Disclaimer: Why the hell does Glee get good just before all my favourite characters graduate? I wish it was mine just so I could kill the writers for the fuck up of season three. -.-

This is my adaption of the episode s02e11: The Sue Sylvester Shuffle.

Please, don't skewer me. I'm trying to stick to canon and in canon Brittany was cheating on Artie with Santana. Other than that, enjoy.


*.*

Things weren't improving and I wasn't sure when or if they would. Most nights I was busy deleting comments from Facebook; strangers called my house more frequently, calls that I had to hang up on before the anonymous coward could say another word; and I had to nearly double the time I spent erasing slushie damage from my clothes. The maintenance of my relationship with Brittany had almost tripled the stress and workload of my day-to-day life.

But the winter vacation was just about to start, and that was bound to be interesting. The previous year, I had spent it watching reruns of Friends and Project Runway with Mercedes, eating popcorn and flipping through my slightly out of date mags. Now, it was bound to be a three-week oasis away from the disaster of my school. My social life and rep could go and die for all I could care, and I could work on the part of the relationship that I liked: the part that actually included Britts.

She never called and rarely texted to announce her arrival, so when I heard a familiar voice sing:

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Duh duh-duh-duh duh-duh."

I knew that this was my warning, and sure enough the doorbell rang soon after. "I'll get it!" I yelled, taking the stairs three at a time.

Finn had parked himself in front of the TV in the living room, with some foreign sports game playing. We were lazing around today while Dad and Carole were at work. Finn smirked at my enthusiasm until I felt my ears burn. He turned the volume down on the game so he could listen.

I threw open the door and was nearly barrelled over by a strawberry-scented, snowflake-encrusted Brittany. Her woollen cat hat with strings swayed with her hair, and her waterproof, wind-resistant, industrial-strength parka was glow-in-the-dark, lime-green with fluffy white fur that framed her head like a mane. Her jeans tucked into shop-type black boots that reached almost to her knees.

There was also a string held in her purple mitten, which lead to a firetruck-red toboggan. Strips of painted wood that curled upwards at the front. Golden designs were painted at the helm, leaves and abstract spirals.

"It's snowing!" proclaimed Brittany, lifting her hands in jubilation. And right then, I remembered why all the stress and humiliation was worth it. "And it's real snow—like sticky, snowman snow—like cover-the-hills-and-go-wee! snow. Not like before, when it was like the clouds were raining grey slushies."

Well, she was right.

Finn emitted a sound that was between a giggle and a snort.

It was the type of day that no one would dream of going tobogganing, not to mention that I probably hadn't gone to the hills since I was seven. The sky was a threatening navy-grey and poured snow in buckets. It was the day before people went tobogganing—that was why Brittany wanted to today. Less competition, she said.

I invited her in, but she preferred to stay on the steps and not take off her heavy clothes.

Finn turned the game back up. "So—going tobogganing, are we?" I nodded sharply. "You?"

It was all in jest, but I literally felt my ego bruising. "MmmHmm."

I looked mournfully at my six-button, black wool blend coat, already anticipating the caked snow and slick, stick-on ice that would melt into the fibres, dulling the sharp colour.

"Have fun," called Fin when I slammed the door behind me.

*.*

Wet, sloppy snow and sharp, biting, whippy flakes assaulted me and Kurt when we went down the hills. Soon, our faces were burning with ice and were bright red. I liked seeing Kurt's hair out of place and I knew he was happiest when it was, when he was so busy having fun that he forgot what he looked like. And his eyes sparkled like the fields of snows.

It was hard work to pull it up the hill, because it was so steep, but it made the rides so fast. And I liked having to hold onto Kurt's waist so tight. We were so lucky that it wasn't popsicle cold, like when your nose hairs freeze shut.

After a ton of rides up and down, I ran and dove into a snow dune near the picnic table, flattening a Brittany-shaped hole in it. Kurt laughed breathlessly behind me before trying to make a snow chair to sit in. I rolled over and felt the snow slink into my boots. I tried to sit up and had to shake the snow from my face. As soon as I did, Kurt doubled over laughing. And it wasn't his normal, confident, calculated laugh. It was mindless and even though I felt the snow slip into me and melt into my bones, this happy light sprung in me.

"God, I love you," he said, and I knew he wasn't thinking. That was the best part, though.

I reached for the closest part of him, which was his leg, and patted it. "Love you, too," I murmured. I think I was having a sugar crash. I was dazed and really happy and suddenly tired.

"Can't you come and lay down?" I asked, flopping back in the snow. "It's not really cold."

He knelt down. "I'm okay where I am."

Using what energy I had, I threw myself on him, but he stayed up and I just ended up sitting on his lap. The sudden shock of me getting so close knocked him off balance and he got lost in a puffy cloud of powdery snow.

I hugged him and kissed his neck before kissing his lips. Every second that I stayed on top of him, his arms tightened around me and pulled me as close as our winter stuff would allow.

He really was my favourite part of my day.

*.*

Giving myself a peptalk in front of the mirror was just the latest in a very long line of failed attempts to go to school happy. I had resigned myself to the fact that any positive feelings would be trumped eventually by some, as Brittany said, supidhead. Down in the dumps as I was, all I could see was physical flaws as I tried to psych myself up. My unsymmetrical hairline, my too-long neck, my uneven eyes—seriously, my left eyebrow was, like, an inch higher than my right one… and the hair grew in a totally different direction than it was growing yesterday. And my fucking tie was off-centre.

This was depressing me more than usually. I nearly ripped the tie from my neck. I rinsed the toothpaste scum from my mouth and braced myself like a soldier priming himself for war.

This shirt looked much better without a tie anyways.

Too bad my consideration for fashion was missed on the football thugs. They had almost a whole month to plan out—or as much as these cavemen could—a triple-strike on the Glee Club. Artie—cornered inside the side-door hallway. Tina—trapped in the abandoned east corridor. And me—in an almost ironic way, beside the Dumpster that I used to be chucked in daily.

Four big—and I mean massive—lunatics in lettermen got to me on all sides, almost like it was choreographed. Each of them had a Triple Gulp, which was nearly a liter of fluid and cost four dollars. Orange. My coat, even though the snowdays with Brittany had dulled the colour, was still black and would be easy to wash out. Good. I relaxed a margin. My hair was fixable.

Snow was blown around our ankles and I cursed myself for not running when I saw the jacket, nevermind that none of them were Karofsky. Hands clutched the Gulps until the plastic cups bent around their grip. They advanced; I backed up. There was little to no reasoning to be done with them. Soon, I would feel the inevitable crunch-slam of icy revenge and be able to shake it off.

The one that was directly in front of me said four words that made me groan: "Take off your coat."

I was wearing a long white sweater under this—I had decided it was safe, since I was taking all my precautions. So much for preparation.

I'm not a wuss; I just favoured a slushie shower over a physical confrontation. So, I removed my coat and folded it over the guardrail by the parking lot.

"Let's get this over quickly, gentlemen," I said, only half-sarcastically. I put my arms out and held my ground. I was determined to—

"ARRRGGGGHHH! SON OF A BITCH!"

I had forgotten how much it burned. This was Hell in a cup. I felt like I was drowning in a sugary, snowy, cruel mayhem. Nevermind the initial woosh of the air getting forced from your lungs by the shock and coldness; I didn't care about the temporary feeling of being unable to breathe with it shooting up your nose and coughing on it; shit if I gave a damn about the walk of shame to the bathroom and the forthcoming cleaning-up and change of clothes I needed to wear and the oozing, slipping, slopping feeling of it tracing a path down my spine and inching under my slacks.

I wasn't looking forward to confronting Brittany, looking like a rat drowned in orange icees.

I doubled over, clawing the ice from my eyes, and dropping my bag in the process. The biggest guy took advantage of this position, pushed me back to the Dumpster and flipped me in.

I groaned vaguely, holding my head and gently probing the place where my skull had slammed into the back of the navy metal box. I had always hated this treatment. There weren't just cardboard boxes and squishy lunches in here; it was a lot of paper, which was good, but also held hard things, metal things, sharp things and things that weaseled themselves into knocking on your spinal chord or stabbing your neck.

I sat up and a length of scrap wood from woodshop pushed harder into my tailbone, forcing me to stumble to a stand. I could feel a brainfreeze settle in and decided to get to a washroom before it seriously started to hurt.

Typically, my post-slushie routine took ten to fifteen minutes, but not when I was soaking head-to-toe with slush. So, I was still bent over the sink, running a comb violently though my hair with no shirt on and the bathroom door wedged shut with a broom, when the bell rang for first period. The sink was splattered with melting orange ice crystals and my face was sticky with sugar syrup; the hand dryer was working on my shirt and another on my sweater.

Looking into my pathetic face, I shook the comb free of drips and considered myself. Hair stringy and hanging down my nose, face flush with blood flow from the position I was in and flat out shame, knuckles white on the comb and there was something wrong with my eyes, something that said that I was more miserable and tired than I could think.

I pushed that away and got down to the job at hand. Namely, making myself presentable once again.

*.*

Santana and me were sitting in the Glee class, all excited for Regionals, even though we were best friends again and there were sweet lady kisses to spare, especially during the magical, love-ical Christmas break—besides, you were supposed to spend time with the people you loved.

Artie had rolled in a few minutes ago and had totally killed off our buzz. He was comforted by Quinn and getting a pick-up talk by Sam to make him feel loads better. It wasn't helping. He was dripping red slushies wherever he rolled and his glasses were speckled, his eyes big like Lord Tubbington. I felt bad for him, because that was a Superslushie attack.

The guys started to get angry, like fighting angry, and shouted without any real hope at each other that this shouldn't happen and that these guys deserved a real hard fight. Santana had talked the guys out of charging out of the Glee room and finding the football guys.

Then Tina had come in, dripping blue, but with all her black clothes, you could only see it on her hair and skin. She spent her time putting her funky punky make-up back on beside Mike, who kissed her and told her it was just some morons. Her make-up kept running because she was crying and she had to redo it again and again. Mercedes kept patting her back and pinning her hair back up.

Now the other boys were getting really pissed off and Finn was trying to strategize, make up a plan where they could attack the other stupid guys. Puck thought they should just meet them after practise and beat them up to teach them a lesson.

The nice, fun mood had melted like an icecube and now everyone was nervous and angry and upset in one way or another. But Santana kept on talking about Gaga's new song, The Edge of Glory, which she wanted to sing at Regionals, since she had sung Valerie at Sectionals. She thought she would smash it, and I had to agree. She was Superwoman.

"—and there's a killer beat for you to dance to and you could adlib, so it'd be like a duet." She sounded so pleased with herself. "We could showcase your rhythm and beat just like before. It would be so aweso—oh-oh-oh, what happened here? Another one?"

Kurt slunked into class and any idiot could see something was wrong. I had seen him after a "slushie blitz-attack" and knew that he had gotten all prepped and ready in the washrooms afterwards, so, it was hard to see the little things. His big, bright red eyes; his uneven, un-perfect wet hair; his shiny, sticky face; and his dull orange and white sweater, which I knew was supposed to be just white.

I ran to hug him, and got only a half, fake one-armed hug back. I kissed him and said to the others, "Orange slushie." He sat down on my other side and stayed real quiet, but I knew I was helping him by sitting next to him; when he was sad, he liked the quiet, but liked me even more.

"Okay, Finn, now you can go." It was Santana and before Kurt could even ask "Where are they going?" Puck gave out an encouraging war-cry of "We're gonna go all Thunderbird on their asses!" when they marched to the door.

I kissed Kurt again and held his hand, but then the rest of the football team came in and there was a manly man standoff with mean insults and threats and snarling. The team even still had the slushie cups. I wanted to join them but Kurt gave me a look that said You are staying, so I stayed.

The only thing that stopped the guys from jumping on each other (in a fighting way, not in a dolphin way) was Coach Beiste, and she told everyone to sit down. They sat down on the other side of the room and Mr. Schuester sounded determined and kind of angry when he said, "New Directions, let's give a warm welcome to the newest members of Glee Club."

He almost made everyone go pirate. I knew I wanted to start a mutiny and by the noise everyone was making, I was sure they'd all be on my side. Kurt and the guys (and I'm sure Artie would have if he could) all stood up and shouted screechy things, like this was never going to happen and that they were cray-cray.

I agreed.

And the football hardheads started to go Santana ghetto, and shouting and yelling. Mr. Schue tried to calm us all down but it wasn't working.

Finn finally stood up and yelled over everyone else. "Are you serious? These are the guys who nearly drowned Artie, Tina and Kurt in slushies!"

Everyone stopped for a moment, and then Rachel leaned forward and bitched. "And there's no way that I'm sharing the choir room with a known homophobe."

And then everyone went crazy again.

Kurt, even though he was mad, like steam-out-of-your-ears mad, looked over at Karofsky and he was really low in his seat, his head at the same height as the chair. I asked Kurt what homophobe meant and he whispered that it was someone who hated dolphins. Who could hate dolphins? They were so adorable.

Mr. Schuester still couldn't calm us all down. He was saying, "I walked to Coach Beiste about it, and she and I both agreed that the kind of bullying that David does is born of ignorance."

"It isn't, though," I said, frowning. Kurt patted my knee and Mr. Schue kept going.

"Having him in here, as difficult as it may be for us, is an opportunity to show him and the rest of the guys that being in Glee Club is kind of cool—find some common ground."

He was looking at a ton of upset, unbelieving pirates who were planning that mutiny. There was almost one, too, but then Beiste outlined the rules for her team: one week, no exception, even with some big game—right, we were cheering at it—and that there was no real team, that there were two. And then she said something Beistely and no one understood her.

Then the stupid black guy, who was besties with Karofsky, went all Santana and said, "If I have to stay I ain't singing no show tunes. That's the music of my oppressors."

Beside me, Kurt made a "ugh" noise and shook his head. "Have any of you ever heard of Rock of Ages? Next to Normal?" he shouted at him. "The Wall? The Iron Man? We Will Rock You? American Idiot? Rock musicals—they exist."

"Kurt's right," said Rachel, sounding really surprised that Kurt sound smart and mad—because mad people aren't normally smart.

"Do you guys even have any idea what we do in here?" said Finn really loudly from behind us.

"No," said Mr. Schuester sadly. "None of them do. We have to show them. Rachel, Puck, haven't you guys been working on something?"

And then some radio song that I couldn't remember the words of started and Puck played guitar and was all badass. It was funny to watch him psych the others out while singing a love song… oh… Rachel. That's why she was so happy; Finn wasn't very enthusiastic about it.

"I'd like to hear you sing We Will Rock You," I said quietly to Kurt, trying to break the tension that had gone up. Finn was like the sun: little anger beams were going to everyone who sat near him.

Kurt half-smiled and said, "Totally not happening," in a voice that I thought meant he kind of could.

"Maybe if I can get you to Penny's again…"

"Dontcha dare."

Then the song was over and Rachel was done making those faces—it looked like she was having trouble going to the bathroom—everyone clapped for them and the football guys were staring at each other like Damn, this is normal people music.

Then Karofsky's BFF said, "The girl with the Mohawk had a really nice voice," like he was a judge on American Idol, and Puck snapped. He made a mean face and took his guitar off.

"Funny. Yeah, man. That's good." Maybe I was wrong and Puck took it as a joke. Oh, no, here it is.

Puck charged at the guys with his guitar like a sword. That was like the cue everyone was waiting for and we all went for each other. There was yelling and Santana used her nails like knives, and Rachel was lifted off the ground, and all the guys (even Kurt) were being held back by Beiste. I think they would have all beat up those guys, even if Kurt wouldn't, I definitely would have taken his place.

Why had these nice teachers brought monsters to our home?

*.*

Today was not my day, even more than usual. Football thugs joining my sanctuary, the one place where I felt I could be myself, and still feeling my clothes stick to my skin with the remaining sugar syrup each time I moved, there were few ways that could've made me madder.

I was furious, slamming my locker and ignoring my girlfriend furious. I was also very embarrassed these days, even though I was learning to function again with the staring and mocking. I had been spoiled with Christmas vacation, clearly.

So when I saw Rachel Berry marching up to me confidently, my mood could go nowhere but up. We met in the hall and when I finally read her face, my expectations went south: she was wearing that self-satisfied, almost arrogant, angry expression.

Shit.

Rachel had been very cool to me ever since I had called her out in the choir room for being a spoiled brat. We didn't have those passing, Broadway-themed conversations anymore; we very nearly ignored each other.

This couldn't be anything good.

I smiled tightly. "Morning, Rachel."

"Good morning, Kurt." She didn't sound any happier than me.

About half a minute passed in an awkward silence where we took part in a stare-down, before Rachel said, "Since you seem reluctant to begin this, I shall start. I know you, like others, are threatened by my talent and I know you said everything in anger, that it meant nothing, but that doesn't excuse you from the fact that you said some very hurtful things." She didn't sound very hurt. "Feel free to apologise in any way you want to. The team needs to be stronger if we hope to win Nationals."

I spoke in a carefully measured voice. "I am sorry I hurt you, Rachel, but I won't take back what I said because it was the truth. Was I angry? Yes, but it needed to be said by someone."

Rachel was taken aback. "I—I'm sorry?"

I sighed, exasperated. "You are exceptional, Rachel, you really are. But you don't let your talent speak for itself; you make sure everyone knows how good you are before they hear you sing. And, to be very honest, the only reason I had never very actively campaigned for the star role was because there was no one to be my opposite. In competitions, I couldn't duet with anyone. None of the guys wanted to and I didn't have enough vocal or emotional chemistry with any of the girls. Now I have both. And, if I were you, I'd watch my back."

Rachel started to splutter, color rising in her face from the neck of her unicorn sweater. "Brittany isn't a good singer!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Finn? At least Britt can dance."

*.*

"… and then I walked away with as much dignity as I could… As much pride."

I thought about it, scratching Lord Tubbington behind the ears. Charity curled herself on my skirt, putting her face up on my leg. I was lying on a couch, my feet in Kurt's lap, and we were kind of watching TV at my house. Lord Tubbington headbutted me strongly and I groaned as he dug his claws through my shirt into my chest, pinpricking me.

"I don't think I'd be too mad if you started a war, but just remember that Finn's your brother—no matter how bad of a singer he is." I smiled. "I'd like to dance more in competitions and sing some with you. And Tina never does much."

Kurt ran his hand over my leg. "Me too. You and Finn just need some practise, a good teacher."

Then a great idea pulled itself into my head.

"Kurt!" I sat up, Lord Tubbington falling off me with a growl-hiss and Charity sliding off me like a furry slinky.

Kurt screamed, pulling his legs up onto the couch, and I couldn't stop laughing at him. I put my arms around him. "Awww, my cats can't hurt you."

He said something that sounded like "claws", but I just shook my head at his silliness. Cats were awesome. Plus, one day, they were going to rule us all so it was smart to get in good with them while we ruled them.

"But"—I bounced away from him, pulling my ankles together and sitting cross-legged—"you know what happened to me today?"

He smiled, straightening his wrinkle-free shirt. "What?"

"Coach Sue said she wanted to kill me."

"What?"

"But then Santana went and tattled to Principal Figgins, so I don't think I'll get fired out of a cannon like Woody Woodpecker."

"WHAT?"

"And now all the Cheerios are going to our Regionals when the football team is having their big game, so everyone is doing something awesome that night, and I'm still alive."

"Brittany… go back to the beginning."

"Coach Sue wants to fire me from a cannon, and I don't want to, and Santana told on her, so now I'm not going to burn up. Good, isn't it?"

Kurt sat back, shaking his head and laughing, until I kissed him.

*.*

And now Mr. Schuester was resorting to prison techniques to control us. Good idea, too, since most of us would gladly take sledgehammers to the other if we wouldn't get in trouble. I remembered the Philippine prison, but didn't think there would be any love between Glee Club and the football team. Especially since our link, the Cheerios, were most likely leaving to their Regionals.

Zombie Camp was fun, at least. Grimy, goopy zombie make-up to make us look like we were falling to bits while shambling around stage in a fairly unsynchronised manner. There was only one fight, too.

Thriller/Heads Will Roll was coming together fantastically. Rachel originally had made it herself, with Santana and Artie harmonizing, but then after I looked over it and gave her what I thought was the queen of Looks, she changed it to be four soloists—shockingly, she gave me the Heads Will Roll part with Santana. Plus, Finn was doing the creepy speaking part because he was the only one that the voice changer gear could fit.

We took a short break. The girls were experimenting with different brands of make-up and Brittany had brought out her Magic Markers. I pitied the football guy who was docilely sitting in their chair and looking like an undead clown. The others were all practising their shambling, while Schuester and Beiste were choreographing and manhandling a group of Titans into doing a synchronised shambling.

And I managed to corner Karofsky, who was scrubbing grey make-up from his face. He was the only football player with any kind of grace with the routine. He made it look like a routine, instead of a series of dance steps. I told him that.

"Shut up, Hummel," he snapped, but I thought he was pleased with the compliment. "Let's just survive, okay?" There came that pleading look, but we were alone and Brittany was the only one who could work the puppy dog eyes on me.

I sat across from him. "Just think of what could happen if you kept dancing, maybe took a few singing lesson, all that dedication and effort you put into bullying us—what if you kept this up? You could be one of the most talented guys in the school, David."

My use of his first name got his attention. "Yeah…" he said in a very small voice. "Sure."

He got up quickly and walked aimlessly towards Finn. I didn't hear what he said, but soon Mr. Schuester said the guys were going to zombifiy She's Not There before the MJ/Yeah Yeah Yeah extravaganza.

Given the sheet music, I saw that I didn't have any lines. I just harmonised with Finn and Sam for the chorus. I didn't care about that. I just thought I had made some progress with Karofsky. I wasn't planning on making him anything, but he clearly enjoyed this and… well… ironically, it was his homophobia keeping him from doing what he really—

"Kurt."

I twisted my crossed legs around and saw Rachel, bleeding from the ears, with half her cheekbone showing. She took the chair Karofsky had just left.

"I didn't change the lines of Thriller/Heads Will Roll because you wanted me to. I changed it because it was right to let more people sing."

I felt the snarky and mean me slip into control. "I have no clue why Schuester put you in charge of making the song."

"I will ignore that." Rachel looked hard at me. "This isn't about me, not everything is, and I understand that…"

As she kept on talking, I realised something that I couldn't believe at first, but it had to be true.

"You're threatened by me," I said incredulously.

"I'm not—"

"Really?"

Rachel swung her head around, looking everywhere but at me. "The Club likes you more than me, and I think songs should be distributed based on talent, not popularity."

I raised an eyebrow and she reacted just like I thought she would: she kept talking. I was right: she was threatened. Oh. My. God. I threatened Rachel Berry by just being Kurt Hummel.

"It's not that you're not talented. There are degrees of talent and I'm more talented than you are—"

"We've both got another year and a half here," I said, exasperated. "You can surrender a few songs. We're all talented and I know that winning is the most important thing to you, but I joined Glee to feel like I belonged, like there was somewhere I could be to be me. This means a lot more to me than you."

Rachel reared back for the attack. "Winning is not the most important—"

"Of course it is, Rachel! You would kill both your fathers for a competition solo."

Rachel stood up, although it didn't make much of a difference. "This is my future. I need these credentials to get into school." She was practically spitting at me, but it all sounded like an actress's lines. Fake. Fake. Fake. Drama. Drama. Drama.

"No you don't," I scoffed. "You can get in on talent during the audition, the rest of us can't. We actually need the credentials, but that's not why we deserve to sing."

"Really? Why is that, then?"

"Because there are more people in the Club than just you, Rachel!" I stood up, too, and I was a quite few inches taller.

Then there was a strong hand on my chest and it pushed me away from Rachel very forcefully. "Just calm down, the both of you!" Mercedes towered over both of us, making us feel like we were three inches tall. Especially since Rachel and I were on the floor.

"Girls, girls, you're both pretty! You can fight later," she said angrily, and she stomped off, pointing a harsh finger at me. "You be nice, white boy."

I straightened up and looked down at Rachel. She looked so pitiful. She slouched, her hair hiding half her face, and gave me a furiously dirty look.

"I'm sorry," I said, reaching out a hand, half wishing I could skewer her. "You're that selfish friend everyone has. You're nice most of the time and an insufferable brat on occasion, and someone needs to keep that in check."

She took my hand and marched over to the make-up station without another word.

I had a sinking feeling that I had just made a new enemy.

*.*

"Kurt, I think I did something bad."

He didn't say anything on the other end. The phoneline was just dead.

"Do you—um—do you want me to come over or….?"

"Mmmmhmmm," I said quickly, nodding my head, hearing my hair scratch on the mouthpiece with static.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he promised me before hanging up.

I bit my nails nervously. I knew Kurt was having a very bad week, even with the superfun Zombie Camp, so I wasn't sure if I should have told him this. But he deserved to know. Even if he didn't deserve all this stress. I had been arguing with myself all night and it was now nine o'clock and he would know when it was morning and I wasn't in the choir room.

I was still sitting in the middle of my bed when Kurt came in; his jacket was cold and slippery with the drizzly rain. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Thanks for not saying 'What did you do?' Then I would feel like I did something really bad." He held my hands and took my nails from my mouth and kneeled beside me. "Me and Quinn and Santana, we quit the Glee Club to go to Regionals with the Cheerios."

He dropped my hands.

"And I'm going to get shot out of a cannon for Coach Sue so we can win Regionals."

Kurt stood up, turned away from me and held his hand to his head. I crawled forward on my bed and held the rail of my bed so tightly that when I twisted my hands, the metal squeaked.

Kurt's head was nodding in time to something. It nodded ten times before he turned around. "Brittany, that wasn't very smart."

A sound like the one Mr. Theodore's dog made after Chastity attacked him came out of me and I started to shake a little. Kurt wasn't mad, but he was a little disappointed and the way he was talking to me—like I was six—just made everything worse, like I had disappointed him even more because I wasn't as good as other girls or guys he could have.

"I'm sorry." I sounded like a mouse.

Something in Kurt broke apart and he pulled me into a cold, wet hug. His shirt smelled like Kurt and his voice kind of sounded like Kurt's, but I still felt six and Kurt's girlfriend wasn't six.

"I'm so sorry, but if I can't do this—the team needs me…"

"You love Glee," he whispered. "You like to dance. You like to sing. You told me you don't like to cheerlead. None of the other girls are nice to you and we've always loved you. That cannon can kill you, and that's not worth—"

"You don't understand." I pushed him away and he fell back, making my pillows all wet. "You've never done something to make someone else happy. You've always been you and not caring if others accept you or want you or need you. I need to do this because all those girls are expecting me to, they're all wanting me to and if I don't, we lose and we've never, ever lost. How can you understand that if you've never done something like this?"

Kurt tucked a piece of hair back into place. "You're doing this because girls who don't like you and who you don't like are telling you to?" He didn't sound impressed, and when he said it like that it didn't sound very good either. "Look, I don't like Santana but she has your best interests at heart. Does she think it's a good idea?"

"No." I slinked back into Kurt's arms, feeling even younger and stupider.

"That's two people who love you, telling you that this isn't a good idea."

"I'm sorry," I said into Kurt's shirt. How come he was the only person who had never called me stupid and had made me feel worse than anyone who ever had?

"We should sing Teenage Dream when we come back to Glee," I said. For some reason, Kurt's ears went really bright red.

*.*

Brittany wasn't in the morning Glee practise, but Rachel sure was. All I could think about as I allowed her to plaster my face with brown-grey zombie make-up for the boys' routine for She's Not There as how my blood pressure was slowly climbing.

I felt kind of bad for her. She considered me her only competition to complete and utter Glee domination, and, here I was, trying to take it from her. The nice, diplomatic way would be to allow myself to be a doormat and just let Rachel get her way, like everyone else dealt with her. But I wasn't in the mood for being diplomatic at eight in the morning.

"I can completely understand why you want to be me, but, trust me, it's way too late to change for Nationals. You had your taste of fame, I understand that, believe me, but—"

"Oh my God, shut up!"

Rachel, who been smudging a good thick line of some freaky shade of eyeliner, nearly blinded me and held the pencil back in surprise.

"This is the fifth time you've berated me about what I said, trying to intimidate me into stopping before I've started." I considered her for a minute, her perfectly placed mask of confusion replacing her inner rage. "Tomorrow, we can have a diva-off. You win, I stop. I win, and others can sing for Regionals. Hell, even Nationals if possible."

"Well—" She performed a perfect actress's pout.

"And stop acting, it's insulting."

The mask fell pretty quickly. I was right: she was furious. "Fine. Pick a song."

"I'm fine with anything."

"The classic mash-up: Anything Goes/Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"See you then."

"I guess so."

She threw the eyeliner pencil down, where it ricocheted off my knee and landed peacefully on the ground. I picked up where she left off, with a heavy pit of guilt in my stomach. I sponged a layer of the grey-brown zombie make-up (which was really just a concoction of Magic Marker ink, various shades of bronzer and face paints) before adding the gory details of an ear-to-neck gash that bled out.

I knew I shouldn't have been doing this. I was potentially losing a friend, just because her one fault was getting out of control. Rachel worked incredibly hard for her solos and she sang them beautifully, but that didn't mean she was the only one who deserved them, right?

I was doing the right thing, right?

To my absolute horror, a boiling hot tear of frustration leaked from my eye, smudging the make-up directly under my left eye. There was just too much going on in my life. Much more drama and I was going to explode.

I let out a deep breath, allowed a few good luck hugs, and then shambled on stage with the other guys. To my surprise, Karofsky was good, could carry a tune, could dance and seemed to be enjoying himself.

*.*

I didn't hear much of it, but I heard one of the stupid hockey players say, "Holy crap, they turned Karofsky gay!" and then there was a mega spla-crunch and the whole football team plus Kurt were covered in cherry-flavoured slushies. When I got closer, though, Artie and Kurt had survived the hit because they were a lot smaller than the others. But they still followed the football guys into the showers to help them scrub off the awesome zombie make-up.

Karofsky, with half the team, stormed out of the showers a few minutes later, half zombified and drenched. I managed to get Karofsky to the side. The others didn't think there was anything going on, so they let us talk.

I pulled him into a hallway that was mostly empty. "What's so bad about being gay?" It was always something I wanted to ask him and now was a good time.

He looked at his feet and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's not right, not how things are meant to be. It's just—"

"You're scared of being bullied and abused like you bullied and abused Kurt? We all know you're no unicorn, but you could at least try." I folded my arms and tried to look hard at him. "And what's wrong if two people love each other and want to have sex? Kurt once told me that love knows no gender."

Karofsky glared at me, but he didn't have any words to back him up. "Gay is just lust—"

"You can't have a real good relationship without lust," I said. "And if you're going to force yourself to be with girls and play nice, then you're going to have some really awful relationships."

"Why do you care about me?" he almost shouted.

"'Cause Kurt is really upset and he's trying to save the world and he can't do it by himself, and part of the world he wants to save is you. Plus, you're miserable and sad and lonely and you hate yourself and that's not a good place to be." I thought for a minute he was going to hit me. His hands were fists and his arms were really stiff, but he didn't.

He just yelled a little more. "I don't need Hummel's help!"

I knew I shouldn't have followed him when he walked away from me, but I had to. I wasn't finished with him. "Then whose help do you need? 'Cause you need someone's."

He turned a corner and we were getting really close to the team, so I fell behind and started to go and find Kurt. I wasn't mean enough to keep talking about him being gay in front of his friends.

*.*

"What's wrong? You look terrible."

I raised an eyebrow tiredly. "I didn't think I could look terrible."

Blaine shrugged and gave a coy smile. "Nah, me neither. I was referring to your lack of sleep and the stress you've got hanging over you. What's wrong?"

I waved a hand and took a drink from my only semi-crappy coffee. My coffeemaker was nothing compared to the Lima Bean's juice, which I had become sorely spoiled by. Blaine had agreed to hang out and help me rehearse the mash-up for the diva-off, and I knew we shouldn't have taken a break.

"Too much to explain with one coffee in my system." I got up and poured myself another one, stalling for time.

"I'm waiting," said Blaine, draining his own ceramic cup and reaching out for another.

I sighed as I poured sugar and milk. "Karofsky's sexuality, Brittany going to the cheerleading Regionals and getting shot out of a cannon, Rachel Berry's war that I'm sorry to say I started, and the football team's invasion of the Glee Club."

Blaine coughed. "That's quite a lot, but I don't think Karofsky is your problem anymore," he said, taking the coffee from me. "Thank you very much."

"You are very welcome." I sat across him again. "He is. I'm the only one, besides Brittany, who knows about him and can help him." My beloved kitchen table was scattered with sheet music, lyrics, and pitch pipes in various stages of accuracy. "I've also volunteered my services as a kicker to the football team once again."

Blaine nearly spat out his coffee. "No way."

"Yes way." I smirked, stirring my coffee into an aimless whirlpool. "Puck told us that we only need three or four more. High school regulations or something."

Blaine nodded and went into a football rant. I didn't understand the majority of it, but he was just so intent and passionate about it that I frankly didn't care what it was about. He totally broke the stereotype: watched football and basketball, fenced, played polo and boxed.

Shit. He was speaking normal English again.

"—which parts of this are you actually singing again?" He picked up the most recent copy of the mash-up I had found online.

"It's a diva-off," I explained. "The instrumental runs and each of us sing what we can fit in to show off what we've got. There's no specific set lines per person."

Blaine whistled. "That's gonna be a bloodbath."

I sighed again, draining my scalding coffee in one. "That's why I need help. I need to be pitch perfect and extravagantly awesome the whole song through, not just shining on a few lines."

"Then let's run this again," said Blaine, blowing into the wrong place on the pitch pipe. I took it from him and spun it around his mouth to the right note. "Blow," I said, smirking. He blew and the shining C came out.

"Times have changed…"

*.*

I didn't think I did the right thing, but if it would help save those three little baby cannons from going hungry, my death would all be worth it. Plus, it would make Santana happy if they won Regionals, even if I wasn't there to celebrate with them. And Kurt wouldn't mind it. He'd probably like the big explosion—guys liked big explosions—and Coach Sue would tape it for others to see.

Santana took me to the bus and we waited out in front for Coach Sue to be ready to go. I was sad that I was going to miss Kurt be the kicker again and do the Single Ladies dance, because it was always kind of hot when he did it. I told Santana that she should tape it and send it to me in the afterlife.

"Anything you want, Britts," she said.

We stared up at the cannon. It was big and scary-looking with a Brittany-sized tube for me to set on fire and shot out of. There were a lot of spray-painted flames around the shooting-Brittany-out-of end. It made my knees knock together. All the other girls were stretching and getting ready for the routine, but Santana stayed with me.

"I'm scared," I whispered to her.

She patted my back and pulled me into a one-arm-over-shoulder hug/squeeze. "Everything will be okay. Coach Sue won't do something really stupid, like kill you. She'll never get any respect again."

That made me feel a little better and I turned to hug her full on. "I'm so happy we made up and that I can die loving the two best people I've ever met," I said, my head right beside her ponytail.

Her manicured hands patted my back again. "So, you're not even going to swipe Hummel's V-Card before you go?"

"Kurt doesn't have visa," I said, pulling away. Santana gave me a look that said, Think this through, Brittany. I did and nodded. "Yeah, I'm a little sad about that. Don't do it for me, though," I warned. "Tell him it'll be okay for him and Blaine to be dolphins together. Well, dolphin and bicorn."

I kicked my little white tennis shoes on the black parking lot, walking a few steps on the bright yellow lines.

"Could you steady me?" said Santana. She started to stretch like the other Cheerios, reaching her legs up so she was really tall and doing vertical splits and turning her body around and around. Most of the time, she put a hand on my shoulder to make sure she didn't faceplant. The whole thing was really hot.

"I know Kurt knows this already," I said after she was mostly finished. "But we don't say it as often as me and Kurt do, so I want you to know that I love you." Santana stopped twisting. "Like, really love you. Like, how I love Kurt."

She looked at me and she did that thing where I couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Yeah. I love you too." She kept stretching, and it felt like there was a golden smile in my chest. I was so happy she got to know that and we got to say it, because you should always tell people you love that you love them.

"Just don't say that too loud," she added.

*.*

I sat on the sidelines most of the time, playing Tetris on my phone or humming Anything Goes/Anything You Can Do under my breath. I only stood up when my team scored points. Blaine was somewhere in the stands with my Dad and Carole.

The girls had all joined the team and they had recruited some heavyset wrestling girl, who Artie knew from AV Club, to be some muscle and "bring the pain". She sure was doing well. Good thing, too. The other girls just went facedown when the ball was snapped. And I was once again, I was back in my number 3 jersey, shoulder pads making me as wide as I was tall, absently waiting to be called up and kick. This time, I was dancing on the sidelines to headphones and my iPod and didn't have to humiliate the team even more.

Now, I actually cared about the team. But the only points we managed to score were from my few and far between kicks, at least until Tina unexpectedly ran all the way to the other end, only stopping when a guy three times her weight threw her to the ground. We should've gotten points for trying.

I had just started a new marathon game when Finn jostled me from my Tetris-infused world. "Kurt, you and me are going to go and convince the Cheerios to do the halftime show with us."

"Um, sure, okay. Sounds good."

We dumped our helmets and found the back parking lot where the bus and the trailer on which the cannon was mounted were. Cheerios were starting to board, but there were three lonely figures, staring up at the flaming cannon.

"Hey," yelled Finn when we were in earshot.

The three turned around—my God, I had never seen Brittany look so sad.

"What're you doing here?" asked Quinn.

"Stopping you from going to Sue's Regionals competition," said Finn and the same time I said, "Stopping you from dying."

All four of them looked at me.

"You guys have got to come to the game with us," said Finn desperately.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" snapped Santana. "If we're not Cheerios, we're nothing."

"Would you rather be a dead Cheerio or a living Gleek?" I asked, looking specifically at Brittany. "Sue never cared about you guys. She's fine killing you! But seriously, if you didn't think it could hurt your reps, would you really go and follow Sue to Regionals?"

Brittany looked up at me from underneath her fluffed bangs and said, "No, not really."

The others agreed, shaking their heads.

Finn had a sweet word with Quinn about her strength, and Santana had a bitch out, before we were free to go, the five of us, back to the game. At least now I would have some company on the benches. We walked back, Finn's arm around Quinn and my arm around Brittany, and Santana also threw her arm around Brittany, but it was around her waist, not her shoulder.

I frowned, looking at that arm.

"No time for a fivesome, ladies and Frankenstein. Bus leaves in five," shouted Sue.

We looked back. God, she was wearing a puffed, tracksuit, floor-length coat.

"We quit Cheerios," said Quinn happily.

"You can't quit Cheerios," sputtered Sue. "It's blood in, blood out. Now get your sweet little cans on that bus and leave your boyfriends to their football game."

"We still quit," snapped Santana.

Sue lost her cool then. "You're my stars! If you leave, I have no performance!"

Brittany shrugged around me. "Sucks to be you."

For a minute, I thought Sue was going to stomp her foot.

*.*

"I'm really glad Kurt and Finn brought us all back," I said to Santana. There weren't enough mirrors in the showers for all of us, so the girls doubled up and I was painting Santana's big lips with some freaky black-purple lipstick.

"Uh-huh." She rubbed most of it off and it made this big splotch around her mouth. "Great."

I got a blush brush and started sweeping grey stuff over her face and smudging it up around her messed-up eyeliner. She did my eyes while I did that. It was zombie chaos everywhere: half-zombies pulling on torn jerseys and spraying temporary hair dye and weird, funky, matted and messed-up clothes were everywhere.

Kurt, having done his zombie make-up an hour ago while the team was playing their game, was trying to tease Quinn's hair into an acceptable curly mess, while spraying black spray to make it darker. His hair was all standing up and his number was bloody and there were bite marks everywhere. The guys were right up in the glass, like, their noses were pushed against it. They couldn't quite get it right, but they didn't want any help. Except from Kurt, because asking for make-up help from Kurt wasn't really asking for help.

Santana and I put on these furry half-coats made from dollar-store fake fur. Underneath, we were wearing these ripped red dresses that were all dirty and grimy.

"I've got a question," I said suddenly.

Santana fixed my dress. Apparently, I had put my arm through a decoration hole instead of the arm hole. "What?"

"Why did we stay in Cheerios for so long if we hated it? We could've been popular without it."

She looked at me, her big dark eyes even darker than usual. "No one would think that either of us were… you know, protection from… stuff."

"From being girl dolphins?"

Even though I thought she wanted to kill me right then, she smiled and said, "Just finish your make-up. And I thought your word was bicorn."

"That's just a unicorn proud of its bi-ness. Like Kurt. Or me." I got the lipstick and lined my mouth several times really thickly.

Santana shook her head and started to make her hair super curly. "Brittany. What are we going to do with you?"

"Give me solos and dance breaks?" I said hopefully.

"Ha ha, nice try," she said. "O-o-o-off with your head."

That song was really loads of fun to do. Mike Chang and me got to dance a lot and there was a lot of synchronised shambling and stumbling and zombie-like things. Artie sounded great and Rachel and Santana made a good match—just vocally, though, nothing else—and Finn was creepy with his Voice Changing stuff.

Throughout most of the dance, a zombie-make-up-less Karofsky was watching us really sadly, like he wanted to join in and have fun and perform but couldn't because something was stopping him. Then, all of a sudden, he put on his ripped jersey and started dancing with us.

Then, it was all over. The stands had exploded with sound and everyone loved it. The cold fog, the changing lights, the awesome singing, the awesome dancing—we had made everything better. Kurt and us all sat down on the benches together, but the team went to go take their make-up off.

They came out… with it still on. It was creepy to see them without the lights and the drama. Kurt pulled out some wetwipes from his bag and handed each of us ex-Cheerios one to get the make-up off. It came off in big sweeps, and it made us all really cold but there was no more scratchy, itchy make-up. I kissed the un-zombified Kurt and sat beside him. The rest of the girls had joined us and were shaking pom-poms.

We all cheered with the rest of the stands. The guys started to catch up with the other team and soon there were only a few points between them. One more throw and run left. A few seconds, and it was the other team's ball. None of us really understood the game, but we were sure we had lost it.

Then, without any kind of warning, our team (our zombie team) started chanting "Braaaaaiiiiiinnnnsss". I hit Kurt and he looked up from his phone. "Brains brains… brains. Come on."

Soon everyone on the field was chanting it, and then everyone in the stands. It was like a wave of "braaaaaiiiinnnnsss".

Puck picked up the ball and ran with it, all the way to the endline and he did a little victory dance. The stands exploded even worse than when we danced and sang. It was incredible. We had won! I wasn't really sure how or why, but we won! Kurt lifted me right out of my seat and off my feet in a big hug. Half the stands rushed the pitch to congratulate the team and give them big hugs, too.

*.*

"Hello." I cautiously walked up to him.

Karofsky turned around and slammed the door to his locker hard. "What?"

"You liked singing and dancing—there's no one here, so don't bother checking," I said as Karofsky pivoted his head. "You liked being in Glee, and I know you could be really good. You're an okay football player and an okay hockey player—but you could really be a somebody performer if you put all that energy—"

"Yeah, you gave me the sale's pitch a few days back. What's your point?" Karofsky hitched up his bag and looked over my shoulder.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to be in Glee. Permanently."

Karofsky actually smiled and snorted at that. "Really? Who said anything about permanently?"

I shrugged, keeping a careful distance between us in case this turned violent. I didn't think so, but you never know. "You could be fantastic, and this is something that can get you a scholarship, something that can be sustained after school. You don't have the skills or the ability to become incredible at sports, but with the right tutelage, you could become fantastic at performing."

Karofsky started to get that desperate, I can't but I want to look on his face again, and I felt my heart ache. I lowered my voice. "I know you're scared of being called gay, of being gay, but who cares? Neil Patrick Harris is gay. You simply must watch How I Met Your Mother."

"I do," muttered Karofsky, lowering his head. "Didn't know he was gay."

"That's my point," I said, edging closer, excited. "Remember Blaine? He takes part in the most manly sport of all: hitting each other for fun, otherwise known as boxing. Fencing, aka, sword fighting. Polo, an aggressive water sport. I know you think I'm this hyper soprano fairy who spends millions on clothes, but that's not true either. I can tear apart any car you point a finger at and put it back together without help. You've already seen how good of a kicker I am. Just because you're gay, doesn't mean it has to define your entire life. It's part of who you are, not who you are."

Karofsky didn't say anything. He just stared at the ground.

"My offer remains," I said, my voice shaking a little with anticipation. I wet my lips. "So, I'll see you when I see you."

"Yeah. Sure."

I walked away as quickly as I could without running, and just hoped I had done the right thing. I wasn't too sure about it, though. Now all that I had to do was go and kick Rachel Berry's ass from here to Timbuktu.

*.*


My project is finished, my books are read and school is under control. You guys should all expect updates more regularly, but I first MUST get some input. This is another chance to tell me where you want this to go.

Should Kurt beat Rachel in the diva-off?

Yes/No?

And, I'd just like some feedback on how I characterized Rachel. I was aiming for desperate but kinda bitchy.