Okay, chapter two, here we go. (There's too much 30 Rock in here already, but I just can't help myself. Tina Fey is totally the foremost comedienne of our times.)
Some, none, or all of the things I put here may get expanded into longer fics with actual plotlines, I don't really know yet. More Kurt banter, yay!
"We want songs that are more us. So everyone, come up with a song that you feel expresses who you are. We have to have soul and emotion, not just doo-wopping and Blaine-power—("I resent that!")—shut up, Blaine."
"I know exactly what song I'll sing," Kurt said, a big smile on his face. "Don't Cha by the Pussycat Dolls. You know, don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…" He paused at the expressions on the Warblers' faces. "It's called verbal irony, guys. I was being sarcastic, since as Blaine has so kindly pointed out, I am not even remotely hot or sensual in any way." Kurt snickered as various Warblers glanced at each other, wondering what exactly that was supposed to mean. "What, you mean you didn't notice that my part in Animal mostly involved looking like I was in excruciating pain? Ach," he clicked his tongue, shaking his head at them, "you are so very inattentive. Fear not, I shall never try to be sexy again, lest my complete lack of hotness cause some kind of black hole of negative attraction." He smiled and clapped Blaine on the shoulder faux-comfortingly.
"Actually," Jeff said, "I think you're kinda hot, Kurt."
Kurt stared at him for a moment, tilting his head as though Jeff were a particularly diverting performing monkey. "Yeah, no you don't."
Wes cleared his throat meaningfully. "Anyway, if we want to win this Multi-Country Domicile of Breakfast Foods thing, which I, uh, guess we do—"
Nick and Jeff leapt to their feet. "Yes! We shall have the vouchers! They shall be ours! We must consume ALL THE WAFFLES!"
Wes soldiered on as though nothing had happened. "Yes, well, the rules say it's supposed to be emotional and heartfelt and express who we are, so let's get on that, people! Report back in a week."
Blaine started humming something that went I saw in the mirror my reflection
Staring back at me
I thought, will I ever find what I need?
But I'll wear the dress if you wear the tie only at this point Kurt interrupted, "I'd say that's more my song, wouldn't you agree, Blaine?"
"Hm? But I'm the one who—"
"Really, being lost and alone, only to eventually find what I need, (okay, fine, could be either of us), but since we're both male and I'm the only one who's actually worn a dress before, um, no, honey, that's not you." Kurt paused for a moment and winced theatrically. "Honey. God, I sound so camp."
"Um…" Blaine coughed and shifted. "Actually. I did."
Kurt raised an eyebrow experimentally. "Sounded camp?"
"No, wore a dress." He looked sheepish as Kurt managed to combine astounded, nonplussed, smug, and proud into a single expression. "I was five, okay? And I wanted to know what it was like."
"So I'm still the only one with a terminal case of fashion androgyny? Good to know."
Blaine shifted again.
"Well," he said, "I know it doesn't count, but most of my non-uniform wardrobe is suspenders, bowties and no socks."
Kurt made a valiant attempt not to break down laughing—or perhaps it was crying, it was difficult to tell. Regardless, he mostly managed to suffocate himself with his own tongue.
"I don't even," he choked out, "know why I'm friends with you. You tuck your shirts in too, I'll bet. Good god, my best friend is a seventy-year-old man in disguise. And here I thought you were so dapper!" The occasional (possibly mirthful) tear continued to make its watery way around Kurt's nearly-perfect nose to settle at the corner of his too-large-by-perhaps-a-fraction-of-a-centimeter mouth. "Someday I'll wake up and you'll have filled the commons with bowls of hard candy and put covers on all the chairs. Which you will then, ironically, wear out by dancing on them, creating a need for slipcovers to go over those slipcovers, and then it shall proceed like that forever until we all suffocate to death on quilty slipcover things and I won't even be able to say I told you so because all my teeth will have been broken by your disgusting candy."
"Fine," Blaine snapped, mostly jokingly. "I guess my song will be something like, I don't know," he waved his hands around for emphasis only to discover that he didn't actually have anything to emphasize.
Kurt blinked at him a bit. "I thought that the 'I don't know' was a rhetorical device rather than a legitimate expression of your feelings."
Blaine growled.
"I was going to say something sufficiently old-timey in such a way as to indicate my scathing disdain for the whole situation, but I couldn't think of anything!"
Kurt snickered. "Your verbal acumen never fails to astound me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go make sure I can still hit a high F."
"Why? You had one in Climb Ev'ry Mountain last week at that nursing home and you were fine."
Kurt rolled his eyes and would have said Duh, Blaine but monosyllables are the last defense of the weak-minded. "Yes, but your room is right next to mine, the walls are relatively thin, and I'm sure I'll need to practice right around, oh, five o'clock? You're not doing anything then, right?"
"You bitch, that's my 30 Rock time."
"I'm sure Tina Fey can live without you for one evening. And you're only in Season Two anyway, the boxed set isn't going to crumble to dust in the night."
"Huh. Well, see if I lend you Season Four the next time you want to look at Matt Damon in a pilot uniform."
"I guess I'll just have to look at you instead."
Wait for it…
"What?"