Chapter Four
By the time Rachel's tears were dry and Madame Tibideaux had left the building, Blaine was passed out in the front seat of Kurt's Navigator, face smashed against the window with a little streamer of drool clinging to the corner of his mouth. It should have been adorable. It wasn't.
Okay, it was. A little. But Kurt was still not happy with him.
And the wrestling match involved in peeling him out of his clothes and tucking him into bed wasn't quite the physical gratitude Kurt had planned for the evening. Blaine was a wreck, all dark eyes and stubble, already snoring before Kurt rolled him onto his pillow. He had no doubt Blaine really would sleep for at least ten hours, and he deserved every minute.
He whispered into the hair that curled around the shell of Blaine's ear, "Thank you, love." Then, with a kiss to the same spot. "But don't ever do that again."
-#-
"Has anyone seen Blaine, today?" Mr. Schuester asked, and by anyone, he obviously meant Kurt.
"His mother called me this morning to let me know that he needed a day to catch up on his sleep," Kurt answered. "He hasn't really had any for a few days, because he was working on my audition piece."
Schuester seemed flustered. "I'm sorry, but that's unacceptable. We're less than two weeks from Nationals, people. It's all hands on deck from now until then. I don't mean to sound harsh, but we can all sleep when we're dead. Until then, we have to be here putting in the time."
"That's not really fair, is it, Mr. Schue?" Kurt rebuked. "I mean, we all know that Blaine puts in more hours on his own time than anyone here. If you give him choreography to work on today, he'll take it and run it a hundred times before he comes back tomorrow. Two days from now, you'll never know he missed a day, and this choreography isn't even finished yet."
"Which is why everyone needs to be here to help hash it out," Schue said. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm glad your audition went well, but we can't let the future distract us from the present. Right now is about this whole team. We can't just take days off and leave twelve other people in the lurch."
"Well, then," a familiar voice from the wings, "as long as no one mentions that we're not supposed to participate in extracurricular activities if we've missed classes for the day, then I won't mention that Rachel isn't here, either." Everyone turned as Blaine joined them in the auditorium, dressed in loose fitting dance clothes that looked suspiciously like the sweats Kurt had put him to bed in, what was probably day old gel in his hair with water combed in, and still looking entirely too exhausted for Kurt's liking.
"Blaine Warbler, we missed you!" Brittany squealed, lurching to give him a hug, then pulling back with a grimace, "but you kinda look like one of Lord Tubbington's hairballs."
Mr. Schue held up his hand to high five Blaine on his way past, "Well, we'll take him any way we can get him."
"I'd prefer him sane and healthy, myself," Kurt mumbled, arms crossed and face in a scowl. He was pretty sure only Mike and Tina actually heard him, but Blaine took one look at his expression and steered clear.
"We can sleep when we're dead, right Mr. Schue?" Blaine smirked.
"That's what I'm talking about!"
Kurt would never know how Blaine could look so run down and so proud at the same time. Everything was always all or nothing with him, and giving his all left nothing for himself.
-#-
"Blaine, you have to talk to Mr. Schue. This choreography is insane."
With nothing but Prom and Nationals left to distract from waiting to hear back from NYADA, and his newfound promophobia to distract from that distraction, Kurt had been fixating on Nationals preparation. Or more specifically, he'd been fixating on Blaine prepping for Nationals, and if Blaine was completely honest, Kurt was starting to suck the fun out of it. He never actually said he was worried about Blaine doing the dance number, but he took every opportunity to throw out adjectives like 'spastic,' 'chaotic,' and 'confusing' during practice in an effort to get Mr. Schue to tone things down. It wasn't earning him any points with Schue or anyone else in the club, and only Blaine knew what he was really up to. Of course, every time Kurt deemed something too strenuous, Blaine worked that much harder to prove he could pull it off.
"What?" Blaine scoffed, working the eraser of his pencil between his incisors while the rest of the pencil wagged up and down out the side of his mouth. "No way. The choreography is amazing. With Rachel and the Trouble Tones taking up two slots, we've only got the one really big dance number. We need it to be huge if we have any chance of beating Vocal Adrenaline."
Kurt swiveled around in his desk chair to where Blaine was sprawled on his stomach across his bed working on his Calculus homework.
"I'm looking at the website for the venue in Chicago, and the stage we're performing on there is almost twice the size of our auditorium. The risers are both higher and wider, and "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights," is almost four minutes of crisscrossing the whole thing. Even Meatloaf himself can barely get through that song."
"He's more than twice our age and overweight." Blaine pretended to work through an equation, then attempted to erase it with the now-soggy eraser, only to create a smear across his notebook page. He reached for his bag in order to retrieve a fresh pencil, because he was not going to have this conversation with Kurt again. Half the choreography in question had been Blaine's idea in the first place, and he was really excited about this number. They were going to kill it at Nationals, and Blaine was not going to be sidelined for any of it.
"Blaine, I'm serious. You cannot just keep pushing yourself like this."
"I'm not doing any more than I've always done." Now he'd gone and erased a hole through the paper, needed to start over again from scratch on another page entirely. He turned to a fresh sheet of graph paper. He always did math on graph paper instead of regular notepaper. That way the numbers all stayed appropriately lined up in their own little boxes. Less chance for error. Sure, it was a little conspicuous handing in homework, but Blaine never really had a problem standing out.
"Even if that were true, which we both know it isn't, you're supposed to be on restriction."
"And I'm restricting boxing. The doctors didn't say anything about show choir." He kept his eyes down, let Kurt talk to the top of his head, because he knew if he looked Kurt in the eye, he'd have no choice but to give in, and Blaine needed to keep this for himself-needed it in a way Kurt just didn't get, because Kurt wasn't like him. Kurt didn't need that thrum and that reverb, didn't need bigger, harder, louder, didn't feel everything threatening to fizzle out and die if he stopped fanning the coals for even a second like his world was built from waterlogged branches.
Kurt could do still. Kurt could do peaceful. Kurt was good at quiet.
Blaine needed the noise.
"Because you didn't tell them that you treat show choir like a Ninja Warrior obstacle course, Blaine."
"You don't know what I told them."
"I know what you told my dad."
Of course Burt had shared this information with Kurt. In a way, Blaine was glad the two of them could talk about this. They could talk amongst themselves and leave Blaine out of it. Blaine was done talking about it.
"You're not going to win this one, Kurt," Blaine sighed, already halfway through the next differential equation. "I think we actually have a shot at winning Nationals this year, and after that, most of the club is graduating. There's no telling what kind of team we're going to have next year. So, if this is my last legitimate chance at winning, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure we do."
Talking head Kurt wasn't ready to give up.
"Even if you make yourself sick in the process."
It was a statement, not a question. Even without looking up, Blaine could hear the resignation that must be written all over Kurt's face. As much as he wanted this conversation over, Blaine was never one to condone Kurt giving up. With a huff, he dropped his pencil into his notebook and folded it all up inside his textbook, rolled onto his back, so he could see Kurt, albeit upside down.
"I won't make myself sick, okay? I'm fine in practice when we only do a section at a time, and like you said, we crisscross the stage for that entire number. If I feel like it's too much, I am never more than a few steps away from the curtain. I can step out and come back in if I need to." He reached over his head for Kurt's hands, pulling him up out of the chair and leading him down beside him on the bed. "And I promise I will."
Kurt rolled into Blaine, his head on Blaine's shoulder. "You promise. For real?"
"Of course. Just... don't tell Mr. Schue, okay? I need him to know I'm here for the team 100%. I still feel like they all think I'm heading straight back to Dalton as soon as you're gone. They never seem to take me seriously unless I'm coming up with choreography or adding a harmony they hadn't thought of. The rest of the time, I'm Blaine Warbler or half of the Wonder Twins. They let me talk, but they really only listen to you."
He was surprised all that came out. He hadn't even taken the time to admit he felt that way until now, too many other conflicting things going on in his head.
Kurt braced himself on an elbow, his other hand draped across Blaine's chest as he looked down, his face so impossibly close Blaine felt his eyes cross slightly in order to maintain focus.
"I didn't know you felt that way," he frowned.
Blaine shrugged, fisted one hand in the waist of Kurt's sweater vest as he rolled slightly, sliding his knee closer to Kurt's. "I just need them to take me seriously. After we win, I can totally slack off for the whole summer if you want me to."
"Oh no," Kurt smirked, tangling their legs together. "I have a whole other kind of physical activity planned for the summer."
"I think I know what that is," Blaine tipped his chin up, his lips brushing Kurt's.
Kurt let his weight settle over Blaine, their noses brushing. "Mmm, hmm, he hummed. My research says sex is one hundred percent doctor approved, so I was thinking we'd do as much of that as possible."
"That's a plan I can totally get on board with," then he tightened his grip at Kurt's waist and flipped them around, Kurt landing underneath him with a huff. "All aboard."
-#-
The night before they were to leave for Nationals in Chicago, and Emma was still packing, even though she'd started a week ahead of time. Will had his own bags together, no doubt thrown together in the half hour or so after he got home from the final group practice. Emma hadn't watched, having stayed later at school that night and gotten home to find dinner made and bags packed. She was glad she hadn't witnessed that, already fighting the urge to dump out and fix his oddly bulging suitcase, certain everything inside was wrinkled beyond repair, shirt sleeves probably touching the soles of shoes, underwear tangled up in neckties. She'd learned long ago that the secret to successful cohabitation was to let Will's mess be Will's mess, as long as it didn't spill over into Emma's.
It was probably good that she'd learned to let that go, because more often than not, if she let Will do things his way, no matter how haphazard and shoddy she considered his way to be, he was more than willing to help her finish up doing things her way. The opportunity for conversation in those moments usually opened topics they rarely ever broached otherwise, either because they were avoiding talking about how he must think she was crazy, or because knowing things were getting done right helped her relax enough to dwell on other things that might have been pushed aside.
She was rolling her fourth pair of pajamas(even though they were only staying in the hotel for two nights) into a vacuum bag with its own anti-static dryer sheet when she asked, "What time did practice end tonight?"
Will was rubbing beeswax across the zipper of Emma's suitcase and then brushing it in with a toothbrush, seated on the end of the bed. "We got done early so everyone could get home and finish packing. I didn't see any point drilling them. If they don't have it by now, then I haven't done my job."
"Huh." She flipped the switch on her handheld vacuum sealer, finished with the pajamas, and switched it off again.
"Huh?"
"Well, I was the last staff to leave this evening, so I did one last walk around to make sure there were no students left in the building. And you'll never guess who was still in the auditorium rehearsing on his own."
"Blaine Anderson?"
"Blaine Anderson," she nodded.
Will raised his eyebrows, beamed a smile, as he brushed over the zipper teeth. "That boy is something, isn't he? I'm so glad we'll have him to build our program on next year after we lose so many of our seniors. It's not often we get a student with so much drive."
"But driven by what, exactly?" And there it was, the thing that had been niggling away in the back of her mind ever since her little relationship counseling session with Kurt and Blaine. "Is he having problems with the choreography?"
"No, no. In fact, he usually just takes one day to get it down. We hash it out in practice one day, and he comes back the next with it nailed down and half a dozen suggestions on how to make it better. He has great instincts."
"Too good to be true."
"What?"
"That's what I thought when he auditioned for West Side Story. Too good to be true. Nobody's just that good. That's a full time job. It takes some serious drive and commitment. He's seventeen, Will. So, what do you think drives a kid that young to practice for hours on end?"
A shrug. "He probably wants to give the audience what they came to see. He's a crowd pleaser."
"So is it the crowd he's trying to please or himself? Does he need the crowd to gauge how he feels about himself?"
"I don't know what you're getting at."
"I don't remember where it was, a book I read once, I think, where they made a distinction between someone who is motivated and someone who is driven. Someone who is motivated is trying to do something positive and is chasing a positive outcome. Someone who is driven, is trying to avoid a negative outcome. I don't know if that distinction has ever been made anywhere else or whether it's generally accepted, but it struck a chord in me and has always rung true." She moved on from packing clothing to organizing toiletries, wiping each item down before placing it a Ziploc bag and lining them up in the opposite reverse chronological order so that she could remove the item she'd need first without digging through the rest. "I was in denial for years about my OCD, Will. You know that. Even after it was pointed out to me time and again. It wasn't until I asked myself whether I... do the things I do... to make myself happy or just to keep from feeling helpless and exposed that I started to accept that I needed help."
"So, you think Blaine doesn't enjoy putting on a great show; he's just afraid what people will say if he messes up?"
"Or what he will say to himself. And I don't know. I just... have a feeling about him. You know, he and Kurt came to talk to me during Whitney week, and while I'm not at liberty to share what they said, there was just something in his voice and in the way he started off not wanting to talk at all but then couldn't stop. I think there's a lot going on under the surface with him."
"I think you mean well, Emma, but don't you think it's possible that you're projecting a little?" He tested the zipper by sliding it open and closed several times, then nodded, extended the handle on the suitcase and rolled it alongside his own.
"I suppose I could be, but what if I'm not? I mean, you said yourself, everyone knew I wasn't well, but they let it slide because I was cute about it and didn't seem to be hurting anyone. Don't you think maybe you're willing to ignore Blaine's unhealthy drive for perfection because it wins show choir competitions? Or maybe he's trying extra hard to impress you because he doesn't feel like he's one of 'your' kids like Kurt or Rachel or Finn."
"Come on, that's not true." He sat on the edge of the bed and took the hand she was using to wipe down her perfume bottle, ignoring the soggy baby wipe already in it. "They're all my kids. They know that. He knows I care about more than just winning competitions."
"Does he? Will, you came home after Kurt's NYADA audition gushing about the arrangement that Blaine did. You literally did not stop going on about it all night. Did you tell him that?"
"As a matter of fact, I did."
"And how did he take that?"
Frowning slightly, he shrugged. "He deflected it, I guess. He said we do mash-ups in Glee all the time, and Kurt was the one who made it work."
"Was that the truth? Was it just another mash-up?"
"No, no... I mean, for a mashup you just need one common thread to make the pieces come together. What Blaine did... layers upon layers... it was amazing. I was so proud of both of them."
"But he didn't believe you, and you let him minimize it."
"I guess, after dealing with Rachel for two years, someone who just has that overpowering confidence in her own ability, and with everyone else constantly trying to win solos away from her, a little humility was kind of refreshing."
"Charming, even? Wouldn't you agree?"
"And what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, unless you're so busy being charmed that you don't notice what's really going on." A beat. "What do you really know about Blaine? Have you made an effort to get to know him at all outside of Kurt? Did you visit him when he was out all those weeks? He's literally just one exit down the highway from here."
"In fact, I did have a talk with him the day he transferred in."
"About what, exactly?"
"Well, he came to me about joining the New Directions. Normally, everyone has to audition, but since I'd already seen him with the Warblers, I... crap." He dropped her hand and scrubbed at the back of his neck.
"What?"
Will scrambled, "You have to realize, Jesse St. James tried to sabotage us by getting to Rachel, and with everything Kurt had been through last year, I was maybe feeling a little overprotective. So, I asked him straight out why he transferred to McKinley. Show choir aside, Dalton's curriculum is superior to anything we can offer here, and he was a rock star there. Here, he'd have to share the spotlight. I..."
"You implied he had ulterior motives."
"A piano had just been lit on fire in our courtyard. I had a right to be suspicious."
"Santana did that."
"I know. And when Blaine said he had nothing to do with it, I believed him. Well, I believed him after he told me why he transferred."
"For Kurt?"
"Yeah, for Kurt, but I let him know I thought that was a terrible idea, and he agreed, which was why he said Kurt was just one reason. He also had some demons to slay that he couldn't face by staying at Dalton."
"You're referring to the bashing incident at his old public school." She put down her packing and sat beside him on the bed.
"You know about that?"
"I admit, I may have done a little digging. I noticed he repeated his Freshman year after an extended absence between leaving his old public school and transferring to Dalton. It didn't take much Googling to find out there was a gay bashing incident at his old school right before he left."
"He didn't give me all the details, but he did say he felt like he needed to prove to himself that he could be okay outside the umbrella of Dalton's zero tolerance bullying policy, and he felt like he could do that here because of Kurt."
"Which is great, and fine, and good, but now he's a year behind Kurt, and Kurt is leaving. Have you seen him forming any kind of connections to McKinley that don't revolve around Kurt?"
His shoulders slumped slightly as he placed a hand on her thigh. "I think you might be onto something after all, but I'm not sure what we're supposed to do. Do you really think he's in trouble?"
"I don't know. I just remember Sue after the Karofsky incident saying how she knew something was up with that kid, and everyone was so quick to say it wasn't our job to know he was capable of that. I know something is up with this kid, and I don't know what that means, but I do know that sometimes the ones that are really good at treading water and not making waves are the ones that slip under before anyone notices. I think, for now, we just need to notice."
"Point taken."
-#-
After the late night they'd all had, rehearsing and then reminiscing about how far they'd come in the short time since the New Directions' inception, everyone was still sound asleep when Blaine rolled out of his sleeping bag on the floor of the hotel room. If he hadn't been tiptoeing to avoid waking the rest of the guys, he'd have had to anyway to avoid stepping on Puck who refused to share a bed with either Artie or Mike under the pretense of, 'guys just don't do that.' Blaine wasn't offended. It had been pretty much the same every time the Warblers had stayed overnight in hotels, too, and he knew that, in the next room over, Kurt and Finn were sprawled out on double beds while Rory and Joe were stuck on the floor.
Sleeping on the floor was one of the reasons Blaine had volunteered to wake up earliest for first shower, since he hadn't planned to be sleeping well in the first place. It also gave him a chance to get in and out of the room relatively unnoticed when he went to meet Ms. Pillsbury to get his medication. School policy forbade him from carrying his prescription with him. It had to be turned over to the medical designee for distribution.
No one needed to know that he almost missed going with them to Nationals because his mom had been required to fill out the medication forms and deliver his pills, in their original container, to Ms. Pillsbury in person. He loved his mom, but she was so busy, Blaine usually just got her permission over the phone to forge her signature on most school related documents. He was eternally grateful to Ms. Pillsbury for showing up at his house the morning before they left for Nationals rather than trusting his mother to find the time to make the trip to McKinley.
His hair was still wet and not yet gelled when he slipped out of the room and made his way down the hall. Ms. Pillsbury was expecting him, so rather than knocking, he sent her a text and waited outside her room. The hotel was packed with show choirs and chaperones, and it was obvious high school shenanigans had ensued the night before as he weaved past more than one snoring sleeping bag. Fellow wet-headed zombie like early risers made their way down to the continental breakfast while roommates started to stir and shower in shifts.
Emma was already dressed but only partially made up when she opened the door. "Good morning, Blaine. You can come on in. Will's in the shower," she invited, putting in a sparkly bow earring, her diamond engagement ring bulging from underneath the thin gloves on her hands. He made a conscious effort not to fidget as he crossed the threshold, feeling suddenly self-conscious and a little bouncy. "I almost didn't recognize you," she said. She studied him in his mirrored reflection over her shoulder while she straightened her earring at the vanity, her makeup and toiletries lined up by size and purpose beneath the mirror. He didn't miss the prescription bottle at the very end of the counter, obviously the very last item on a long, particular list of things to do.
"Oh, yeah," Blaine smirked, hands gesturing toward his head. "Curly."
"I had no idea," Emma grinned. "It's very... carefree."
"It's wild," Blaine offered. "You can say it's wild. I should know. I'm the one that has to tame it."
"Well, it's very handsome, with or without the gel."
She finished with her earrings and opened one of the bureau drawers, taking out a zippered bag that she opened to retrieve Blaine's pill bottle. He could tell from the way she turned it around in her hand and handed it over without meeting his gaze that she knew she was supposed to open the bottle and hand him the correct dosage but found the whole thing as ridiculous as he did. He was grateful as he took out his pill and handed the bottle back, that she didn't ask him to take it while she watched. He took it on his own, and washed it down with the bottled water he'd brought with him while she stowed the container back in her bag.
He wasn't sure if he was just supposed to excuse himself or stay and make small talk, scratched the back of his neck as he swayed somewhere between standing and turning around, bouncing on his toes.
"You know, I get the feeling you haven't told many people about your condition," she ventured, picking up a mascara wand. She leaned into the mirror, eyes wide, to apply it but Blaine noted she kept her gaze on him.
"Um, yeah, well, it's not really that big of a deal. I don't want everyone worrying about it. The medication is supposed to be helping, so..."
"But you're okay to participate today, right?"
He grinned, the expression practiced enough to be equal parts reassurance and distraction. "It's show choir. I'm not running a marathon or anything."
"Well, as long as you know your limitations." She broke her gaze to finish applying the mascara. "Because we all just want to keep you safe, and I know Will would be devastated if anything happened to you because he pushed you too hard without knowing."
"No one's pushing me to do anything," Blaine rebutted.
"That doesn't mean we wouldn't feel responsible if you pushed yourself too hard while we're supposed to be taking care of you." She applied her lipstick and blotted on a tissue that she folded into a small square, counting the creases as she did so.
The bathroom door opened, the roar of the vent fan suddenly five times louder, and Mr. Schuester came out, luckily wearing a t-shirt and slacks, his button down shirt in one hand, neck tie in the other. Surprised, his eyes widened to find someone other than Emma in the room.
"Oh, hi, uh... Blaine?" Schue looked relieved to have been able to put a name to the strangely curly-haired face.
"Good morning, Mr. Schue."
"Good morning. Did you need something?"
"Nope. Already got it," Blaine deflected, heading for the door.
"Wait!"
Blaine turned back, not sure whether to be intrigued or worried, just managed to catch the end of a silent eye conversation between Ms. Pillsbury and Mr. Schue.
"I'm glad you're here, actually." Sliding on his shirt, Schuester busied himself with doing up the buttons, "I've been wanting to talk with you, and it's so rare I catch you alone."
Suddenly feeling a little like a trapped animal, Blaine fought back the urge to chew off his own paw. "Um, can it wait? I have to get the gel in my hair before I miss the window of opportunity between too wet and too dry. I'm sure you know my struggle, Mr. Schue," he evaded, gesturing toward Mr. Schuester's own post shower curls.
Will quirked the corner of his mouth with a huff. "Well, just spray some more water in if you have to, this will only take a minute." He fumbled with the top button, stretching his chin up in order to get a better hold of it, gritted out something about sitting down. Blaine declined by way of leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Will ended up sitting on the end of the bed himself and met Blaine's gaze full-on for the first time.
Blaine fought to not look away, always taught the value and importance of eye contact, but his insides squirmed away on their own, making him feel disjointed and slightly off balance, certain he was about to be admonished for something. He knew he'd mostly been marking time at their last rehearsal, but that's because it was impossible to actually dance with all of the New Directions crammed into one tiny hotel room. He'd run through the number three times on his own in the hallway afterward.
"I wanted to apologize," Schue said.
Startled. "For what?"
"For getting off on the wrong foot with you. I was suspicious and feeling overprotective of Kurt, and I accused you of not being on board for the right reasons. I'm sorry."
"Um, okay?" To be honest, his first conversation with Mr. Schuester on the day he'd transferred to McKinley had gone pretty much the way he'd expected it to, given everything Kurt had told him. Really, only Finn's reaction had come as a surprise. Blaine had been at the Hummel-Hudson house probably every other day over the summer and had started to think of Finn less as his boyfriend's stepbrother and more like a friend. He hadn't expected the territorial chest puffing leading up to Sectionals.
"No, I mean it, Blaine. I should never have made you feel like you had anything to prove to me. Even after that less than stellar introduction, you have gone above and beyond for this club, even when it was coming apart at the seams, and I want to make sure you know that, however late you came into the fold, you're one of my kids, now. I appreciate all the work you do, in and outside of rehearsal time. I appreciate that you bring new ideas to the table without being disrespectful of anyone else's ideas or the ways we normally do things. And I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate your talent. No matter what I ask of you, whether it's to backup someone else or take the lead, you always make me proud."
Suddenly, the insides that had been squirming around and trying to leave the room without his outsides managed to work their way up into Blaine's throat. He tried to swallow them down but still sounded choked. "I do?"
"Of course you do, Blaine. Why would you doubt that?" It was Emma, now, who'd never really been out of earshot, though Blaine had assumed she wasn't listening. He felt his cheeks getting hot. "Will was absolutely gushing about the piece you did for Kurt's NYADA audition. You'd have thought he arranged it himself he was so proud."
"That was noth..."
"No, don't you minimize it, Blaine," Schue scolded. "Emma's right. I was blown away by what you did. In fact, if they hadn't changed the Nationals format to do away with the showcase performance, I think that might have been the perfect number for our final set."
"Really?" Embarrassed, elated, mortified, and humble all warred in his chest, flip-flopping positions in a nauseating tumble that made it hard to catch his breath. "For Nationals?"
"You bet. It's beyond good enough."
While Blaine was ninety-nine percent certain he wouldn't want to share that piece with all of a Nationals audience, it meant something to know it was good enough, that he had done something good enough. "Thanks."
He fought back the urge to run out of the room, silently hoping Schue wasn't going to try to hug him. Blaine was not averse to hugs, just not when his whole body felt like the skin on a soft-boiled egg.
"I mean it. You should be proud of yourself, son. I couldn't be happier to have you on my team. Even better that I get to keep you for another year. Your musical arrangements could put us over the top."
Except Blaine wasn't even sure they were going to let him do show choir next year. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Um, okay. Thanks. C-can I go, though. I want to grab some breakfast and..."
Schue shook his head and waved a dismissal. "Go on. Get outta here. And don't sweat it, okay? You're going to be awesome."
Blaine barely managed a wave and a nod before he was out the door, leaning against the frame for a second to compose himself before heading down the hall. Next time, maybe he'd bring Kurt along. He didn't know if he could handle another heart to heart with Will Schuester any time soon.
It was a little too much like picking at scabs.
-#-
He had bacon grease on his phone and a stupid grin on his face when he got back to the room, Cooper still on the line, more than content to keep talking even through Blaine's hurried mouthfuls of breakfast. He'd never understood how his brother could maintain his same over the top energy even at what was probably 5 a.m. California time.
Pushing into the room, phone still to his ear, Blaine shouted, "Everybody, Cooper says 'break a leg!'"
Everyone now in various stages of dressed and put together, the door between their adjoining rooms open to the steady back and forth traffic, the rest of the club smiled, raising hands as if to wave through the phone all the way to L.A.
"Hey, Cooper!"
"Oh, wait," Blaine corrected, lowering the phone as he pointed his index fingers and repeated in a much louder tone, "He says, BREAK. A. LEG. And there might have been an accent of some sort, but I'm not going to attempt that. I'm pretty sure it's offensive."
A collective laugh rumbled through the room, Cooper's antics a welcome distraction from the building tension. Blaine almost dropped the phone and the bagel with cream cheese and orange juice he'd brought back when Kurt spun him around from behind, murmuring something about Blaine's hair before wrapping his fingers in said hair and pulling him in for a good morning kiss, toothpaste fresh, steamy just-showered soap scent still thick on his skin.
"My kryptonite," Kurt breathed, pulling back. Then, "This is Cooper?" pointing to the phone. Still stunned by the ambush, Blaine just nodded mutely, and Kurt snatched the phone. "Cooper? Hey, this is Kurt. Good morning. Yeah. Blaine's momentarily incapacitated, but listen, I wanted to talk to you, anyway." He mouthed a thanks, taking the bag and orange juice cup out of Blaine's other hand, then shut himself in the bathroom.
"Uh, good morning," Blaine mumbled.
"Anderson, rehearsal in half an hour. Leave Hummel to his phone sex with your smoking hot brother in the hotel bathroom. You just get that stupid grin off your face and some shellac into that bird's nest on your head." Since when was Santana appointed team coxswain? She had a point, though.
Hair. Now.
The morning gelling routine distracted him from wondering what Kurt was talking about with Cooper. He doubted they were planning a surprise birthday party, since his birthday wasn't for months, or anti-graduation party to celebrate Blaine having to repeat his freshman year and miss out graduating with Kurt (it didn't seem fair that the guys who attacked him all those years ago were still messing with his life, and he'd vented to both Kurt and Cooper about that on more than a few occasions). More than likely they were comparing notes on 'how Blaine was doing with everything.' He'd known for a while that Kurt was Cooper's narc. He was actually okay with that, since it meant he could let them obsess about the things Blaine preferred to ignore without having to actively deflect the conversation.
When Kurt came out and dropped the phone on the dresser next to Blaine's tub of hair gel, the call was ended, probably for the best considering the amount of goop Blaine had on his hands at the moment.
"Nice chat?" Blaine queried, noting the way Kurt stuffed a bite of bagel into his mouth to avoid having to do more than nod in response. "Well, good. Did he tell you he invited me to come visit him this summer?"
Kurt swallowed the last bite and wiped his hands on a waylaid hand towel he found tossed on the bureau before reaching up and smoothing his fingers over the small wave in the front of Blaine's hair from behind, shaping it a little tighter with the aid of the mirror, before dropping his arm around Blaine's neck, pulling Blaine back against his chest.
"Mm-hmm," he hummed into Blaine's ear. "And I told him he'd have to fight me for you."
"Don't I get a say?" Blaine batted his eyes up at the reflection of Kurt, standing behind him.
"Oh, honey, of course you do." Kurt wrapped Blaine tighter for a second before stepping back and striking a pose in the mirror, eyes to the heavens, hip cocked with fingers splayed over the jutting bone, "Just remember what you'd be giving up."
"Well, when you put it that way, maybe I can convince Coop to come visit me at home instead." He spun in his chair and grasped Kurt at the waist, craning his neck up for a kiss, which Kurt granted.
"Hey! No wrinkling each other! It's almost show time!" Rachel admonished. She promptly ignored her own advice in favor of a good morning kiss from Finn.
"All right, everybody," Mr. Schuester called, having entered from one of the adjoining rooms. "We've got the rehearsal room for half an hour! Let's move out!"
-#-
Blaine hadn't been this nervous since Kurt's Junior Prom. This was a whole different kind of nerves, though. The thrum was the same, his whole body a pounding pulse, breath hot and hands ice cold. It was sometimes funny, sometimes downright scary how his body's reaction to anticipation felt the same whether it was, 'just can't wait to kill this thing,' anticipation, or 'who wants to kill me' anticipation. Either way, he was electric, a familiar static around him that drew in the feedback from all of his senses, crackling and sticky over his skin, one hard rub away from exploding. And there was Kurt beside him like stainless steel in the dry winter air. Bouncing on his toes did nothing to dispel the charge.
He huffed in and out, watched Kurt measuring the stage with his eyes, the same wide-eyed trepidation as he'd had before their "Candles" duet. He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd warned about the size of this stage in comparison to their own auditorium. Just the riser section alone would have taken up their whole performance area at home, and they'd definitely need to jump bigger to make it to the top. None of which was going to be a problem, not today. Today the reverb was synergy, and the thrum was a drum line marching up and down his spine.
The Trouble Tones were just finishing up their "Edge of Glory" number. Blaine reached up to give Kurt a reassuring shake, one hand on the back of his neck, one on his bicep, before darting out to take his place in the shadows to back up Rachel's solo.
"Showtime." And not a minute too soon.
-#-
By the time "It's All Coming Back to Me Now," finished and the applause died down, Blaine's hands were shaking with anticipation. So, maybe he attacked the opening of "Dashboard" a little harder than necessary, but he had to match Mike Chang and do it while avoiding Finn's mammoth swinging paws. He thought he held his own and most definitely did not deserve the tight head shake Kurt gave him when he dashed around the pedestal and leapt up to the top of the risers.
And maybe he flew a little too far when he took that flying leap off the top stair into the wings but flying was the only way to stay on the crest of the wave. No undertow could drag him under, not even the pull of Kurt's admonishing glare which he met with his best flirtatious eyebrow quirk and smirk before dashing back out, skip-running across the top riser for his 'glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife' duet/solo with Kurt. A sprint to the front of the stage, followed by a perfectly executed heel spin back to center, and he was no longer riding the wave, he was the wave.
It wasn't until he stepped up beside Santana and took a deep breath to belt out the next line that he started to slip under. A sharp stab burst the balloon of breath before it was half full, and the partial breath he held onto was forced out in a gasp that he heaved through in order to stay with the music, stars bursting at the edges of his vision as he sang through the oohs instead of letting the air get to his brain. He managed to force a grin through a brief span of vertigo, huffed the world back into focus, one more line, and thankfully, turned away from the audience to set up the next block of choreography.
The spell passed, leaving a high pitched ring in his ears, like feedback in the reverb speaker, but not before Kurt's hand tightened on Blaine's forearm as they neared the edge of the stage on their second run across. Blaine managed to shake it off without missing a beat, dodging Kurt's gaze. Luckily, most of the dancing after that was really just running with some sashaying and skipping thrown in, most of the singing, oohs, and bop-bops, and they usually stopped for a few beats after every pass across the stage to give Rachel and Finn time to weave in their vocals.
Blaine was starting to think he'd imagined the jolt from earlier, or decided it had been, at the most a pulled intercostal muscle, not enough stretching in the warmup. If he was sweating a little more than he was used to, that was to be expected-no boxing, less dancing, he was losing his condition a little-or maybe just the heat of Kurt's glare boring into him from every direction. His breath was maybe a little shorter, too, but nothing he couldn't push through. Nothing he wouldn't push through. He lived for this. Lived for it.
He'd almost caught the wave again, the smile pulling at his lips all real, because he'd never had to work for his show face, just let it out from under the carefully mannered facade. Then, he took that leap up to the highest riser at the far left of the stage where he and Kurt were supposed to dance while the rest of the group paired up on the steps below them. He left the ground with wings on his feet and landed with a knife in his chest, one knee giving out as if made from rubber. Thinking fast, he pulled a move from their Sectionals routine and did a turn around the bent knee, popping up after one rotation as if it were part of the choreography all along.
Of course, Kurt knew that it wasn't, and Blaine cast a warning glare at him, exaggerating his arm movements to discourage any attempt to help him. His singing voice was mostly shot at that point as he fought to catch his breath, but he kept his mouth moving. Show must go on, after all. Like the first time, the pain dissipated quickly, but his breath, already short from running, stayed short and tight, the edges of his vision swimming.
And why did the last block of choreography consist mostly of turns?
Perhaps by force of will alone, he made it to the end of the song upright, and perhaps he stayed that way, bolstered by the thunderous applause and the standing ovation. Most likely it was Kurt's hands at his waist that got him down the risers and into the wings. Blaine was too busy trying to catch his breath and blinking back cold sweat out of his eyes to remember how he crossed that distance.
"Sit, sit, sit," Kurt's voice in his ear, Kurt's hands pressing him back and down. And Blaine wanted to. He wanted to sit, wanted to put his head between his knees and just get off the roller coaster, but more than the quake in his knees and tremor in Kurt's voice, he felt the press of bodies around him, the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes, whispers of concern, someone calling for Mr. Schue.
"No, no. I'm fine. I'm fine," he insisted, swaying left then right as he shook loose of Kurt's grip.
"Blaine, you need to sit," Kurt repeated, his voice stronger and tinged with panic.
"No!" He forced his gaze to steady and looked up at Finn, then Rachel, deliberately not looking at Kurt. "I'm just a little winded."
"Then sit down!"
"Kurt, I'm fine!"
"Blaine! Sit! Your heart!"
And the rug yanked out from under him.
Blaine attributed the burning in the back of his throat to the pointed barbs he swallowed, clenched tight around his held breath. Not until he shifted his eyes, a quick glance around, quickly diverted downward away from worried glances the rest of the team fixed him under, did he feel the traitor tear slide along the curve of his nose and catch in the corner of his lips. The breath he released and the one he drew in behind it trembled enough to make a choked hiccup in his chest.
"Kurt!" he huffed. Betrayal coiled around him, heat boiling up and out. Scalded into silence, he bit his lip. Stuttering breaths forced into his sinuses, acrid as smoke, and he ducked his head, plowed through the crowd and out, head pounding and chest tight.
He didn't stop until he found air, then took more than his share, sliding down the door of the hotel room, because he didn't have the stupid key.
That's where he was when Kurt found him, followed closely by Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury, and he wasn't dead, thank you very much. He was fine. Finefinefinefine.
But Kurt wasn't. Kurt was wrecked, his face translucent except for the opaque reddened rims of his eyes. The glistening tears tracked like melting glacial ice, but they burned when Kurt dropped beside him and buried his face in Blaine's neck.
"Blaine. I'm sorry. I was just so scared..." Kurt's chest hitched, adding syllables within the words.
And Blaine wanted to be angry. He wanted to lash out, betrayed by his body and by the one who'd promised to keep his secret.
But more than any of that, apparently, he just wanted to be held together. He let his head fall against Kurt's shoulder, focused his breathing, forced back the tears, and just... was.
-TBC
AN: I envisioned the competition venue being one of those hotel/convention center type places so they don't have to bus back to their rooms, just take the elevator.