I'm B-b-b-b-b-b-b-ack! Sorry, school and work has become unexpectedly difficult. I hope to have another ready for Monday... possibly earlier... also... i dont have time to review it.. (as its now 1am and i have to be up in 5 hours...) so i hope everythings in order

AdamPascalFan: firstly, know that I squealed like a little girl when I saw the review. Mostly because, thanks to you, Katt is my favorite pairing, like ever. And secondly, it was so nice ^.^ I hope this lived up to any and all expectations.

Spookykat: thank you! All I know about airports comes from Snakes on a Plane; Flight 93, so my view on them might be a bit... bias. Thanks so much for your review! It made me so so happy! I'm glad you're enjoying it so much! And everything (should) come out with time. :D

As always, review.

On those happy notes, I shall almost end my notes. I don't own Glee, the characters, McKinley high, the choir room, the football jerseys... you get the idea.

Infinity is often thought to be gay, but since it is both even and odd at the same time, it is really a hermaphrodite and technically doesn't count.

Anthem for the American Teenager

Chapter Two: Two for the Price of One

A thickly woven yellow blanket sat heavily over a thinner baby blue quilt, both crumpled and creased under the weight of the thick, black and red duffle. The light green curtains waved slightly in the cool autumn breeze of the recently opened window. The fine layer of dust that had been momentarily disturbed had settled back on the belongings.

The air settled thick and cool to the material of the bag, the bed, the burgundy red shag carpet, and the red and white letterman jacket that hung from the closed door. Mathew James Rutherford had wasted no time between the cab ride, throwing his things into his old bedroom, and racing off in his dark green Cherokee Classic to his old school.

The parking lot, surrounded by plenty of pine trees, and the odd maple, branches plucked of the golden leaves, was just as he remembered it. Which, considering the mood, worked in his favor.

He took a moment to collect himself, shaking the first day of school feelings from deep within his chest. Parking in his usual spot, surprised it was open on a Thursday afternoon; he stared at the white metal doors of his school. Biting a lip, he tucked the beaten wooden fish that served as a keychain deep into his front pocket, and strutted through the parking lot.

Passing the painted black dumpster, he paused. This is where he and his best friend, Michael Allan Chang, had opposed to the daily dumpster tosses. It was there that they had received their first black eyes and learnt there 'place' on the schools food chain. Under the green plastic lid is where they had helped the first poor soul out, once there team had headed into the school. He had stood right at this spot, a foot away from the peeling paint, as the boy brushed himself off, ran a finger through his hair, collected the various text books he had obviously been carrying, prior to the attack, and flounced off.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he turned back towards the school, leaving his junior self behind. He pulled open the doors, listening to the squeak of rust that had always been there, and would always be there, and looking back outside. The parking lot being split up by the criss-cross of metal between two sheets of glass that had made the educational institution feel much more of a jail than a school.

New Directions' choir room was the fifth door along the hallway that he now stood in, the door had been painted a bright blue that in no means went with the dirty floor, nor the dab green lockers. And beyond that door, down the physical education hallway, was the auditorium, where Rachel Berry was most likely giving yet another stunning performance. Matt turned down a hallway, leaving the blue door behind as his heels clicked against the linoleum.

Peripheral vision was a funny thing. It makes you see things that aren't really there. Or, rather, makes you think you see things that aren't really there. For instance, the large group of hooligans that included him and eleven others, each smiling wide for the camera, was not actually there.

The large group photograph of seventeen young men on the McKinley High football team was there. Matt, having paused in the middle of the hall, turned to face it, and his head tipped slightly to the side. He didn't remember posing for that one. But he had to of, because he was kneeling front and center, his shoulders wide and brushing against Puckermans. The red number shone out from the clean white material. A red beacon, shining as a large 59. So, either he had somehow made it through a single game without being tackled, or coach had made them wash their uniforms.

Honestly, he was leaning towards the second, because even Finn's was free of grass stains. 54 shone from his chest partially blocked from the helmet that rested against his knee, but he new the number better than his mailing address. It was the number his uncle had yelled at him over, the one that his parents disagreed with, even when he insisted nine months ago. Why they couldn't just accept it - him - was beyond even his vast knowledge.

Turning on his heel, he headed down towards quieter, cleaner part of the school. One very few people entered. The art room sat under a small flight of stairs, and through the large glass display. He offered a tiny wave to the teacher, who had turned, as if feeling one of her best student's eyes. Her old brown eyes popped out slightly behind the thick rimmed glasses, and she waved a pink colored brush in the air, startling as paint splattered onto her white canvas.

It was good to know, that among all of the students and teachers whom he had lived with for the first part of his life, that one never changed, one stayed the same, kept her promise to continue to inspire him. Mike, who went to Asian camp, even after they had spent years making fun of it; Santana, who had promised they would keep in touch, even if they couldn't touch, but hadn't replied to his very first email; his parents, who had promised to love him no matter what, but had split apart when his father couldn't handle the pressure of having a son like him, not in a town like this.

Even the classroom had shrunk, he scanned five, maybe six, heads, bent over tedious perfection, before he turned and trotted up a larger stair case. Seven stairs from the top, a familiar sight came into view. Long lockers, roof to floor, a mixture of forest green and light blue, lined both sides of the short hallway. There were no classes on this level, only lockers. Lockers that had become the best part of his mornings.

Mike's locker, 67, in the same condition it had always been. A dent in the top corner where an unsuspecting freshman had crashed; a white shoelace that hung from the bottom, caught in the tiny grates in the metals structure. Though Matt supposed his friend no longer resided in this cubby, as they were assigned a new one every year.

And beside that, the same as he had left it, sat Matt's locker. The small black plastic numbers had been ripped of and replaced with a carefully brushed 8. The paint was still perfectly smooth; as he had taken care to re-paint it after it had 'accidently' been sprayed with red letters.

Accidently sprayed with a residue from the angry red letters that had taken up the majority of 69's locker. In his mind eye, Matt could see where he had knelt on the cold floor, a very gentleman's behavior, for it had been dirty at the time. There he and the boy from the dumpster had labored an hour after school to get the three nasty, cruel, angry, letters off.

X x X x X x X x X x X

Wood rocked between two slim fingers as the time slowly ticked by. The quickest, red hand slowly turned around the clock, passing the black one that deemed it to be quarter to three. Fifteen minutes until Warblers practice and an hour after that until he could once again check his email.

Kurt kept his eyes trained front and center, nodding once and a while before looking down at his paper to keep the teacher from calling on him. He raised the pink rubber to his mouth, biting on the eraser as impatient manner called. The yellow paint from the pencil had been chipped away, leaving dents and curves in the wood where he had bitten down.

Two thick fingers flicked his elbow, and he looked into the laughing eyes of his neighbor, a playfully furious frown creasing between his thick eyebrows. Kurt offered a shy smile, glancing away from the warm honey eyes that had him blushing under their gaze.

All around him, papers were turned in the thick green textbook. Kurt quickly flipped to the page the teacher had assigned to be due the next day, three calculus questions, before biting back a chuckle. As luck would have it, it was the page that meant the very most to him. A number that he had laughed many times over. How he hadn't noticed it the night before...

A white paper with folded edges, landed on his desk, and he looked sharply behind him. He had thought that, it being in the shape of a football, or what was meant to be one, would be from one of the Neanderthals that had somehow made it into his advanced math class. He had thought that, but had forgotten who was taking the class with him.

The other offered a smile and a quick nod of the head before bending to pull another piece of parchment out, one without the holes ripped out. Kurt glanced at there teacher, a balding, heavy set man who never noticed when the girls passed notes and the boys talked under their breath. Seeing that the teachers attention was fully focused on how long until lunch break, when he could go eat the many sandwiches he had stalked away, he flipped open the note.

In Matt's tidy, and at the same time messy, writing was the page number. The page that had been assigned until the over head bell sounded, and then for homework, and the last question on that page. How Mathew, a football player, broke the stereotype so easily Kurt only wished he knew.

Grabbing the pencil, deep and rough with teeth imprints, he quickly worked out the problem and scribbled the answer down beside the question. Glancing around, to ensure that no one would see the two conversing, he tossed the paper back, taking care to fold it in the shape of a flower.

Behind him, a hearty laugh sounded. One that should not be heard in an otherwise quiet math class. The teacher glasses quickly up, glaring at the student, who quickly apologized with his deep, colorful voice.

When the class turned back to there desks, bored with the interruption, Kurt cast a frantic 'be-quiet' and 'what's-your-problem look over his shoulder'. Seeing it, Matt coughed and hunched over the paper, looking, to Kurt, what could have easily been a thousand word essay onto the unfolded flower.

As it landed on the fold of the text book, Kurt grabbed it and unfolded it to see a series of numbers written beside his answer.

Page 69, question 3.

Ans: 5.

Seriously, dude? 69, 3, 5, and for the record, I got 54

Kurt looked from the note to his book, and back to his page full of calculations. Trying to understand where he had gone wrong, to get 5, when Matt had gotten 54. It made no sense, however, as he found no flaws in his work. He passed the paper back, a large question mark visible through the back.

He stood as the bell rang, hanging his bag over a slim shoulder and gather a bright blue binder and the green text book in his arms. Kicking in the chair, a rough shoulder came in contact with his elbow, causing the books to drop back to the wooden desk. Kurt glanced quickly up, catching the wink and the wolfish grin that Matt threw his way.

Hiding a confused frown, he re-gathered the books and flounced out of the math room, leaving the teacher, and his half eaten sandwich, behind. Only latter, when he was home in the sanctuary of his room, as he looked through his jackets pockets for a stick of spearmint gum, did he find it.

The note that he was sure he would never get back, the one that he was sure Matt had taken with him out of the class. And, only as he read it over the red quilt of his blanket, did he laugh out loud, reading the quick and messy writing.

The smallest gay number is 5. 3 has a reputation for being gay, but is in fact only slightly queer after a six-pack or two. 1 and 0 are bi-curious. 69 is, however, a very, very gay number.

As he slowly sobered up, the garage door sounded open, and heavy, steel-toed boots clicked against the wooden floor above him. His father's voice called down the stairs, and he pounced off the bed and raced up the stairs. The note, left but never forgotten, and to be found latter that summer, slowly fluttered down. The question mark, having been written atop of a hundred or so pages, was thick and angry and quick. The back side of the paper, where the mark had been etched in, shone in the yellow glow of the lap, along with a continuation of the note. A small, cursive, bold finale.

54 claims to be "just experimenting."