ohmygodthealertsandreviews! Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your interest in this little story of mine :) To my "I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You" readers, I'm so, so sorry that I haven't updated it in so long. I'm still working on the final chapter. It'll be up soon enough! The reason why I posted this one up so fast is because I already wrote half of it during the summer break, and I just had to add several scenes I couldn't fit into the second episode!

This chapter was originally supposed to be the second episode. But I decided to make Blaine's grand entrance...much more grander (how do you words?). Enjoy, everyone!

Also, if you post something about this on Tumblr, I'd love to see it! Just tag it as the title of the story or 'littlemusings' ;)

PLUS, I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I LOVE FLUFFY FURT BROTHERNESS TIME. Okay, done.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, unfortunately. Also, I do not speak French. Just sayin', for future reference.

Witness Protection Problem
by littlemusings
Episode 3: Of Slushies and Problem Children

The rest of the weekend didn't go on as smoothly as Kurt thought it would. Though he was able to find some suitable clothes for him to wear, his relationship with his father had become slightly strained, and throughout all of their family meals, everyone remained silent. He managed, however, to fix his room exactly the way he wanted and blast his Broadway playlist as loud as he wanted. Other than that, it had been the most nerve-wracking and boring weekend of his life. They had explored Lima on Saturday, and Kurt realized that there was nothing there but houses, various stores scattered across the town, McKinley High School (which was a far cry from the beautiful campus of Brenton Preparatory), and his dad's new garage.

That Sunday night, Kurt lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the sound of Patti LuPone's voice echoing from his iPod speakers quietly. His heart hammering in his chest, he shifted his position and drew his blankets and pillows closer to himself. The next morning, he would be on his way to school at a brand new place, putting his new identity to work.

He heard his door open and immediately feigned sleep.

"Kurt," he heard Finn's voice call out quietly. Kurt's eyes blinked open and he sat up, staring at his brother blearily as a beam of light from the crack of the door hit his eyes.

"What?"

"Are you ready for tomorrow?"

Kurt let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. He gestured for Finn to come in and sit on the edge of his bed. "Scared shitless. That's what I am."

"You've got me, Kurt. Hopefully we have the same classes," Finn said eagerly.

"No way," Kurt laughed nervously. "You were in almost all of my classes last year."

"True."

"Okay, I'm going to say something I know I will never say again in my entire life: we should stick together tomorrow," Kurt said, his tone turning serious. Finn nodded in agreement. "Yes, I just said that. I can't believe I just said that."

"You did, and I've recorded it for potentity…"

"…The word is posterity, Finn. Whatever. I will never say that again. Keep that ingrained in your head, because we're going to…ugh, need each other tomorrow. Plus, I'm going to need you to help keep me in check. Fix my…mannerisms and all of that."

"Your Kurterisms."

"What?" Kurt asked exasperatedly.

"Never mind."

"Yeah, never say that again. But…just remember what I said, alright?"

"Alright."

The two brothers sat there awkwardly.

"Bro-fist?" Finn laughed, holding up his clenched fist. Kurt rolled his eyes and smiled, bumping his brother's fist back.

"'Night, Finn. See you tomorrow."

"Same, bro."

"RISE AND SHINE, SLEEPYHEAD!"

Kurt felt a pillow whack the side of his head, and he shot up immediately, infuriated. He grabbed the nearest pillow to him and whacked Finn, who was laughing hysterically next to his bed. Lights dancing in his eyes, Kurt jumped out of bed and Finn's mouth turned into a little 'o' as he saw his brother getting ready to murder him. That was when Finn ran out of the room, and Kurt followed him with a shout resembling that of a battle cry.

"SCREW YOU, FINN!" Kurt screamed as Finn dashed up his stairs ("Go and screw Alan!") and immediately folded and pulled them up, disappearing into the attic. He heard heavy footsteps go up the main staircase, and he turned around, his father lingering on the top step, an eyebrow raised in speculation.

"Um, good morning to you too, Kurt."

"Dad," Kurt breathed, still clutching his pillow tightly in his hands. "Sorry about that."

"Well, go and get ready; it's your first day of school."

Kurt's heart plummeted. "Right. Right, will do. See you downstairs, dad."

Burt nodded awkwardly and walked back down the stairs. Kurt slowly walked back to his room and slammed the door shut, walking straight for the shower. He quickly rinsed his hair and his body, and finished, drying himself off and starting his morning moisturizing routine in his black, silk robe.

He heard two raps on his door.

"Who is it?"

"Kurt, it's me."

"Finn, go away."

"Kurt," Finn called. "Hurry up, mom and Burt are waiting."

"Calm down! I'm on my way!" Kurt snapped, rubbing his face quickly. He put his moisturizing kit away and proceeded to dress for school.

He grabbed a pair of tight, skinny jeans and pondered what he would wear on top, his eyebrows furrowing as he saw his favorite designer shirts in the corner. Can't wear you. Can't wear you. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed a plain, v-necked white Mossimo shirt, plain black and white Converse All-Stars, a red and black flannel, and got dressed.

After dressing, he shut his eyes and opened them, staring at himself in the mirror. Even he was shocked. What the hell happened to you? He shook this off and proceeded to fix his hair, giving it a slightly windswept look, and picked up the black Jansport bag by his door once he finished. Taking a deep breath, he opened his door and headed downstairs, finding his parents and Finn eating breakfast.

Kurt cleared his throat and everyone at the table turned around to stare at him, Finn's fork falling from his hands; eyes wide with shock. "Um…What?"

"You look different," Finn snorted. "Good job, bro."

Kurt rolled his eyes and felt his family's eyes follow him as he sat down at the table. He looked up. "What?"

"Nothing, honey, it's just…different not seeing you in your normal clothes."

"I know, even I was freaked out, too," Kurt muttered, cutting his pancakes vigorously. Burt clapped a hand on his shoulder appreciatively.

"Okay. Finn, Kurt. You know the drill. What are your names again?" Burt asked, testing them.

"Michael Henderson," Finn said through a full mouth of eggs.

Kurt let out a loud sigh. "Elijah Henderson."

"Where did we move here from?"

"Los Angeles," they both said at the same time. Burt and Carole gave each other hopeful looks.

"Ready to go, boys?" Burt asked, wiping his hands on his table napkin once everyone finished. Finn and Kurt looked at each other warily and nodded. Everyone stood up and Carole took their plates and put them in the sink to wash later.

The family got out of the house, and into their car, driving right for McKinley High School.

"Have a seat, boys," the school principal, a short, balding man by the name of Principal Figgins said politely. "Have a seat."

Kurt and Finn awkwardly shifted from standing to sitting, Kurt gripping his backpack on his lap; Finn unceremoniously leaving it by his chair. They heard and saw a flurry of students rush down the hallway as the first bell rang.

"So, Elijah and Michael," Figgins said happily. Kurt and Finn nodded, forced smiles on their faces. "Are you both ready to take on McKinley High School?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," Kurt said, dropping his voice down an octave, making Finn attempt to repress a snort.

"Alright…Elijah. It looks like your grades are very impeccable; we'll be proud to have you as a part of our Titan team!"

Kurt pursed his lips into a smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you have a football team?" Finn asked eagerly. Principal Figgins nodded.

"Yes, Michael. Our season is starting off quite well, and our coach, Shannon Bieste, is the top in the state. I think she's still holding tryouts this week, so you better get a spot fast because she cuts boys off the team pretty fast," he said seriously. "What about you, Elijah? Interested in joining the football team?"

Kurt had to fight back a laugh. "No, I'm more of an artsy kind of kid, if you catch my drift."

"We have a glee club you can join, plus a dramatic arts program, if you wish."

Kurt's eyes widened, but he kept his composure. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Alright, boys. I'll have your student helper sent here to guide you to your homeroom class. Here are your schedules; the registrar left them with me," Principal Figgins said, handing Finn and Kurt their schedules. They took them graciously. "Just wait outside, and he'll be here in a few minutes."

They stood up and shook hands with the principal, and turned on their heels to get out of the office.

"What's your schedule?" Finn asked quickly as soon as they walked out, grabbing at Kurt's still pristine and crisply printed schedule. Kurt yanked it out of his brother's hands, noting that Finn's was already folded and crumpled. "Oh, come on, Ku—I mean…Elijah. God, it's so weird calling you that, still—"

"Will you stop trying to ruin my schedule? It's getting on my nerves, and don't you dare blow our cover," Kurt snapped. He lowered his voice as they sat down outside the office, waiting for their 'student helper': "Finn. You are not Finn Hudson anymore while we're in this goddamn state, okay? You're Michael. Michael Henderson. Remember our plan."

"Fine…Elijah," Finn said distastefully. "Anyway, what's your schedule?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Homeroom, Mr. Schuester. First period, AP English Literature, second period Advanced French, third period AP Calculus—"

"Hold up," Finn interrupted. "You're taking AP Calculus? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Kurt groaned out loud, making the secretary in the office look at him confusedly. He gave her a smile and she looked away, shrugging. He turned back to his stepbrother. "I'm trying to distract myself with AP classes in order to keep my mind off of living in this cow town. You know, it's still really weird to see my dad in overalls and planning to work on cars rather than in a suit, you know, planning to sell them? I digress. Anyway, after that I've got human anatomy, then AP Government, Introduction to Theater—"

"—Like you need that—" Finn laughed.

"—And P.E. Oh no. I was already done with my physical education credits back in New York!"

"Welcome to Ohio, bro. Have fun pretending not to be gay," Finn whispered, and then snorted into his hand, trying to hide his laughter. The secretary was starting to give them looks that clearly screamed, shut up, you two, or I will pile-drive you both into a wall.

"Fuck you, Fin—Michael!" Kurt hissed, punching his shoulder angrily. Finn frowned and rubbed his shoulder gingerly. "I don't check out guys in the locker room! I never have!"

"Whatever. Did I even say locker room?"

"Ugh," Kurt muttered. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Okay. Keep telling yourself that," Finn grinned.

"Whatever," Kurt frowned. Anyway, what's your schedule, Mr. Know-It-All?"

Finn nodded, lips pursed as he pulled his schedule out of his pocket, un-wrinkling it to Kurt's displeasure. "Okay. I've got Schuester, too." Kurt looked at him with faux horror. "Hey, don't give me that look! Then Spanish, ugh, with Schuester, too. I hope that guy's funny or I'm going to fail…"

"You nearly failed last semester at Brenton Prep," Kurt pointed out. "Plus, funniness rate of a teacher doesn't determine student performance."

"Don't remind me. Then…uh…" Finn peered back down at his schedule. "English 12, human anatomy…hey, we have that together! Uh, street law, then video production, discrete math, and then…P.E."

"All in all, we have three classes together. Thank god, that's less than the amount we shared at Brenton," Kurt sighed in relief. He looked up at the office clock impatiently. "Where the hell is that 'student helper'?"

"Dead," Finn nodded solemnly. Kurt gave him a look of utter apprehension.

"You're stupid, Michael Henderson. Very. Stupid."

Finn frowned and stuffed his schedule back in his pocket, putting his backpack on his lap. Kurt gave him a withering look and folded his arms, legs crossed, back ramrod straight.

"Your legs…Elijah, yeah, your legs," Finn laughed quietly. Kurt quickly untangled his legs irritably and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Just had to point that out, bro."

Damn it all. I'm going to hate this, forever. At least at Brenton I could rock the blazer and accessorize and actually use a decent Jacobs bag than this stupid, ugly Jansport, Kurt thought angrily, peering down at his black polyester backpack. I miss wearing my berets publicly. And my knee-length sweaters. At least I can still wear my cardigans. I want my real name back, my old house. My old everything. I hate this. I hate this so much. Okay, stop thinking now. Stop thinking negatively—ohmygod.

His thoughts were interrupted when the office door flew open, and a curly-haired, handsome as hell boy walked into the room with a loping grace, adorning dark, black skinny jeans, a simple white v-neck tee, and a dark leather jacket. A pair of black wayfarers was settled on the top of his mess of black curls. Finn had to kick Kurt discreetly in order for Kurt to regain whatever was left of his icy dignity.

Kurt immediately shut his gaping mouth and sat up straight once more as the boy walked straight into Principal Figgins' office.

"Oh my god," Kurt breathed, his voice quivering. Finn smirked. He knew his brother.

"Good luck pretending not to be gay."

Kurt aimed a kick at his brother. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, Finn," he hissed quietly.

"My name's not Finn now, is it? So that doesn't apply to me. And don't forget. Watch your voice. Oh, man your Kurterisms," Finn winked as the door to Principal Figgins' office door opened again, and small man walked out with the v-necked boy. Kurt's heart leapt slightly when he saw the boy's striking, hazel-green eyes.

"Michael and Elijah, this is Blaine Anderson. He'll be your student helper. He's been at McKinley since his the second semester of his freshman year; so his knowledge of school happenings will help you two get on all right here. I hope you enjoy your first day. Blaine," Principal Figgins said with a smile (though Kurt noticed that it was a very wary one, indeed), patting Blaine Anderson on the shoulder. The boy gave a smug smile as the principal turned around and walked back into the office.

"Well," he said bluntly. "Let's go then," and he walked out of the office ahead of them. Finn gave his brother a look of uncertainty, and then looked back into the office. Figgins was busy writing something, face looking down at the desk.

"Uh, as he said, let's go," Finn cleared his throat, and the two brothers immediately stood up, Jansport backpacks slung over their shoulders. They hurried out of the office, and tried to catch up with Blaine Anderson, who was already halfway down the hallway.

"Hey!" Kurt exclaimed. Blaine stopped in his tracks, hands in his pockets, giving them both appraising looks. "Hold up."

"Class schedule," Blaine said bluntly, holding his hand out. Kurt folded his arms and frowned as Finn dug into his pockets. "Come on, I don't have all day."

Finn handed Blaine his schedule awkwardly, and Blaine peered at it and shrugged. "What about you, Pinocchio?" he asked Kurt, whose mouth fell open. Kurt flung his schedule at Blaine, who caught it as it fluttered into the air.

"Dude, what the hell is your problem?" Finn snapped. Kurt looked absolutely livid. Blaine shrugged and turned to Kurt.

"Thanks, Pinocchio, but don't even fucking try."

"If you weren't being such a dick," Kurt said through gritted teeth, "Then maybe I wouldn't have tried that at all."

Blaine winked and compared the brothers' schedules. "So you've both got Schuester for homeroom. Just continue walking down this hallway and shit, and then you'll see his classroom—more like the gates to hell. It's pretty stupid and pointless. Alright, see you," he announced, giving them their schedules back. He turned on his heel and started walking down the hallway again.

"HEY! I was talking to you!" Kurt said loudly. A door opened and an elderly teacher held her finger up to her mouth, signaling Kurt to shut up. Kurt blushed immediately as he muttered a 'sorry' to the teacher, who grumpily slammed her door shut. Blaine turned around again, smirking.

"What?"

"You're supposed to be our student…helper, or whatever the hell that's supposed to be."

"I helped you. Told you where Schue's room was. Now, run along, new kids," Blaine rolled his eyes, waving his hands in the brothers' direction. "I don't have any fucking time to take care of you two."

"You're a douche bag," Finn grumbled under his breath, gripping his stepbrother's shoulder tightly as Kurt was about ready to run up to the shorter boy and punch him in the face. "He's not worth it, bro. We're taller than him, anyway."

Kurt was fuming, and obviously left breathless. Blaine Anderson was already gone, obviously not heading to his class—and obviously not helping them head to their class. "First fucking day and I hate it already. We haven't even been to our classes yet. What a dickhead. He's good-looking, but I can tell he's the biggest fucking douche bag in this world, you know? You know, if he screws us over one more time, I'm going to—"

"Let's go, come on," Finn sighed, guiding Kurt forward. "God, Kurt, you were never this mouthy before."

"Well, obviously, this is what happens when I'm extremely pissed off."

"Wow, first guy you think is relatimely good-looking turns out to be a total dick."

"It's relatively, damn it. And don't you dare remind me. He even looks straighter than a board."

The two brothers walked down the hallway, schedules in their hands, looking around for Mr. Schuester's homeroom class.

"Welcome to McKinley, boys!" Mr. Schuester, their homeroom teacher—a tall man with hair that probably had an ungodly amount of product in it—said cheerfully. "Guys, quiet down. We have new students today. They just transferred here from Los Angeles," he said, to the obviously uninterested batch of students sitting in front of them. "Do you guys think you can introduce yourselves?"

Um, yes, I am perfectly capable of communicating with my peers, Kurt thought. Evidently, you, sir, need to learn how to ask proper questions.

"Michael Henderson," Finn said quickly.

"Elijah Henderson," Kurt muttered, arms folded. "Pleasure."

A large, African American boy looked up from his desk. "Boy, your balls haven't dropped yet? You got a high voice. You might as well go on with Justin Bieber 'cause ya'll seem one and the same," he cackled. Kurt shot him daggers with his eyes. Oh, how I want to say 'fuck you' and throw the bottles of all the products Schuester probably uses in his hair at you.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. "Excuse me," Kurt snapped almost nervously, his voice piquing another octave, to the laughs of the students in the class. He blushed furiously and looked down at the floor.

"Azimio," Mr. Schuester snapped. "That was uncalled for."

Seriously, is that all you can tell your uncouth students? Kurt thought scathingly.

Azimio laughed, hi-fiving his seatmate, a somewhat bulky young man with short-cropped brown hair.

"You have to excuse them, boys. They tend to act out a little," Mr. Schuester said apologetically. "So, find a seat in the back, and get situated. And—hold on, I thought you guys were with your student helper?"

"More like our non-existent student helper," Kurt muttered under his breath. "Oh, he didn't come."

Mr. Schuester took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. "Blaine," he muttered. The entire class attempted to suppress their giggles.

Kurt and Finn nodded. "Sorry about that, boys. You see, Blaine's a bit of a trouble-maker, and we made him a student helper in the first place as punishment, a way for him to redeem himself…"

The door flew open, and said boy entered the room with a casual, loping grace. He walked right past Kurt, Finn, and Mr. Schuester, and hi-fived several people (who obviously looked a little bit scared of him) in front before taking his seat in the back, feet upon his desk, hands resting on his chest. Apparently, thought Kurt, this is normal.

"Hey, Mr. Schue. Frankenstein. Pinocchio," he winked, making a gun-like hand gesture towards them. He made a little bam sound, and pushed his sunglasses down on his face.

"Blaine," Mr. Schuester snapped. Blaine flipped up his sunglasses and gave the Spanish and homeroom teacher an apathetic stare. "You were supposed to bring Elijah and Michael here, and come straight back."

"Well, shit, it looks like I forgot." Blaine laughed.

"Did you leave the building to smoke again?"

"Ha, obvious-fucking-ly," Blaine snorted.

Mr. Schuester went straight to his desk and pulled out a pad of small, pink slips. "Detention, again, Anderson. Go back to Figgins' office. This is the fifth time this school year—when are you going to learn?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and stood up, walking towards Schuester, snatching the pink slip from him in irritation. He turned to Finn and Kurt, his eyes lingering on Kurt for a brief second. Kurt cleared his throat, and his breath hitched for a brief moment as Blaine's hazel-green eyes met his blue-green ones. However, all he could discern from the split-second look was a mix of anger and irritation, making Kurt look away quickly.

"I'm going to inform Figgins that you're on your way again," Schuester called out as Blaine walked out of the classroom. He turned back, frustrated, to face Kurt and Finn. "Sorry again, boys. Go ahead and have a seat."

Finn and Kurt turned around to face the class again, walking towards the back row. It turned out that there were only two seats available: the one next to Blaine's old seat, and one next to a girl with dark-brown hair with bangs, and a very Barbra Streisand-esque nose—and their seats were on opposite sides of the room.

"I'll sit next to her," Finn muttered. "At least we're sitting in the same row?" he asked, trying to give his brother a thumbs-up. They separated.

"Fuck," Kurt muttered under his breath as he sat down next to Blaine Anderson's empty seat.

Kurt sniffed the air around him—it smelled slightly of a…he had to admit, nice blend of peppermints, a very expensive cologne, and…cigarettes. Indeed, the boy had been smoking, and used his "punishment" to treat himself to a good, five-minute smoke. Kurt straightened in his seat and pulled out his leather planner and began to copy down his schedule. The rest of the class had gone back to "normal," ignoring him and talking to each other. He looked over to Finn, who had already begun an animated conversation with the brown-haired girl and felt a pang of jealousy.

"I'll talk to you later, Rachel," Finn said with a smile as he went to meet his brother once homeroom ended. He turned to face Kurt, who looked livid. "She's really cool, man. She's in that glee club, and I told her you can sing—"

"Finn—Michael. No one is supposed to know that," Kurt snapped back quietly as they filed out of the classroom behind everyone else. He looked up and noticed the Rachel girl lingering by the door, eyes remaining on Finn adoringly. "Seriously, Finn, you're going to compromise the situation if you—"

"Sorry, sorry! "

"Well, let's get to our next class."

"I've got Spanish here, though…"

"Goddamn it, I forgot," Kurt muttered under his breath, looking at his schedule again. "I guess I'm alone this time. I'll see you at lunch, then," he muttered, walking out the door grumpily. Finn waved at Rachel, who waved back happily.

As Kurt walked past the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned around and saw the Rachel girl, grinning broadly at him.

"Hello, you must be Elijah, Michael's brother."

Kurt blinked. "Uhm. Yes, I am, obviously."

"Michael told me that you are quite a good singer, and our glee club is a sectional-regional winning one. We do need more male singers in the club, and you would make a perfect backup singer—what is your range?" she said all in one breath. Kurt stared at her, repressing a snort. There was a girl much like her in his old show choir.

"I'm…I'm a countertenor," he muttered, and then turned on his heel to walk down the hallway to his AP English class. Shit. Should not have said that. Fuck my automatic answering.

"Wait! Elijah!" he heard Rachel shout. He rolled his eyes as the obviously friendly girl caught up with him. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. I'm Rachel Berry, the lead star of the McKinley High New Directions. Say, you really look familiar. I think I saw you at Nationals last year—"

Kurt's eyes widened. He had a sudden flashback to last year's National Show Choir Competition back in New York: he had just come back from the bathroom when the New Directions finished their song, and he remembered Rachel's face and the high note she belted with an echoing finality. HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN?

"Nah, I've never been to New York. Michael and I are from Los Angeles," he shrugged. "Um, I've got to go to class."

"You should join, still!" Rachel called as he shuffled down the hallway awkwardly. He looked right down at the floor, his heart beating fast, and collided into what seemed like a large, brick wall, and he fell to the ground.

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his back gingerly. He looked up and saw the two jocks from his homeroom class standing in front of him, arms folded. "Shit."

"Yo, Justin Bieber," the brown-haired boy snorted.

Kurt stood up immediately and looked at them up and down. They were in bright-red letterman jackets, Big Gulp slushie cups in their hands.

"I'm sorry, did a football hit your heads? My name is Elijah Henderson." Kurt brushed off his flannel and started to walk off, but he felt a thick hand grab his shoulder and push him into the lockers roughly. He felt a searing pain in his back and winced, staring at the jocks.

And that was when he felt something icy-cold, hard, and flavorful hit his face.

"We were gonna save this for them glee kids, but that's what you get, Bieber! You better watch your ass! More like, we need to watch our own asses because you might spread your gayness across the hallways!"

He heard the jocks laugh loudly and walk away down the hallway. Kurt's eyes stung; he wiped the slushie from his eye and stood there, back aching, head throbbing madly.

None of the students seemed to react…it was as if this was normal. Normal. He looked down the hallway; many students parted like the Red Sea when Azimio and his friend passed by.

He flinched when he felt a gentler hand touch his shoulder. It was Rachel Berry.

"That was David Karofsky who slushied you."

"Thanks for telling me," Kurt growled, his lower lip quivering angrily as he pulled out a handkerchief and walked straight for the bathroom. "Fat lot it did to help me out there."

"Come on, I'll help you clean up," she said nervously, giving him a small, but encouraging smile.

"No, I'm fine," Kurt said stubbornly. He picked up his backpack by the hook, his shoulders aching, and walked straight for the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Kurt adored the French language, but knew he was going to hate his Advanced French class the moment he walked in.

Blaine Anderson was sitting in the middle row of the classroom, leaning back in his chair again, hands behind his head. One of his dark eyebrows rose as Kurt entered the room, and he immediately looked away—he looked right at the floor. Kurt frowned and sat in the row in front of him—it was the only other empty desk in the room, and took out his notebook to copy down things the teacher was already writing on the board. Again, the familiar smell of cigarettes and peppermints wafted into his nose.

"Parley vou francey?" he heard Blaine's rough voice say mockingly behind him. Kurt remained cool, keeping his eyes on the chalkboard. He shifted uncomfortably; his hair was still wet and he hadn't found a shirt to change into.

"Je ne savais pas que vous parle le français (I didn't know you spoke French)," Kurt replied, still not facing him. Blaine took his chair and scooted up to his desk.

"Well, obviously I do since I'm in fucking French IV. Heard you got slushied earlier, Henderson."

Kurt was taken aback.

"What's it to you? Wish you could have done it?" he snapped, looking at Blaine angrily. His hair was still drying from when he washed it earlier, so when he turned his head, some water droplets splashed onto Blaine's face. "Sorry," he muttered, turning back down to face his notebook.

"Whatever," Blaine rolled his eyes, moving back to his seat. "And no, I don't fucking slushie people, that's Karofsky and Azimio's job."

"Friends with them?" Kurt muttered.

"Hell fucking no," Blaine laughed.

The teacher, Mme. Farland, cleared her throat, and the class immediately silenced. She began her lesson, speaking at full-speed. Kurt took a deep breath. Finally, a class that would challenge him.

"Henderson."

Kurt heard a soft tap on his shoulder while he was taking down slang vocabulary. He spun around to face Blaine, who merely gave him a smile and a shrug. "What?"

He whispered back, "Nothing."

Kurt rolled his eyes and went back to writing.

He felt another tap on his shoulder. This time, he ignored it, but the tapping continued.

"WHAT?" Kurt shouted, the class falling completely silent. Mademoiselle Farland paused, staring at Kurt angrily, her arms folded. "Je suis désolé, mademoiselle," he said sheepishly, his face turning red.

"Vous sont Elijah Henderson, ai-je raison? (You are Elijah Henderson, am I correct?)" she asked. Kurt nodded.

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur Henderson, la première règle que vous ne serez jamais apprendre dans ma classe est d'écouter et de ne pas interrompre. (Mr. Henderson, the first rule you will ever learn in my class is to listen and never interrupt.)"

"Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle, j'ai été…distrait. (I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I was…distracted.)" Kurt took a shuddering breath and tried to regain his dignity by sitting up straight and looking his teacher in the eye. "It won't happen again."

"I sure hope not," she sighed, and went back to her lesson. The other students went back to work, but Kurt could feel their eyes on him, and he could sense that Blaine Anderson was smiling that huge, smug grin of his.

Despite how highly attractive and charismatic Blaine Anderson was, a little part of Kurt couldn't help but hate him.

"I hate it here," Kurt grumbled to Finn, when he arrived at the front door of the cafeteria. The two brothers walked in, grabbed trays from the rack and immediately went in line. "I hate it here so much."

"Why do you smell like fruit flavoring?" Finn asked, eyebrows furrowing. Kurt rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "Wait, why are you wet?"

"Apparently, the greeting for new students is a slushie facial."

"Slushie facial?" Finn snorted, but then his tone immediately became serious. "Really, dude, what happened?"

"I was walking down the hallway, bumped into those two jocks from homeroom, I got a slushie thrown in my face, and then got pushed into a locker. It's nothing," Kurt grumbled, grabbing an apple as they moved up in the line.

"Are you fucking serious?" Finn growled, looking around the cafeteria. "Where the fuck are they? I'm going to—"

"Calm yourself, Frankenteen," Kurt snapped. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not—your slouching a little, you never slouch!"

"Seriously, Fi—Michael, calm down."

"Next time they do that to you, call me, Ku…Elijah. I'll kick their asses for you."

"They're Neanderthals, that's what they are. Forget them."

Finn gave him an incredulous look. "Forget them, my ass."

"Shhh, Finn, Rachel Berry's coming this way," Kurt hissed, handing his tray to the lunch lady who handed him a healthy portion of tater tots. He grimaced and then gave the lady a kind smile, moving up in line.

"Michael! Elijah!"

"Hi, Rachel," Finn said with a goofy smile. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Hi, Rachel."

"Um, again," Rachel said politely, wringing her hands together, "I would like to invite you both to join the glee club. As you can see, we are recruiting members, and we would love to have the both of you!"

"I'm sorry, I don't sing," Finn said sheepishly, pursing his lips.

"Well…you could always try! And Elijah," she said, turning to Kurt, "I'm sorry, I should have warned you about earlier, I could have pulled you away before you walked right into Azimio and Karofsky—"

"It's okay, it's fine," Kurt said, reassuring her. His head was beginning to ache; he was incredibly annoyed with everyone and everything in Ohio.

"Anyway…I'll be sitting with some of my fellow glee-clubbers. We sit near the back, by the glass doors. If you guys want to sit with us, you can if you want to!"

What is this, kindergarten? Kurt thought. "Sure…we'll think about it."

"Alright. I shall see you guys soon," Rachel said, waving as she walked back to her table. Kurt and Finn watched her sit down next to a boy in a wheelchair, an African-American girl, an Asian couple, and boy with a mohawk.

"Should we?" Finn asked, a little hopeful.

"Maybe not today," Kurt mumbled. "They usually slushie the glee kids, at least that's what I discerned from their tyranny earlier."

"Alright," Finn agreed.

The entire day went by in a blur. Calculus was tough for Kurt, but he had taken prerequisites at Brenton. AP Government was a breeze—Kurt was a natural debater and knew the U.S. government system inside out, but the downside was that it was no longer a challenge for him. Human anatomy was like biology again. Introduction to Theater was a joke. Finally, it was the last period of the day—P.E.

Physical education was the one class Kurt was dreading.

He was a physically fit young man. He just hated the class with a burning passion, and as soon as he step foot into the McKinley High gymnasium, he knew immediately that it was no state-of-the-art gym like the one at Brenton Preparatory.

Several guys and girls had already changed into their P.E. uniforms—the girls in microscopic red shorts and white shirts with the McKinley logo, the boys in red gym shorts with grey shirts with the same logo—and Kurt looked around helplessly for the teacher.

"New kid!" he heard an adult's voice bark behind him. Kurt spun around and saw a tall, muscled man with a receding hairline standing before him, whistle in hand. "Henderson, right?"

"Y—Yes, sir," Kurt spluttered, immediately standing straighter.

"Aren't there two of you? I heard I'm getting you and…a Michael Henderson?"

He's obviously not here yet.

Kurt was about to open his mouth, but just then, the doors opened, and Finn walked in, bag slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late, sir—"

"That's Coach Reddy to you. Uniforms!" the man barked, throwing Finn and Kurt their red shorts and grey t-shirts. "Locker combinations!" he exclaimed, handing them slips of paper. Kurt looked at his uniform in disgust as they both walked towards the locker room.

"These are gross."

"It's the same kind of uniform we had at Brenton," Finn reasoned as they looked for their lockers, which were near the back of the locker room. "Just…our shirt was white and our shorts were maroon."

"I don't know, these look suspicious," Kurt muttered, scrutinizing the material. "Well, let's get go—"

"What are you boys waiting for in there, Christmas?" the coach shouted from the door. Finn and Kurt hurried, stuffed their things in their respective lockers, and dashed out of the locker room to join the class as soon as possible.

They fell in line with the rest of the class—the left side of the gym for the boys, and the left side for the girls. Some of the girls were eyeing Kurt and Finn interestedly, which made Kurt slightly uncomfortable, yet flattered at the same time.

"I think the blonde chick, the cheerleader—I think she's looking at you, Kurt," Finn whispered to Kurt as Coach Reddy barked the details of the class to them.

"The daffy-looking one?" Kurt whispered back, looking at the tall, blonde girl in the ponytail. He grinned.

"Yeah." Finn tried to suppress his laughter, but then Coach Reddy ended up in front of his face, fuming.

"What are you laughing about, Hendersons?" he said to both Kurt and Finn, tiny flecks of spit landing on their faces. Kurt shifted uncomfortably.

"Nothing, coach," they both said at the same time. Coach Reddy frowned.

"Outside. Ten laps around the track. Now!" he roared, pointing at the door. "Both boys and girls! NOW!"

The entire class groaned and looked at Kurt and Finn angrily, filing outside the door immediately. Everyone began running around the large track, Finn and Kurt around the middle of the line.

"I think the Latina girl was looking at you too," Kurt huffed as they turned a corner. Finn bit his lip.

"She's kinda hot, you know."

"I thought you thought the Rachel girl was hot?"

"She is, but then…I don't know, the other girl is—"

"Hi," a voice said sweetly behind them. They turned around, still running, the daffy-looking blonde girl and the Latina girl running right behind them. "I'm Brittany S. Pierce."

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked, breathing heavily. "Did you just say 'Britney Spears'?"

"No, she's a name-stealer," Brittany huffed.

"I'm Santana Lopez," the Latina girl said, winking at Finn. Kurt went rigid and nearly stopped, but gravity got the best of him, and he nearly fell flat on his face.

The two girls ran off, giggling into the distance. Finn stopped and pulled Kurt up, and they continued running, but slower.

"Oh my god, her last name is Lopez—"

Finn stared at him. "That doesn't mean she's related to Rodrigo and Edward, though…"

"I know, I…" Kurt groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I just…I just…I'm over th—"

"Hey, Henderson!" a familiar voice drawled from the bleachers. Kurt turned around to see Blaine Anderson peeking out from behind one of the sets, a cigarette in hand. He rolled his eyes and kept running.

"What the fuck do you want?" Kurt snapped as Blaine jumped onto the bleachers and started running on them to follow Kurt and Finn.

"Just stay the hell away," Finn growled.

"Just wanted to join in on a little physical education," he said slyly, nodding his head towards Brittany and Santana, who were beginning to catch up with Finn and Kurt. "So, what's it like bonding with the track pavement?"

"Go bond with the bleachers, Anderson," Kurt snapped.

"ANDERSON!" Coach Reddy's voice boomed. "I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM MY LAST PERIOD CLASS!"

"Fuck you too, Coach!" Blaine said loudly.

"Blaine, get the fuck down from there!" a female voice hissed from under the bleachers. A flash of pink hair was running along with them under the bleachers. "Reddy's going to get Figgins and we'll be in a shit ton of trouble again."

"Hold up, Quinnie," Blaine huffed, stopping right in front of Kurt and Finn. "So, Henderson."

"I WARNED YOU, ANDERSON!"

"What?" Kurt asked exasperatedly.

"…Nothing," Blaine winked, and then he jumped behind the bleachers again, leaving his cigarette behind on the pavement where Kurt and Finn ran.

"WHAT ARE YOU BOYS DOING?" Coach Reddy shouted. "KEEP RUNNIN'!"

Finn and Kurt jumped and kept on running until Reddy told them all to stop.

"This is bullshit," Kurt groaned as they finished dressing up in their normal outfits and walking out of the campus. "I'm aching all over."

"That's because you haven't done a sport since the eighth grade," Finn chastised as they walked to their car.

From a distance, Blaine Anderson stood with the pink-haired girl he called Quinnie, watching Kurt and Finn from a distance.

"Why the fuck are you so interested in them—rather, the stuck-up looking prick?" Quinn drawled, pushing the butt of her cigarette onto the brick wall behind them. "They're just new kids."

"Exactly," Blaine blinked as they walked away. "I've got to go."

"Ah, go fuck your cheerleading ho?" Quinn laughed.

"Got that right, bitch," Blaine winked, walking away.

Blaine Anderson was perfectly sure of five things: his reputation, his ability to get out of shitty situations, his ability to kiss better than whoever King of All Kisses was, his ability to charm people because of his reputation, and his impeccably perfect grades—but he preferred to keep his beautiful four-point-oh GPA on the down-low, just in case it ruined his reputation. He knew that McKinley High School wasn't the place to flaunt your intelligence. It was just wrong. It would disrupt the balance of power in the school. According to Jacob Ben-Israel's latest poll in McKinley's Muckraker, Blaine was rated number one on McKinley's "Hot List" for the school year 2011-2012, knocking Noah Puckerman down by nearly forty percent.

"Of course you're the number one badass," his friend—well, best friend, since they pretty much only had each other—Quinn Fabray always snorted whenever they smoked together behind the bleachers. "Puckerman wouldn't do half the shit you do."

"Oh, I'm sure he'd do some other shit worse than me," Blaine would scoff back.

But, in hindsight, there was one thing he was perfectly unsure of revealing to the masses: his sexuality.

The king didn't want to lose his crown, or get slushied like the silly dorks who were in glee club or the A.V. club. The footballers were scared to slushie him.

He hadn't thought this way since middle school and his freshman year of high school, when the situation happened at his old school.

Then again, he still wasn't sure about himself. He thought he was when he was fourteen, but now he was eighteen, and there was not a fuck to give about his fourteen year-old self. He swore he'd get over it, he promised his father.

So, why did it feel so wrong to be making out with Santana Lopez in the back of his tinted Volvo every freaking Friday? Why did it feel so wrong to have her whisper things in his ear? Why did it feel so wrong for his hand to reach below her waist and dangerously close inside her Cheerio skirt? Why did it feel so wrong when their lips collided, their tongues snaking into each other's mouths? The way she tugged at his unruly curls? His father would have been appalled that he was thinking this way, and hate him even more than he already did. Maybe she wasn't the right girl. Of course she wasn't.

Or…maybe it was because he was thinking of that new boy, the new senior class transferee, Elijah Henderson, and how he would have loved to pin him down anywhere and do him senseless. Him and his beautiful, striking blue-green eyes, his red-hot ferocity. He had just met him, too, so it pissed him off to no end. It was bringing back too many memories.

"Why the fuck are you so interested in them—rather, the stuck-up looking prick?" he remembered Quinn asking.

Fuck those eyes. Fuck his voice. Fuck his French accent. Fuck the way he looked in that v-neck. And those jeans. Fuck those jeans. Fuck his everything. Fuck him.

"Ugh, fuck, Anderson," Santana moaned, leaning her head back as Blaine trailed kisses down her neck. She pushed Blaine back in a lying-down position in the seat and positioned herself on top of his lap, straddling him. He opened his eyes and blinked, staring at the roof of his car as Santana continued to kiss him, and slowly unzip his pants.

And in that brief moment, he stopped kissing back.

Santana opened her eyes, immediately stopped, and stared at him. "What?"

Blaine licked his lips uncertainly.

"Anderson, I was about to take off your fucking pants. Are we getting this on or not? Because if not, me and my lady-lips are about ready to jet off."

"Off." Blaine cocked his head sideways impatiently, and Santana rolled her eyes and slid off him and sat on the chair, arms folded, her face screwed up in blatant irritation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? We always do this every Friday."

Blaine blurted it out before he could stop himself. "This is wrong, Lopez." Damn it.

"Oh, God, Anderson. What Sam doesn't know won't hurt him. We both talked about this a month ago. You satisfy me, I satisfy you. Besides, Sam's at football practice right now. There's no fucking chance he'll see us."

Blaine sat up and furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance, running a hand through his curly hair. "I think you should go," he said in a strangled voice.

"Fine, I have glee club in a few minutes, anyway."

He looked at her incredulously. "Why the fuck do you even bother with glee club?"

"I'm not like you and Fabray, eyebrows. It actually makes my day in some weird, artsy way."

"Fine, then go and sway in the background with Rachel Berry stealing all of the damn solos for all I fucking care."

Santana rolled her eyes, huffed, and threw the back door of his Volvo open, and stormed out, slamming it shut immediately. Blaine took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned over on his legs, putting his head between his knees. He was beginning to feel dizzy—that familiar feeling of vertigo, the way his stomach acid went up his esophagus. But he held it back. He leaned back on his seat, his chest heaving. He went for his backpack, digging for his pack of Marlboro Lights, and when he couldn't find them, he took a deep breath and shuddered.

What the hell is wrong with me? Fucking hell, not again.

He opened the passenger door and immediately transferred to the driver's seat. Blaine revved the engine and drove off to the one place he knew would calm him down, going home be damned.

The front door to the Hudson-Hummel home opened in a flurry, and Finn and Kurt entered. Burt looked up from the newspaper he was reading and smiled, but Kurt gave him a blank stare that clearly exuded frustration, threw his backpack in a corner, and stormed upstairs. Finn bit his lip and looked up at his brother running up the stairs, and back to his stepfather, who sighed and folded his newspaper.

"How was your first day?" he asked, clearing his throat. Finn gave him a guilty look, pursing his lips, and followed in his brother's stride, walking up the stairs dejectedly. Burt took a deep breath and let it out angrily and stood up, following his two sons, and going straight to Kurt's bedroom. He would talk to Finn later. He was taken aback at the sound of things being thrown about Kurt's bedroom: he heard the boy cry out angrily, flinging his boxes everywhere.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, Burt found Kurt lying face-down on his bed; his face was buried in his pillow, clothes and books strewn everywhere, boxes turned upside-down. Sighing, he sat down on the foot of Kurt's bed. The seventeen year-old looked up from his pillow, saw his father, and then continued to bury his face into the plush, black pillow.

"You still alive, kiddo?"

Kurt let out an irritated grunt in response.

"Well, okay," Burt responded awkwardly, shifting his position to face Kurt. "You wanna talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?" Kurt mumbled dolefully. "Today was shit."

Burt frowned. "Don't use that language around me, Kurt."

Kurt looked up and rolled his eyes. "Fine. Sorry. Today was terrible, to be perfectly honest with you. I hate McKinley already. The teachers are terrible. I mean, seriously, a kid called me out today and said 'you have a voice like Justin Bieber' or some crap like that, and the freaking teacher did nothing about it; he just told the kid 'it was out of line' or whatever, and the kids are less than welcoming. I hate being called 'Henderson' or 'Elijah' or names like that. I want to be Kurt Freaking Hummel again."

"Not every school is like Brenton."

"Obviously."

Burt patted his son's shoulder comfortingly. Kurt gripped his hand back tightly. "I'm sorry, scooter. This really is bringing you down, isn't it?"

"I'm full of ennui." Kurt let out a sigh. Burt remembered him saying this two years ago, during his sophomore year when the Brenton music department was hesitant about him singing the solo for a song from Sunrise Avenue. "Really, dad, of all the places in this damn country, they pick Ohio, the most homophobic state on the planet."

"We'll get used to it. I have to admit, it is really weird hearing people call me 'Brad' and all of that crap as well."

"Dad, you're not the one who has to crawl back into the closet."

"Did you find a club you could join to fill in your times of boredom?"

Kurt shook his head. "Not yet. I heard they have a glee club, but I didn't know where the choir room was, and I'm guessing that if I sang in that club, I would be outed immediately, and no one wants that," he said bitterly. "Seriously, freaking Justin Bieber. Dad, I miss singing. I really, really do. I miss choral competitions."

"You'll find your voice again, I promise you. Like what your mom used to say, 'Despite being caged, birds always find their voices again.' Something like that. Remember?"

"I miss her. She would know what to do in a situation like this," Kurt whispered hoarsely. Burt looked at his son's other hand, and saw him clutching the last family photo they took before Elizabeth passed away. Burt swallowed the lump in his throat and ruffled his son's hair.

"I love you, Kurt. There'll come a time where this will all tide over and you'll be able to be yourself again."

"I love you too, Dad."

Author's Note:

Thoughts? Please leave a review, anonymous or not, or drop a random 'hello' in my Tumblr ask. My username is dietcrisscolfer.

Plus, I would love to have a beta. Is anyone willing? :) Plus, whoever finds the Starkid reference wins a cookie!