Blaine wasn't ready for it. He was never ready for these things. But today seemed especially cruel. During every period, someone had arrived at the doorway with a pass to the principal's office. They were fake, of course. Blaine was pretty sure the principal didn't even know his name. That didn't stop the teachers from sending him out into the hallway, where a member of the slushie squad was waiting for him. By fourth period, other people had caught onto the prank, smirking when the knock at the door came. It was fifth hour now, Blaine had run through his back-up outfit, and he hadn't bothered to wash his hair since the last encounter. Kurt's note had stayed buried in his backpack, lest someone ruin it. Blaine was so pissed at the indifference to what was going on that he was determined to give everyone something to really ignore. The growing puddle of grape syrup under him should do the trick.
The dreaded knock sounded then, interrupting his thoughts and the teacher's lecture on the mating cycle of mayflies. "Pass, Mr. McCormick."
"Blaine," his science teacher called out.
Blaine clamped his jaw down tight on what he wanted to say. It never did any good anyway. Besides, a gentleman never lost his temper. It was crass.
"Mr. McCormick?" a voice called from the back.
"Mercedes?"
"Can I have the bathroom pass?"
"Certainly. When Mr. Anderson returns." Blaine glanced back to his friend, who smiled in sympathy. He appreciated the effort, but he was kinda glad she wouldn't be in the line of fire too.
As soon as he turned the corner, he was hit in the face with a cup of ice. Cherry, this time, he decided, licking his lips. He swiped at his eyes, trying to clear them enough to see who was laughing like a hyena. Connor and Karofsky, great.
"Hi guys."
"Hiya boys," Connor imitated, bending his wrist.
Blaine turned to start walking to the principal's office. He wasn't expecting the shove into the lockers, although he should have.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Blaine tried to turn to face them, but a hand was keeping his head pinned to the lockers. A body pushed in close. "Funny joke, guys. But I've got somewhere to be."
"Aw. Connor, I don't think he wants to play with us anymore." Connor moved into his view then, a marker in hand.
"But I'm not done yet."
Connor uncapped the Sharpie and Blaine let loose. He kicked and elbowed for what it was worth. A sharp fist to the kidneys dropped him to his knees, but by then Blaine wasn't feeling the pain. It was freshman year again, a school dance, and the three guys around him had baseball bats. "No, no, no," he moaned.
"Fucking hold him already."
"I'm trying!"
Hands were back, pushing him down to the floor. "Just finish it."
"I'm trying!"
Connor's hand gripped his hair then, holding him to the linoleum, while he tried to scrawl a word across Blaine's forehead. Blaine didn't really care at this point. One hand landed on the small of his back, and Blaine redoubled his efforts to get free, squirming so hard that he dislodged the hand on his face. It slipped, and Blaine bit into it as hard as he could. Someone hit him again in the back, and Blaine had to let go to breathe. He could feel tremors shake his body, but Blaine felt anything but fear now. More than anything he wanted that hand back within reach.
"Forget this. Connor, let's go man."
"Pissant bit me!"
"I'm going to hit you if you don't move it. Now!"
Blaine stayed down until they were gone, then hurried up himself. He didn't want to explain this to anyone, didn't want to get in trouble for a fight he didn't start. He ran for the nearest bathroom as soon as his legs were steady enough to carry him. Once inside, he locked the door and closed his eyes. With an effort, he straightened his shoulders. He smoothed the front of his shirt with one hand and felt the aching loss of a tie to straighten with his other hand. He tried running a hand through his hair, but the move lacked the magically settling quality that his old routine had engendered. Think Rock Hudson, he told himself, or Gene Kelly. But there was no smile charming enough to cover this situation, no move dapper enough to deflect attention. His clothes were ruined, his shoes were sticking to the floor, and ink was branding his forehead, but he couldn't be moved to deal with any of it.
Instead, he turned on the hot water. A glance in the mirror showed the word he had expected. He ignored it in favor of dunking his hair in the sputtering font of tepid water. A couple of paper towels took care of the mess dripping down his neck. The hand dryer helped him dry his hair and with a bit of attitude, Blaine teased his curls out to their full height. His hair made him at least three inches taller. He took one last look in the mirror, then dragged out his own Sharpie. Might as well make this memorable, he decided. With a steady hand, he fixed the sloppy job Connor had done. He even added one of Rachel Berry's stars at the end. "Eat your heart out Rock Hudson," he finished with a flourish. When he rolled his shoulders this time, his normal posture slotted naturally back into place. He threw open the bathroom door, finally ready.
Blaine Anderson, a Warbler and a gentleman, was a fucking faggot and damn proud of it. His back straight, his feet pounding out the rhythm to Back in Black, Blaine looked his school mates in the eye and dared them to tell him any different.
