So this took ages, even though it's been written in my brain for days. Oops. Also—sister's birthday = ice cream. I am so, so horribly ill and repentant.

Thank you for all the positive feedback, it makes me happy that this makes you happy :]

I don't own Glee, but my own birthday is in less than 2 weeks, so perhaps if I order it now…

Chapter 3: "Your stupidity may result in redness and swelling."

Looking around the room, Kurt actually felt a slight twinge of regret. This place had so much potential—sweaty, good looking men in various states of undress, a sauna, a television mounted in the corner that was tuned to Bravo…yeah, he could get used to this part.

A very familiar voice interrupted his musings. "Hey, Kurt? Are you almost ready? We've been in here for kind of a while." Kurt sighed and closed the locker he'd chosen, clipping his padlock on the door before following Finn out of the room. And swallowed the immediate urge to turn around and dart back into the locker room.

Miles of metal equipment that vaguely resembled Medieval torture devices. A horrible choking stench that was somehow equal parts Gatorade, imitation eucalyptus, and body odor. People in spandex. Dear God, the people in spandex. Kurt sighed.

He hated the gym.

It was all his Dad's fault. All four members of the Hummel-Hudson clan had gathered around the breakfast table that morning—a rare occurrence, given everyone's conflicting weekday schedules. Carole had made pancakes for everyone else, but had thoughtfully halved a grapefruit and put a couple of eggs on to boil for Kurt before he had come upstairs, earning the sweetest smile the boy was capable of before 8am.

Or the biggest smile he'd allow himself before his liquid foundation was fully set. They were the same thing, really.

In any case, it was his father, already on his third cup of coffee, who had asked Finn what his plans were for the day. Finn had swallowed an insanely large bite of pancake—Kurt, after eating several meals with his almost-stepbrother, was halfway convinced that he was capable of unhinging his jaw to fit in larger amounts of food, just like a snake—before mentioning that he was planning on going to the gym for a couple of hours after breakfast.

"Football training starts in a few weeks," he had explained, "and the first couple days really suck if you've gotten out of shape."

Burt had nodded knowingly, and the subject might have been over with entirely if Finn hadn't asked if anyone was available to give him a ride while he and Kurt were clearing the dishes. Burt looked pointedly at Kurt, the only one in the house with both a vehicle and the day off, and Kurt rolled his eyes in response.

"I can drive you," he agreed, turning to Finn. "Where is it?"

Finn had smiled amicably. "Just the Lima Sports Club, in the plaza behind the grocery store," he explained. "It's kind of crappy, but they have some sort of deal with school so that student athletes get really cheap memberships. And there are usually Cheerios around before Coach Sylvester starts her Crazy Camp at the end of July, since they get free memberships."

Okay, on second thought, maybe it was Finn's fault.

Burt had perked up at that. "Free for Cheerios, huh? Maybe you should check it out, Kurt. Pump a little iron before all your practices start."

Kurt shuddered openly. "Between Sylvester and Tanaka, I'm going to be sweating on a field for six hours a day for an entire month," he complained. "Why would I want to get started on that early?"

Burt waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, it'll be good for you," he encouraged. "And you'll already be there anyway; that way you won't have to drive all the way back just to pick Finn up."

Finn seemed agreeable to the idea, and Carole had been pleased about her two favorite boys spending some time together, so really, Kurt had no choice. Half an hour later, he was lugging an enormous duffel bag out to the car, where Finn was already waiting.

Finn frowned and grabbed the bag as Kurt stumbled over a rock. "Whoa, you okay?" he asked, his forehead scrunching up in concern. "What's even in here?"

Kurt sighed, unlocking the trunk so that Finn could load up their bags. "My gym clothes," he answered, "and a couple of towels. And my own shampoo and conditioner, and a hair dryer and a bottle of moisturizer, and some disinfectant, and deodorant, and a pair of sneakers, and my iPod and some magazines."

Finn's confused look was adorable. "I really don't think you're going to need all of that," he said slowly.

Kurt simply looked at him, and Finn sighed. "Here, why don't you put some of it in my bag," he offered. "Yours looks a little too heavy." He unzipped his duffel bag, revealing nothing but a towel and a set of gym clothes.

And a giant, sticky-looking red patch on the bottom. "I spilled some Powerade in it a couple weeks ago," he admitted, blushing slightly, "but it should be okay."

Kurt shuddered again. "I think I'll be fine," he declined delicately, "but thank you." Finn still looked a little worried, so Kurt smiled reassuringly as he closed the trunk. "If you want, you can carry my bag, and I'll carry yours—that way, I won't strain a muscle in my shoulder, but it won't look weird," he suggested.

Finn brightened. "Okay, cool," he agreed breezily, and climbed into the Navigator.

The drive over was short, and the girl at the front desk had been nice enough—Finn and Kurt had given her their Student IDs, and she'd swiped them in and directed them both to the men's locker room. The locker room itself had been way nicer than Kurt had expected, better than the one the football players used for certain (although not as nice as the one Coach Sylvester had commandeered and had made over by a task force of illegal immigrants for the Cheerios to use).

Now that he was actually in the gym, however, this trip seemed more and more like a terrible idea. He really should have held his ground and gone to Macy's instead.

Finn, who had changed quickly and was probably glad to be out of the locker room, clapped him on the shoulder. "Right," he began. "So, uh, I was going to do some machines and free weights in the weight room. Put on a little more muscle in my shoulders. Did—did you want to come?"

Kurt pursed his lips disapprovingly. "My entire wardrobe is tailored to fit my frame," he informed Finn. "More than a pound or two in either direction and I have to get everything resized."

Finn looked at him blankly, eyebrows raised, and Kurt resisted the urge to pull his hair in frustration—no need to needlessly damage the roots. "No thank you," he said, and Finn nodded.

"Okay," Finn tried again, "how about cardio then? You could run on the treadmill."

The look on Kurt's face seemed to express what he thought of that idea, because Finn immediately began backpedalling. "Or not," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I don't know, what do you want to do?" he asked with a sigh, glancing back toward the weight room.

Kurt stared critically at the machines, weighing the pros and cons of each form of torture. Ahem. Exercise. "The elliptical," he decided finally. "It's not that challenging. Just because microfiber material wicks sweat doesn't mean I should have to force it to."

Finn stared at Kurt's shirt. "Uh, right. Okay, so, I'll just be in the weight room then," he said slowly. "Have fun."

Kurt tried not to snort—it was a really unattractive habit.

The gym wasn't all that crowded—Kurt couldn't imagine why not—and only a few of the dozen ellipticals were already in use. With a resigned grimace, he climbed gingerly on the machine and pressed a big green button, using the keypad to enter information when prompted.

And if he leaned forward to cover the buttons when entering his weight, well, that was nobody else's business.

Finally, the digital clock on the machine began counting down from a half an hour in bright red letters. Kurt pedaled at an easy pace, looking around the gym. Apparently, this building was where terrible outfits went to die. (He made a mental note to call Mercedes and tell her that The Dress Barn was officially bumped down to the #2 spot on their list.) Unfortunately, the worst fashion offenders were almost universally larger and more muscular than him, and Kurt knew better than to willingly approach meatheads and make disparaging comments about their gym apparel, even if he meant it as constructive criticism. Regretfully, Kurt preemptively ended that pursuit and looked for something else to amuse himself with.

Twenty minutes later, Kurt was feeling pretty good. The elliptical was boring, but he was barely sweating, and the tv in front of him was showing a rerun of What Not to Wear, always a welcome choice. But just as he was leaning forward on the handles of his machine, eagerly watching Clinton tear some animal-print-wearing housewife a new one on 5th Avenue, the channel suddenly switched over to FOX News.

"Hey!" he cried out reflexively, earning stares from everyone in the room who wasn't wearing an iPod. He looked around and saw a trainer holding a remote control, staring at the television.

"Excuse me," Kurt huffed, stepping off of his machine without hitting the pause button and crossing over to the trainer. "I was watching that. Can you please change it back?"

The trainer, a burly looking man in his 30's, looked down at Kurt. "Time for the 11:30 news," he said brusquely. "I'll change it back at noon."

Kurt glared at him. "The show will be over at noon," he pointed out, "and the news is on 24 hours a day. I'm only on the machine for ten more minutes, can you just leave it until then?"

The trainer shook his head. "Sorry kid," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Why don't you watch on one of the other TVs?"

Kurt was starting to get seriously annoyed. "Why don't you watch on one of the other TVs, Glenn?" he shot back, glancing at the nametag that was level with his face. "I was already watching, and I'm a customer of sorts."

Glenn narrowed his eyes nastily. "Look fruitcake, this is my gym. My gym, my rules. Got it?" He smirked unpleasantly at Kurt, before turning back to the television.

Fruitcake. So that's what this confrontation was really about. Of course.

Kurt smiled viciously.

"Well then, Glenn, if this is your gym, I have a few things I'd like to bring to your attention," he began, voice falsely sweet. "For starters, the violation of several health codes." Glenn's smile faltered slightly as he looked down at Kurt, who pretended not to notice. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but your cleaning supplies are woefully inadequate. You've provided two bottles of cleaner and four rags for people to wipe down their machines with—for starters, that's a 1:12 rag-to-machine ratio. And for another, if my sense of smell is accurate—and trust me, it's accurate—the so-called 'cleaning solution' you've provided is a mix of bargain store dishsoap and water. That isn't sufficient to kill the majority of viruses potentially lurking on the equipment, and is the reason that public gyms are literal hotbeds for the staph infection. Not to mention the fact that half the people here don't bother cleaning their machines or spraying the rags, so everything is probably coated in half a dozen people's sweat by the end of the day anyway."

Kurt smiled on the inside as Glenn started shooting panicky looks around the gym. People were starting to stare, and his last comment had prompted several people to jerk their hands off of their machines.

Kurt loved an audience. He raised his voice just a little more.

"But since this is your gym, I'm sure you'll see to the problem personally," he commented, eyes wide and sparkling with false emotion. "And while you're at it," he added, "perhaps you can do something about some of the items for sale in that little pro shop you've set up behind the reception desk."

Kurt pointed toward the front of the gym, and was gratified to see several heads, Glenn's included, following his hand.

"You see Glenn," he said conspiratorially, "I happen to know that your yoga mats are the same ones sold at Walmart, and you've marked them up 50%. I know," he added, shaking his head sympathetically at Glenn's horrified look, "crazy that someone would remember something like that, right? I tried to block it out, but every detail of my last trip there is unfortunately seared into my memory. But that's not the worst part. Did you know that the company who produces the workout clothes you're selling—also massively overpriced, by the way—just recently came under fire for using sweatshop labor in third world countries?" Kurt laughed self deprecatingly. "What am I even saying, of course you know that—you watch the news!"

Glenn was starting to look a little sick. Kurt carefully constructed a look of concern. "Glenn, you're not looking too good. Maybe you should sit down and have some water," he advised. "I should tell you, though, that the water in your locker rooms has a dangerously high quantity of sulfur in it—nothing that will hurt you, of course, but it does smell unpleasantly of rotten eggs. But since it's your gym, I'm sure you'll do the right thing and get the filters replaced immediately. You could drink some bottled water instead; I noticed the pro shop selling some vitamin water. And zero calories! I'm a little wary about trusting the label though," he admitted, "since it also claims to provide the drinker with vitamins A, D, and K among others, and that's impossible—a zero calorie beverage is consequently fat free, meaning that the drinker couldn't possibly absorb fat soluble vitamins. But you know that, you're a trainer! Tell me, is your certification nationally accredited, or is it one of those in-house certifications that any moron who can't pass their GED can get in a five hour stint?"

By this time, Glenn looked shell-shocked and speechless, and the majority of the onlookers in the room were glaring at him with disapproval. Never one to overstay his welcome, Kurt glanced at the clock on the wall. "Will you look at the time," he said breezily, "I have to get going."

Reaching out, he gently plucked the remote from Glenn's hand and switched it back to What Not to Wear. "Here," he said kindly, "watch this. The uniforms at this place are atrocious, and not in any way form-flattering. Stacy and Clinton should be able to provide you with some tips and inspiration."

Patting Glenn on the shoulder, he smiled at the gathered crowd and headed toward the weight room to collect Finn.

Right before reaching the doorway, though, he turned around. "Perhaps you might want to only listen to Stacy, though," he conceded. "Clinton is kind of a fruitcake, and you've made it clear how you feel about that. On the other hand, he's got a fabulous career, a master's degree, and a $500,000 house, and you're making $28,000 a year correcting people's squat thrusts. Maybe you should be taking advice from him after all."

And with a toss of his hair, Kurt sauntered out of the room.