamp, I hear."

Delilah glanced up from the long skirt she had been eyeing. "You didn't go out?"

"No." Kurt shrugged. "I'm not exactly first on the invite list for the football team's Halloween party."

The girl paused for a moment and chewed her lip, as though mulling something over. "Well if I had a football team, I'd... invite, like, twelve of you," she finally said.

Kurt blinked, attempting to make sense of this convoluted compliment. "...Thanks?"

"No problem," she threw back easily.

After fifteen minutes of aimless browsing, Chase, Blaine, and Kurt all somehow managed to casually drift back to the entrance area. Delilah emerged from behind a rack of scarves, both forearms loaded with garments on hangers, and paused when she saw them congregated there.

"Done already?" she asked.

"Well," said Chase. "Considering I have no intention of showing up to Brad's party as Janis Joplin or a burlap sack, I think I'm out of luck here."

"Am I seriously the only one buying anything?" Delilah asked, scanning her companions' arms for potential purchases.

She was. And she was at the next store, too. And the next—save for Kurt, who couldn't resist snatching up a Calvin Klein blazer that was on clearance. As they emerged from the third shop and back into the windy air, Delilah sighed loudly.

"This is pathetic," she said. "I have my costume all picked out, plus accessories, and you guys still don't have a thing!" She waved her bags into the air to reinforce her frustration.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but shopping for Halloween costumes is like... the worst thing ever," Kurt said with a sigh.

"Right?" Blaine agreed intensely. "You keep hoping you'll get inspired while you shop, but nothing ever actually comes to mind."

"And if you already have an idea, you can't find anything you need," Kurt added.

"This is what the internet is for," Chase pointed out. The wind was blowing strands of dark hair into his eyes. "You just Google 'whatever costume' and voila. Instant results. Plus home delivery."

"But that's so... generic," Delilah replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste. The diamond stud amidst her freckles glinted as she did so. "And boring. A zillion other people will have the same costume as you."

"Who cares?" Chase said, and she responded by pushing his shoulder, smiling faintly.

Blaine and Kurt, meanwhile, were walking side-by-side, directly behind them on the narrow sidewalk. It was noticeably quieter in this part of the city, with just the odd person passing by every now and then.

"So," Blaine said, "where to now?"

Delilah considered. "I feel like we need a new strategy," she confessed.

"I've got it," Chase supplied. "New method. You close your eyes, spin around, and the first thing you see when you open them is what you're being for Halloween."

"That's completely ridiculous," Blaine scoffed.

A minute later, everyone was testing it out.

"I see..." Chase wobbled as he opened his eyes. A woman in black brushed past irritably, heels clicking against the sidewalk in her haste. "...a garbage can. Shit. Redo!"

"Nope," Delilah snorted. "Rules are rules. And you're in luck—I think Walgreen's has a sale on garbage bags right now."

Meanwhile, Blaine and Kurt had both halted, and by some stroke of luck, they were both staring up at a big poster for Wicked.

"Oh, that's brilliant," Chase choked, laughing. "I can just see it now; the two witches of Oz. Who's wearing the Glinda dress?"

"Who's buying the Glinda dress?" Kurt corrected. "I hear it's worth like ten thousand dollars."

Delilah was studying the boys. "Actually," she said, "I think Kurt would rock a Fiyero costume."

"What about me?" Blaine demanded.

Chase smirked. "No offense, Blaine, but I'd say you're more of a Boq."

"What? I am not a Boq!"

"Think about it. He's short, and dark-haired... and that stripy blue outfit! The too-short pants!Dude, admit it, it's practically straight out of your closet."

"I am never talking to you again."

They bickered their way to a generic Midtown costume store, where Delilah immediately shoved a pile of garments into Chase's arms for him to try on. As the pair of them disappeared to the fitting area, Kurt glanced over and saw Blaine examining a pair of large, round-framed glasses.

"Why do I get the feeling you've been Harry Potter before?" he asked.

Blaine dropped the spectacles and looked over. Before he could reply, however, the shop door swung open and loud, angry voices began to drift inside. Both Kurt and Blaine whipped their heads around.

A dark-haired male stood in the doorway, holding it open as his head swivelled back to shout behind him. "Fine!" he was yelling. "I don't care." With an angry sigh, he turned his head around and entered the shop.

It was Griffin.

Kurt, upon realizing this, automatically scanned the sidewalk through the window to see who the other half of the disturbance was, and saw a leather coat and dark curls stalking away. Jamie.

"Griff?" Blaine, sounding as surprised as Kurt felt, took a step toward the newcomer. The eyes of everyone in the shop were on them. You could taste the tension.

Griffin, casually clad in jeans and a black t-shirt that said Colossal II across the front, looked over. His pale, thin face was wrinkled in displeasure, and his high-arching eyebrows lent an intensity to the thunderous expression. "Of course," he breathed upon seeing Kurt and Blaine. "You would be here to witness that. Out of all the stores in Manhattan, I choose this one. Story of my life."

"What happened?" Blaine asked.

Griffin shook his head. "Ask him."

"Who, Jamie?"

"Yeah." He shuffled further into the shop, and the stares began to fade. "If you can get him to tell you what the hell is wrong with him lately, I will give you my original Captain America 128-page issue."

Blaine raised his brows. "As tempting as that sounds... Don't you think he's more likely to tell you? Being that you're, you know, his best friend and all?"

"Am I?" Griffin scoffed. "Maybe someone should notify him of that."

There was a moment of silence. Griffin deflated a little, exhaling a gigantic sigh. "Sorry," he said. "Kurt, right?" he nodded toward him.

"That's me."

"You guys shopping for Halloween costumes, too?"

"Trying to," Blaine replied. "Want to join us?"

Griffin debated for a moment. "To be honest, I'm not really feeling it right now. I think I need some time to just... think."

Blaine nodded. "No problem."

"See you at the mixer?"

"Of course."

With a final salute, Griffin left the shop. It was at that moment that a loud: "Kurt! Blaine! Come here!" sounded from the fitting room area. The pair of them walked over to find Delilah standing outside of a curtained stall. "I want your opinions," she explained. Then, in a louder voice: "Okay, you can come out!"

"I will kill you," came a low voice from within the dressing room. The curtain was ripped aside and Chase emerged, wearing a comical-looking period outfit, complete with pantaloons, lace cuffs and a feathered hat.

"Oh god," Blaine choked, and then doubled over laughing. Kurt fought to keep his face straight, but in the end it was impossible.

"That is it." Chase swiped the hat off of his head and glowered. "I'm done. I'll just go as a half-Filipino architecture student from Manhattan."

"But that's you," Delilah sighed.

"Exactly!"

The stretch of silence following this outburst was highly charged. Finally, Delilah sighed again. "Food break?" she queried.

All around, expressions of accord were exchanged.

"Food break," came the overwhelming and perfectly synchronized response.

(Halloween)

When the Andersons' Lexus pulled up in front of Dalton on Halloween night (courtesy of the family's elderly driver, Roger) Kurt did not even recognize the place. The stone exterior of the institution was shadowy and decrepit-looking, with utterly blackened windows giving a soulless appearance. A makeshift stage, currently occupied by a high-energy rock band, had been erected in the middle of the front green, and a mass of students had congregated around the set-up. With the garden flickering from the ghoulish grins of dozens of jack-o-lanterns, and giant cobwebs strung up everywhere, it resembled something out of a B-grade horror film.

"Oh my god," Kurt said as he slammed his door shut behind him. "Are those real bats?" He was gaping at the school's wrought iron gates, where a row of sleeping creatures hung, spindly and dark, from the metal.

"Yep." Blaine nodded. "Our decorating committee's a tad overzealous. Last year, they had this jack-o-lantern that was so big you could literally walk through it."

"Wow. How...Cinderella."

"Yeah. Only, Luke managed to lock Thad inside—don't ask me how—and he was stuck in there for like half an hour." Blaine made a grim face. "By the time they found him, he was attempting to shove himself through the mouth cut-out, which was about twenty centimetres wide. It was pretty gruesome."

The two of them made it to the threshold, where the Head of School, Dean Volkwyn, was leaning against the wall with a clipboard. A squat, bearded man in his forties, Volkwyn had donned a cape for the occasion, which seemed to be a half-hearted attempt at embracing the Halloween spirit. It was unclear what, if anything, he was actually supposed to be.

"Names?" he asked.

"Blaine Anderson, sir," Blaine responded, "and Kurt Hummel."

The dean located their names and crossed them off, and then stepped aside to allow them passage with a vague: "Enjoy."

"You know," Blaine said to Kurt, "I hate to admit it, but Chase and Dee were right. You do make a pretty fantastic Fiyero."

Kurt glanced down at his costume and hoped it was dark enough that his cheeks weren't obviously pink. He had wound up finding a red vest that almost perfectly resembled that of Wicked's leading man, and had decided to build his costume around the piece. In the end, it was a pair of beige pants, high boots, and a white shirt that completed the ensemble, as well as a leather messenger bag that was slung over his shoulder.

"Well, thank you," he returned, "but I'm a little jealous of your ability to pull off a bandana so well. Not all of us were blessed with that ability." He hoped the compliment sounded offhand, because to put it quite bluntly, Blaine looked, well... hot. His pirate outfit consisted of a loose, partially unbuttoned white shirt over dark pants, with the aforementioned red bandana tied around his unruly curls.

Ahead of them, darkened, grassy earth pounded with a bass beat beneath the stars, and the crowd was a jumble of clashing costumes and masks. As they approached the stage area, the music came to a close with a final, eardrum-shattering crash of drums.

"Alright! Let's hear it for Six-Step Process!" The emcee announced to a rush of screaming and applause. "Don't go anywhere, we've got Skylark Resistance coming up in a few minutes." And there was a lull as the stagehands emerged and began to rearrange the equipment.

"So where are the bands from?" Kurt asked.

"Mostly local groups," Blaine replied. "A lot of them are students at Dalton or Signet."

"Do the Warblers ever perform?"

"Sometimes. Last year we did. It was right after the whole pumpkin...debacle...though, and Thad forgot most of the lyrics and ended up shoving Luke to the ground in a fit of rage." He sighed. "We decided Dalton probably wasn't ready for the Warblers to grace their Halloween stage again just yet. Speak of the devil..."

They had arrived at the refreshment table, where Luke was standing with David and the redhead from the lunchtime serenade.

"Hey," David greeted them. He was almost unrecognizable with a shaded battle visor across his eyes and a leather uniform that revealed his muscular frame. Juliet, beside him, sported a green bodysuit on her athletic figure, with a gold sash tied around her waist. Her hair was big, loose and fiery.

"Cyclops and Jean Grey," Blaine deduced. He raised his eyebrows in David's direction. "I thought you had a personal rule against couple costumes."

"I still think they're tacky and unnecessary," David defended, removing his shades. "I was all set to go as Michael Jordan, but then Jules showed me her costume and I was like, 'Well now I have to be Cyclops.' You don't just turn down an opportunity to be Scott Summers, Blaine."

"Fiyero!" Luke exclaimed suddenly, pointing at Kurt. He was holding a can of Red Bull in his hand—or paw, rather—and grinning. The boy was dressed in the most insane, atrocious, and downright confusing costume that Kurt had ever seen. It seemed to be partly made of black felt, with hints of white here and there and a long, shiny piece of green fabric that wove throughout and hung like a tail in the back. Tufts of fur were everywhere, and there was a strange streak of blood red around his mouth. With passion, he began singing: "Dancing through life, skimming the surface, gliding where turf is smooooooth. Life's more painless—"

"No more Red Bull for you tonight, Luke," David advised, leaning over to remove the can from his grasp.

Luke dodged the confiscation attempt. "Ah, loosen up, Davey," he responded, slapping him on the back. "I think you need a Red Bull. And so do I. Another one, I mean. Red Bull for everyone!" He jumped into the air wildly.

David made a face of disgust. "Call me Davey again and I will actually slap you."

"Who are we slapping?" Wes appeared behind them, dressed in a neat tuxedo and carrying a nearly-empty cup of punch. Amy, holding onto his arm, was stunning in a long, red formal dress.

"Three guesses," David growled. He exhaled and spun around to fully face his best friend. "Hey, looking sharp, man."

"The name's Bond," Wes corrected him very seriously, "James Bond." His eyes flicked over the rest of the group. "Hey Blaine, Kurt. Loving the costumes." His eyes stopped when they hit the ball of fluff and fake blood that was Luke. "Oh dear lord. Luke, I may regret asking this, but... what the hell are you?"

"You will find that I have disguised myself as a rare species, known to mankind as the Hungering Cobra-Badger of Doom." Luke held up his Red Bull. "All Bow to the King of Costumes, please."

"...Are you drunk?"

"Alright everybody!" The emcee's booming voice put an end to the conversation. "Put your hands together for Skylark Resistance!"

A heavy beat exploded from the stage, and a pounding rhythm announced the song's introduction.

"That's Griffin's sister," Blaine said loudly, leaning over to direct his words into Kurt's ear while he pointed toward the stage.

"Excuse me," Luke said, pushing his Red Bull into David's hand and shoving Wes aside to approach the stage.

Blaine added: "Luke is slightly in love with her."

Kurt supposed he could see what the appeal might be. The girl who had emerged onto the stage was breathtaking in a strange sort of way. She was as pale as Griffin, with the same jet black hair, though hers was much, much longer. With her wide-set blue eyes and bright red lips, she resembled a porcelain-doll-gone-bad.

watch?v=ZlQGgDE9NNk
His little whispers, love me, love me
That's all I ask for, love me, love me
He battered his tiny fists to feel something
Wondered what it's like to touch and feel something

Her voice was sweet yet dark. Kurt watched in vague interest as she sang into the microphone, band pounding behind her.

Monster
How should I feel?
Creatures lie here
Looking through the window

Closer to the stage, Luke was still shoving his way to the front of the mob.

"It always amazes me how little shame he has," David sighed.

"Is she aware of his... affections?" Kurt wondered.

At this, David and Wes snorted. "Last Valentine's day, he composed a rap for her, recorded it, rode his bike to her house and then stood in the middle of the street with it blasting on full volume while he interpretive-break-danced," Wes informed him. "People were cringing in humiliation all the way to Vietnam."

"You've got to hand it to him, though," Juliet said, eyeing the boy's overgrown hair where it was sticking up above the rest of the crowd, "He really never gives up. It's almost kind of sweet."

"Almost," David stressed. "In reality, it's just kind of disturbing."

The song came to a close, and Luke's shout of "I love you, Shiloh!" was so loud that it rang across the entire field.

"Yep," Wes agreed. "Very, very disturbing. Shall we dance?"

(Just the Girl)

Half an hour later, the school grounds were still alive with music. Kurt, Blaine, and a handful of Warblers had taken to grooving out on the field in a moderate-sized circle. David, it turned out, was ridiculously talented as a dancer, and effortlessly flowed with the music every step he took. He and Juliet, who, Kurt learned, was a cheerleader at Signet, moved together with the level of style and skill that one might associate with the Step Up franchise. Wes was a little more reserved and sophisticated with his moves, while Blaine was the kind of dancer who just threw his everything into the moment and had fun, regardless of how ridiculous he looked. Kurt surprised himself by having a complete blast there on the front green, dancing and laughing as the night wore on.

Sometime around nine, Thad emerged from the crowd to join them.

Wes was the first to see him, and he stopped dancing so quickly he almost looked as though he was having some sort of seizure.

"Oh. My. God." Kurt's jaw dropped so far it almost fell off of his face.

"Yo," said Thad casually, as though he was not standing before them in a voluminous dress and a black, flowered-adorned hat.

David looked horrified. "Thad," he croaked, "I was joking when I suggested Mary Poppins!"

"Chill, David. It's called comic irony."

"It's called grotesque, man. If I lose my eyesight, you're paying for my cornea transplant."

As they continued to squabble, Kurt came to a realization.

"... sorry you don't understand the nuances of humour..."

"...not saying it's not the actual funniest thing I've ever seen, I'm just saying it should be illegal..."

"Hey, where did Luke go?" he asked, scanning the area for the boy in question.

"I feel like he's been gone for a while, come to think of it," Blaine said with a frown.

David snorted. "He probably took one look at Gary Poppins over here and ran for his life."

Luke's true whereabouts, however, was confirmed about a minute later. The Warblers had been so caught up in Thad's arrival that they had not even noticed the music stop and the band leave the stage. Now, in the intermission time, there was a high-pitched feedback sound from the microphone.

"...Hello, fellow human beings." Luke appeared onstage. He seemed to have hijacked a mike. "My name is Luke Heathleigh, and I have something that I want to say. Slash sing. Dudes?" He looked expectantly behind him, and three figures appeared from the wings. Kurt recognized Trent, Nick, and Jeff, who were dressed all in red, green and brown, respectively.

"Oh, god," David muttered. "They're a freaking BLT."

"What are they doing?" Wes demanded anxiously.

All around, the crowd was generally silent, with a few inquisitive murmurings beginning to rise into the air. Luke squared his shoulders. Then, he pointed straight into the audience. "Shiloh Eldridge, this is for you."

An upbeat backing track immediately began to play, and Trent, Nick and Jeff started dancing and harmonizing back-up vocals. Luke held the mike up and stared out into the audience as he sang:

watch?v=uQBu5whSgC4
She's cold and she's cruel but she knows what she's doing
She pushed me in the pool at our last school reunion
She laughs at my dreams but I dream about her laughter
Strange as it seems she's the one I'm after

"Oh my god," Blaine said faintly. Onstage, Luke spun his mike stand around and did a jump-kick as the chorus began. He emoted every lyric, pain exaggeratedly written all over his face as he sang his heart out. His backup singers continued to add their harmonies as they moved in time to the rhythm.

'Cause she's bittersweet
She knocks me off of my feet
And I can't help myself
I don't want anyone else
She's a mystery
She's too much for me
But I keep coming back for more
She's just the girl I'm looking for

At this point, he leaped off of the stage and began moving slowly and determinedly toward something in the audience. Or rather, everyone came to notice, someone. Shiloh's face was a complete mish-mash of emotions—none of which appeared to be particularly positive. Surrounded by several amused-looking friends, she crossed her arms across her front of her lacy black dress and gritted her teeth.

But when she sees it's me
On her caller ID
She won't pick up the phone
She'd rather be alone
But I can't give up just yet
'Cause every word she's ever said
Is still ringing in my head
Still ringing in my head...

She's cold and she's cruel but she knows what she's doing
Knows just what to say so my whole day is ruined

He fell to his knees in front of her as the music lulled, and then immediately, in one fluid motion, jumped back onto his feet to kick off the chorus again. Shiloh shook her head. Luke danced wildly.

'Cause she's bittersweet
She knocks me off of my feet
And I can't help myself
I don't want anyone else
She's a mystery
She's too much for me
But I keep coming back for more
Oh I keep coming back for more
She's just the girl I'm looking for
Just the girl I'm looking for

He squinted his eyes as he belted out the final lines.

I'm looking for
I'm looking for
I'm looking for
Just the girl I'm looking for

Luke lowered his microphone, grinning dopily at the object of his affection and taking heavy breaths. The crowd was momentarily silent.

And then, all at once, a thunderous round of applause and cat-calls broke out.

Near the rear of the crowd, David raised his Cyclops-visor. "I've gotta see her reaction," he said. "C'mon."

And so the group of Warblers, along with Juliet and Amy, pushed their way to the front of the crowd, where Shiloh was still staring at Luke, speechless.

Finally, she inhaled deeply. "Lucas," she said, very patiently, "Please tell me that you did notjust serenade me with a song by The Click Five. Dressed in mutilated felt. Backed up by a BLT sandwich."

"I think you will find that I did."

"I think you will find that I'm not particularly impressed."

"...I think you will find that you are."

"Heathleigh!" This irate, magnified voice belonged to Volkwyn. He was standing centre-stage, holding a microphone, and staring Luke down with laser eyes that complimented his cape in a very frightening way. "That's enough! A reminder to everyone here tonight that nobody will take to the stage unless they are part of the approved, scheduled programming."

"Apologies, Sir." Luke spoke into his microphone still. "I felt it was a necessary action. To take in my life. At this point in time." Then, he made to return the microphone to the befuddled stagehands, but stopped when Volkwyn's voice cut him off again.

"Heathleigh." The Dean sounded entirely unimpressed.

Luke looked up. "Yes, Sir."

"I will be speaking to you on Monday."

"...Yes, Sir. Looking forward to it, Sir."

(A Slight Aside)

"I bet you're wondering," Nick began.

"Why we have gathered you here tonight," finished Jeff.

Blaine sighed. "I'm guessing it has something to do with your unhealthy obsession with winning the scavenger hunt."

Trent nodded. "Precisely."

The bacon, lettuce and tomato-clad trio had kidnapped Blaine and Kurt moments earlier, ushering them into a secluded part of the school grounds while the rest of the mixer-goers were arranging themselves into teams for the impending event.

"I am so lost," Kurt sighed.

"We have scanned this year's entrants extensively," Trent explained, "and have calculated that the two of you will give our team the best chance of winning."

"Can I ask, exactly, what your methods were?" Blaine raised an eyebrow.

"Thad's costume is bulky and impractical at best," Nick explained. "David and Wes have the smarts, but with their girlfriends around, their attention will be compromised."

"And we all know Jamie and Griffin are so high-strung right now their emotions could start World War Three," Jeff added.

"What about Luke?" Kurt wanted to know.

There were hisses all around. "Do not speak the cursed name," Trent whispered fiercely.

Kurt blinked. "Excuse me?"

Blaine heaved a sigh. "Long story short: Luke's team comes dead last every single year. We call it The Curse."

"So what do you say," Jeff steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. In his bacon-streaked outfit, with his surfer-boy haircut and excited grin, he looked mildly ridiculous. "Team mates?"

Blaine and Kurt looked at each other. Both shrugged their shoulders as if to say 'eh'.

"I will take that as a yes," Nick announced. "From now on, we will be known as the Dream Team."

Trent thrust his hand forward, urging the others to do the same. "Dream Team on three!"

"One, two, three... Dream Team !"

They lifted their hands to the starry sky, and there was tangible excitement in the air.

Then...

"Hey Dream Team!" David called, a good-naturedly mocking edge to his voice. He was flanked by Wes, Amy and Juliet. "Get your butts out of the garden and get over here. This thing's about to start!"

(It Starts)

"So the costumes," Blaine said about ten minutes later, gesturing to the bacon, lettuce and tomato get-ups that his teammates were wearing, "All part of your strategy, too, I'm guessing?"

Teams were lining up along the school boundaries, waiting for the announcer to officially kick off the scavenger hunt. The space was full of chatter and laughter as people darted around on the darkened green.

Nick glanced down at his simple green t-shirt and pants. "I don't know what you're talking about, Blaine."

"What do you take us for?" Trent added.

"I'm talking," Blaine carried on with a slight grin, "about the obvious stream-lining—"

"You want to talk about stream-lining," Jeff cut him off, nodding toward the group beside them, "Check out Jamie."

Everyone looked over. The boy was dressed entirely in black—dark jeans, a jacket, and expensive-looking running shoes. He looked like he was dressed for the scavenger-hunting Olympic finals.

"Jamie!" Jeff called over. "What are you supposed to be?"

The other boy barely turned his head. "Black,' he responded. "The colour."

"That is so cheating," Nick said in a low voice.

Kurt made a face of mild amusement. "You do realize you're wearing almost the exact same thing, but in green, right?"

"But I'm lettuce," Nick countered. "It's entirely different."

Rising voices drew their attention back to the group beside them. Griffin and Jamie appeared to be facing off with Luke and Thad.

"No," Jamie was saying to Luke, looking murderous. "No, I refuse."

"Minimum of four people, bro," Luke replied. His costume was falling apart; pieces of felt were fraying and tufts of fur were hanging loose. "Everyone else has got a team already. Come on."

"This is ridiculous." Jamie turned a stony face on Thad and his dress. "How are you planning to run through Central Park in that thing?"

"Please. I can run in anything."

"You can barely walk in a straight line as it is!"

Griffin sighed. His was dressed as some obscure comic book character that probably nobody knew apart from him. "Jamie, come on, just let them. If we don't have four people, we can't compete anyway."

"No."

"You're taking this way too seriously..."

The Dream Team turned back to one another with a medley of expressions on their faces.

"Sucks to be them," Jeff muttered.

"Hang on," Blaine cut in, craning his neck to look at something in the distance. "I think they're handing out the lists. Be right back." And he took off, returning a couple of minutes later with a sheet of paper clamped in his hand.

"Let's see," Jeff said, immediately stealing it to see for himself. Everyone crowded around, jostling for space. There was silence for a moment as they read.

Find as many as you can...

A plastic spoon
A leaf
Something with graffiti on it
A coffee cup

An empty toilet paper roll
A boiled egg
A takeaway menu
A hula hoop
A purple gel pen
A 'Caution: Wet Floor' sign
A bar of hotel soap
The business card of a lawyer
A restaurant napkin
Something from Tiffany's

"...Why do I feel like we're not going to find all of this in Central Park?" Kurt finally broke the silence.

"The park's more of a starting point than an actual boundary," Trent explained. "The only real rule is no vehicles. As long as you're walking, pretty much everywhere's fair game."

It was at this moment that the megaphone-altered voice of the announcer called out: "If you have a list, you can start. Good luck everyone!" and the conversation came to an abrupt end.

There was a mad dash, and all hell broke loose.

(Some Snippets)

The upper part of Central Park was awash with costumes and colour and voices. Kurt couldn't help but notice that for most of the participants, this event seemed to be a casual, entertaining way to spend the night with friends. For his team, however, this couldn't have been further from the truth.

"Hurry up, slowpokes! Time's-a-ticking!" Jeff called back to Kurt and Blaine, who were lagging behind again.

The two of them exchanged a look of mild exasperation and then hurried to catch up with their jogging team mates.

"Okay," Trent said, as he continued moving forward. "Here's the plan. We'll start with the easy stuff, and then make our way out of the park to grab the rest."

"Let's go through the list again," Nick suggested as he surged forward.

"Leaf, plastic spoon, coffee cup, something with graffiti on it..." Jeff read aloud, taking sharp breaths between the items. "I say we head down West Drive for a bit, get the easy things, and then get out onto Eighth."

"Any objections?" Nick asked.

Kurt and Blaine, who were beginning to lag again, exchanged a slight shrug.

"Good," said Jeff. With a heroic finger, he pointed forward. "Onwards, men!"


Somewhere along East Drive, Jamie flung his arm out sideways and caught Thad across the chest, effectively stopping him. "Is that what I think it is?" he said, squinting over to his right. Everyone spun their heads to look, and sure enough, something that looked suspiciously like a plastic spoon was glinting underneath a park bench not too far away.

"I got this," Luke announced. His teammates immediately opened their mouths to protest, but he was already setting off to investigate. As he was dodging between trees and running full-throttle, someone emerged into the halo of street-lamp light right in front of him, and he stuttered to an abrupt halt.

"What the—oh..." It was like something within him melted. "... Shiloh."

Her hair was loose around her doll-like face, and she was still wearing that lacy black dress from the performance. Luke stared.

"Hi, Luke," the girl replied distractedly. "...Well, bye." She made to continue forward.

"Wait!" Luke said, catching up to her. All thoughts of plastic spoons had completely disappeared from his mind. "I have a question."

Shiloh raised her (pretty, delicate, perfect) eyebrows.

"So I've decided that I should probably give you a nickname," Luke continued, shoving his hands into his pockets, "What do you like better: Shi, or Loh?"

Shiloh snorted. "What do you like better? Luke, or Ass?"

He sighed. "See? That. That wit. That is why you are my soul mate."

"Interesting theory," Shiloh replied as she took a few steps forward. And then: "Gotta run." In one lithe motion, she dodged ahead of him and before he knew what was happening, she had bent down to collect what was indeed a plastic spoon.

Luke stared at her retreating figure for a moment, and then his jaw dropped open. "...Hey!"


"Phase One accomplished," Trent announced as Blaine added an empty Starbucks cup to their bag of items.

"What now?" Kurt asked. Despite his initial hesitation, he was beginning to get into the spirit of the contest; it was fairly impossible not to be affected by the competitive energy of his team mates.

"How about we split up?" Blaine suggested. "There's a Chinese place right across the road. Kurt and I can grab a takeout menu and some napkins. Maybe you guys could hit up the Astor and try to steal a bar of soap?"

The others considered. "Good plan," Nick said. "You've got your phone, right?"

Blaine nodded.

"Kurt," Trent said, fishing around in his pocket. "You should give us your number too, just in case."

"We'll need it anyway, to harass you about Warbler practices," Jeff reasoned.

Kurt stopped himself right before he absentmindedly rattled off the number of his Ohio phone. "Oh, my phone stopped working. I'm still on the market for a replacement."

"That sucks, man," Jeff replied. "But no worries, we'll just have to bother Blaine double."

"Text us when you're done," Trent said cheerfully, and then the team split, with the BLT boys heading in the general direction of the Astor on the Park, and Blaine and Kurt leaving Central Park for the glowing lights of Eighth Avenue.

They had almost made it up onto the sidewalk when a shadowy figure emerged into their path.

"Hello, boys," a voice drawled, and Kurt and Blaine stopped walking. A flicker of headlights from a passing car lit up the angles of Sebastian Smythe's grinning face.

Blaine's expression immediately hardened. "What do you want?"

"Can't I say hello?"

"No, actually, you can't. Come on, Kurt." Blaine moved forward, and Kurt made to follow him, but Sebastian stepped into his path, cutting him off. He looked down at him with a dark expression of appraisal, curiosity, and amusement.

Kurt felt strange under his gaze, and averted his eyes.

"So... Kurt," Sebastian murmured, "I don't think we were ever properly introduced. Hot costume, by the way."

Kurt coloured.

"Leave, Sebastian," Blaine growled.

"No, I don't think I'm ready to go just yet," he replied. "We were just getting to know each other." He turned back to Kurt. "So you're Daddy Anderson's newest... protégé."

Kurt stiffened. "I don't know what you're—"

"My father works with Blaine's father," Sebastian cut him off. "Which means that I'm privy to all sorts of information." He leered. "What did you run away from, Hummel?"

"I swear, Sebastian..." With angry eyes, Blaine took a step forward.

Kurt folded his arms. "I don't really think that's any of your business," he told Sebastian coolly.

To his greatest discomfort, the tall boy merely smirked. He felt his skin prickle. "That's okay," he returned. "I like a challenge. I'll figure you out."

At this Blaine, let out a scoff. "Okay. Are you even in the scavenger hunt? Or are you just lurking in the park?"

"I am in the hunt," Sebastian replied. He pointed to the satchel he was holding, which appeared to be full to the brim already. "And I intend on winning."

Blaine made a sceptical face. "Where's your team?"

"You're looking at it."

"I thought it was a minimum of four people," Kurt challenged.

Sebastian smirked again (Kurt wondered vaguely if his face knew how to do anything else). "Just a rumour. I checked with Volkwyn. Besides," his grin widened, "I don't need anybody slowing me down."

"Well, don't let us hold you up, then," Blaine said. This time, he stalked forward with purpose, followed closely by Kurt, and left Sebastian standing there, upper half of his body spun around to follow the retreating pair.

"Whatever it is, Hummel," Sebastian spoke relatively quietly, but the words carried over on the faint breeze with a crispness that was almost eerie. "...I'll figure it out." And then he wandered away, blending back into the darkness.

"Why does he care?" Kurt muttered to Blaine, readjusting the strap of his bag where it lay across his chest and trying to stop the hairs on his arms rising.

"Try me," Blaine sighed. "Sebastian's head is a highly confusing, vaguely psychotic place."

"What a horrible environment. I feel sorry for his brain."

"I feel sorry for his hair."

"I feel sorry for his smirky little meerkat face."

They both laughed. The lights and sounds of Eighth Avenue were all around them.

"So, does his dad really work with yours?"

Blaine made a face. "Unfortunately. For almost twenty years now, actually. Let's cross here." He paused at the nearest crosswalk, checked for oncoming traffic, and set off across the street. Kurt shadowed him and they ended up across from a Chinese food restaurant with a glowing neon sign in the window.

"Should we buy something?" Kurt wondered. "I feel a little awkward just stealing a bunch of stuff and then leaving."

"Me too," Blaine confessed. Under the artificial light, his eyes were almost as light as honey. "At the risk being incarcerated by our insane teammates... I'm kind of hungry, too. Have you ever had Baobing?"

"I'm going to go with no."

Blaine laughed. "You don't know what you're missing. Come on." With a steady hand, he pushed the door open.


"Be cool bro." Luke scanned the perimeter calmly with a hand to his chin. "I think..."

"Oh, you think, do you?" Jamie snarled, hurling a stick into the air and then watching with maddened eyes as it shattered against the pavement. "Then tell me, how the hell did we get into this situation?"

The doomed foursome had somehow become lost in the middle of an enormous grove of trees that Griffin had dubbed 'The Forbidden Forest' after they'd had a close encounter with a spider web of terrifying proportions. Nobody was getting enough signal to use their phones, and they had been walking around in circles for at least ten minutes.

"Cool it, okay?" Griffin advised. He was sitting on the ground, knees drawn upwards, looking resigned. "Can we all just sit down and accept the fact that we are completely fucked?"

"We are four New Yorkers in freaking Central Park!" Jamie burst out, avoiding eye contact and acting as though the previously-spoken words had not quite reached his ears. "How are we this lost?"

"Luke is here. All logic can and will fly out the window," Griffin reminded him.

Again, Jamie seemed to disregard the comment. "This is great." He snapped a stick in half and dropped the pieces onto the ground. "Fucking great."

"I keep telling you, I'm pretty sure we're somewhere around the Conservatory Garden," Thad said. He was sitting with his back up against a tree, flipping his flowery hat between his hands.

There was silence, and then Griffin snorted loudly.

Thad looked up. "What?"

"Sorry," the dark-haired boy said. "It's just a little hard to take you seriously right now."

"Whatever," Jamie snapped. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Let's just get moving, okay? If we hurry, we might still have a chance."

Griffin shot him a bewildered look. "Yeah, if all the other teams miraculously get eaten by an enormous dragon or something."

Jamie did not laugh. For the first time that night, he spared a glance toward Griffin, gazing down with hard, light green eyes. "Let's just go. Please."

Griffin squinted up at him, shook his head minutely, and then rose to his feet, brushing bark and leaves off of his pants. "Fine," he said shortly. "Whatever you want."


"This is surprisingly delicious." Kurt prodded his pile of syrupy shaved ice and fruit with the back of his spoon, and then took another bite.

He and Blaine were standing on a street corner, leaning against the wall of a closed, darkened shop and eating their freshly purchased baobing.

"Glad you like it," Blaine responded, digging to the bottom of his bowl to scrape out the remainders. "Should we try and hide the evidence before they get here?"

Kurt had stilled his hand, eyes wide and far-focused on the threesome approaching from across the street. "Too late," he murmured.

"What is that?" Trent, who was carrying a large piece of yellow plastic, sped up to a jog and hurried over to inspect the cups of icy remains. "You guys seriously stopped for dessert in the middle of a scavenger hunt?"

Jeff looked distraught. "You guys seriously stopped for dessert and didn't share?"

"Here." Kurt offered him the remainder of his, which he gladly accepted. After a couple of seconds of frantic eating, he glanced up into the stony faces of Nick and Trent. Mouth full of ice, he shrugged. "...Whah?"

"Get your head in the game," Nick berated him.

"Don't you High School Musical me, Nicholas."

"Don't you Nicholas me, Jeffrey."

Trent sighed. "Shut up, you two."

"You shut up... Trentimus."

There was a slight pause, as everyone tried to work out what Jeff had just said.

"Okay, mission recap," Nick finally spoke. "Thanks to Jeff's uncanny ability to charm the pants off of anything that breathes, we managed to get the concierge to find us a bar of the Astor's finest savon ivoire." He pulled the fancy-looking wrapped soap out of the bag.

Jeff grinned. "We also broke into the janitor closet at Starbucks," he informed them.

"Oh, god. You would." Blaine shook his head dully.

"It took us like ten minutes to unravel the freaking toilet paper," Trent said, "but the pile of remains was a good enough distraction to occupy the staff while we grabbed this," he gestured to the wet floor sign, "and ran away."

"How did you guys go?" Nick asked.

Blaine handed over the menu and a handful of napkins. "Check and check."

"Excellent." Jeff grinned widely. "Now all we have left is..." His eyes scanned the list and lost a bit of their spark. "...a whole bunch of really impossible crap."

"Do they really expect us to find something from Tiffany's just laying around on the street?" Kurt asked.

There was a slight period of silence. For some reason, Trent and Jeff's eyes slid toward Nick.

The brown-haired Warbler inhaled. "Guys, no. I told her I wouldn't..."

"Come on," Jeff pleaded.

Trent clasped his hands together. "We're desperate."

"She has the flu," Nick protested.

"Is anyone going to enlighten us here?" Blaine asked. The moment the words left his mouth, it seemed to dawn on him. "Wait a second... Sammi?"

"Bingo," said Jeff.

"Do the words 'bed rest' mean nothing to you people?" Nick demanded.

Jeff shrugged. "Pretty much."

"Please?" Trent begged.

Nick crossed his arms. "No. Absolutely not."


"Nick?" the speaker buzzed with a quiet and slightly congested-sounding female voice.

"I'm really, really sorry," he spoke into the device in defeat. "They threatened mutiny. I had no choice."

"Hey Sammi!" Jeff added cheerfully.

"Guys, I am literally in my pyjamas right now."

"It's cool."

"I am probably highly contagious."

"Whatever."

"...You really want to win this thing, don't you?"

Trent snorted. "Is that even a question?"

A slight pause.

"Help us, Sammi-Wan Kenobi. You're our only hope," Jeff said in a weak, pathetic voice.

"Oh gosh... alright... come on up. But could you try to be a bit quiet? My parents are already in bed."

The door buzzed open, and everyone shuffled into the air-conditioned lobby of a fancy apartment building. In the centre, there was a small fountain, where hundreds of coins glinted under the golden accent lights. They took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, which turned out to be a penthouse suite. The name Fairclough was embossed onto a plaque in cursive lettering on the wall. As the boys were filing out into a mirrored entry area, a girl came around the corner, shrugging on a sweater over her flannels. She was built in a way that the kind-hearted would likely describe as 'curvy', while the not-so-nice might favour 'chubby'. Regardless, she was beautiful, with a round face, white-blonde hair and eyes that were almost violet in the cool lighting of the foyer (though they were currently a little red-rimmed).

"Hey," Nick said, using one arm to pull her into a hug.

"Nick," she protested, somewhat weakly. "You'll get sick, don't."

He ignored her and kissed the side of her head. "Don't care."

She smiled slightly as he released her, and Kurt was hit with that longing sort of feeling one sometimes encounters when witnessing one of those tight, long-time couples. It was sort of sweet and unpleasant at the same time.

"Sammi," Nick said, gesturing behind him, "this is Kurt."

The corners of her lips turned up a little as she met his eyes. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry for intruding into your house late at night," Kurt returned.

Sammi giggled. "It's okay, I'm kind of used to it."

"Hey," Jeff defended. "You were too sick to come, so we figured we'd bring the scavenger hunt to you."

"On that topic..." Trent turned to the girl very seriously; what he was about to say was clearly a matter of life or death. "...Please tell me you are in possession of a hula hoop."

(The Home Stretch)

"Run!" Jeff yelled over his shoulder, urging his teammates forward. He was leading the pack as they sprinted around the corner and began to approach the school gates. "Come on!"

"It is physically impossible," Blaine protested, "for me to move my legs any faster."

"Nothing is impossible!" yelled Trent.

They whooshed through the gates in a blur of costumes and scavenger hunt oddities.

"Adjudicator!" Jeff called breathlessly as they came upon the finish area. "We need an adjudicator!"

A woman in her forties, one that Kurt recognized vaguely as a teacher, clip-clopped over in her high heels. "Let's see, boys."

Nick handed over the bag and the wet floor sign, and after several seconds of muttering and checking the items against the list, the woman lifted her head. "Congratulations," she told them. "You've got everything."

"Yes!" Jeff pumped a fist. "First place! Ce-le-brate goods times, come—"

"Oh," the woman cut him off. "I'm sorry, but we already have a winner. It was close, but he arrived about five minutes before you did."

Everyone's face fell.

"Who?" Nick asked despondently.

"Over there." The woman gestured to an area closer to the school, where someone was leaning up against the trunk of a gnarled, gangly tree. As if on cue, the boy turned his head, and his mouth stretched into a Cheshire grin.

"Sorry, boys," Sebastian said. "Better luck next time."


A/N: And so ends the way-too-long third chapter. I'm really sorry about the length...I've always been a failure at condensing my writing. Big hugs to everyone who has reviewed with such lovely comments. It's definitely a huge motivator, and I appreciate every word.

Anyway, it is simply a fact that there are too many characters in this story. I think I was a bit overambitious in planning it, because I had sort of wanted it to be more like a tv show, and less like a book, if that makes sense. I promise the new-people-introductions will start to die down soon, and hopefully it's not too insane in the meantime.

Next time: Kurt's homesickness comes to a head after an overheard conversation, and the Warblers, under Blaine's guidance, take it upon themselves to cheer him up.