AN: Another long chapter. I was considering splitting in half again, but then I saw that it meant putting only three scenes in each part, and each half (at least the first) felt a tad empty alone. And here I thought from my outline that this would be a nice, breezy, short chapter! So you guys get another long 'un! Please keep the feedback coming; it's always nice to know someone is reading this, if not enjoying. :)

Kurt had to admit that he was at least… comfortable with being the center of attention. Of course, that was a good thing when one was stunningly gay in a small Midwest town; if you were going to get the attention anyway, you might as well enjoy it. Then, of course, there were the ambitions of performing; having a healthy ego was practically a requirement for that.

Still, as the "discussion," which was at least partly about him, raged in the choir room, Kurt couldn't help but wish that he could pull a Michelle Pfeiffer and just… disappear.

"Since when are you making executive decisions about the Bully Whips, Abrams?" Santana demanded.

"Don't be so territorial," Artie replied with annoying calm.

"What is there to be territorial about? You knew from the beginning that I'm a founder. I get to make the major decisions."

"That was when we figured you'd get bored and wander off after a month," Quinn said coldly. "But the Bully Whips is bigger than you now. It's bigger than all of us."

"Who asked you, Baby Mama?" Santana snapped. "As far as I can tell, nothing's changed. I'm still the founder…"

"One of the founders. And I still control all communications," Artie interrupted. "I think that should give me some say, don't you?"

Santana snorted. "What the fuck have you done lately? Most of your dispatches have been recordings for months!"

"Hey, I have classes too, you know. And the script I'm using didn't exactly write itself. I've worked hard for the Bully Whips, and I think it's pretty clear that I'm a key player now. A position that you put me in, Santana. I don't care why you did it, but you did, and I'm pulling what rank I have." With that, Artie turned to Kurt in just the way that Kurt had been praying to Yahweh and Odin and Bob that he wouldn't. "Your designation is Alpha One," Artie announced to all and sundry. "You are now our top escort priority. If your needs conflict with those of preexisting clients, I'll get permission to pull extra resources from classes."

Kurt tugged at his collar; why did it seem so warm all of a sudden? "Uh, you really don't have to..."

"We want to." Most of the rest of the room seemed to nod along with Artie.

"I'm flattered, but I'm not more important than your other clients..."

"You are," Sam said firmly. Again, the rest of the room didn't disagree.

The next question was out of his mouth before Kurt could even consider stopping it. "What about Blaine?"

The rest of the Glee Club exchanged looks of horror; obviously the question hadn't even occurred to them. "Well..." Artie began, "I can arrange the schedules so he's covering the opposite end of the school when you..."

"No!" Kurt burst out a little louder than he'd intended. Conscious of the stares he was getting, he stumbled on, making it even worse. "I mean, you don't need to... I know how hard it is to organize everyone... I don't mind if he has to escort me..."

"You don't?" asked Finn in a bewildered tone. Once more, the mood of those in the room seemed largely unified.

"I... I don't." Kurt's heart was starting to slow now; he found himself actually starting to think rationally. "Look, I came back because I trusted him when he said he'd changed. I have to follow through on that. If I avoid him now, I'll be declaring to everyone that I'm still afraid of him. He's one of your founders; what would that do to your reputation and your ability to protect your clients? Besides, I don't want to give him an opportunity or excuse to backslide." To Kurt's relief, some of the confusion in the room seemed to abate. Looks like they're buying it, he thought. Of course, the actual honest truth of why he was so insistent... even he wasn't 100% sure about it. He definitely didn't want to say a big part of it was to see what sort of effect Dave would have on him, but... Well, his grandmother always used to say "the truth will out."

"Okay..." Artie finally said reluctantly. "If you're sure..."

"Positive. I promise, if I have the slightest problem, you all will be the first to know."

Artie grinned and nodded. "Fair enough. So if there are no objections..."

"Objection right here," Santana snarled, waving her hands. "Not to protecting White RuPaul here, but to this little coup you're running..."

"Santana, stop being selfish." The addressed girl froze completely. Brittany got up from her seat and stood behind Artie, resting her hands on her boyfriend's shoulders, an act that in Santana's mind was pretty much equivalent to French kissing him while groping his crotch in front of a PTA meeting. "I thought you'd be happy we're protecting Kurt. Why are you being like this?"

Santana turned deathly pale. "I... I..." Her nerves jumped, her limbs twitched. She might have bolted from the choir room had Mr. Schuester not chosen that moment to enter and get their dance rehearsal for Nationals underway. As the group got into position, Santana did her best not to cast any glares in Artie's direction. Her stomach sank as she realized just how much worse she'd made things for herself. And now she had an entire late afternoon to brood about it while trying to learn moves she currently couldn't care less about. Something interesting had better happen during this rehearsal, she thought, or I'm going to go out of my fucking mind.

As it turned out, she didn't need to worry.

Dave stepped into the mall, the rush of cool air greeting him. Kurt had said that he wanted them to meet for a little fashion test at some of the stores, but there was something about the way he looked when he made the invitation that made Dave wonder. The building was full of shoppers, the murmur of a thousand blended conversations turning individually comprehensible words into a porridge of nonsense. As Dave walked by various individuals and groups, he could make out intelligible talk:

"Do you think I can fit in this? Maybe I should've thought of that before I bought it..."

"No, you cannot open it now. You wait until we get home or I'll take it away until..."

"Shit! Where the hell is my phone? I gotta check the text to make sure we're in place when..."

"I need a Pepsi. Can we swing by the food court?"

Dave couldn't help but think about the lives he was briefly nudging against before separating forever. Who knew what sort of interesting stories he was privy to for those brief moments? It was weird, he supposed, to be thinking about such a thing; perhaps it was because he knew what they were missing, and probably never noticing they were missing it, by not knowing what was going on in his life. Not that it was significant to them, or any more interesting than a million other people's lives, but it certainly had some twists and turns that Dave felt confident in judging as just a bit unusual.

Check that... As Dr. Macey pointed out to him many times, the things he was dealing with were, at its core, shit that people everywhere dealt with every day: fear, loneliness, guilt. Hell, hadn't he just recently pointed out to Anderson (it wasn't "Blaine" for him; they were still much too far apart for that - he tried not to think about Kurt's rather free use of that name) how much they were alike, in a sense? Hadn't he told Anderson that he wasn't alone? By necessity, that meant that he, Dave, wasn't either. Yeah, he knew it intellectually, when he thought about Wes and David and most especially Kurt, but did he really feel it, in his heart? That was a tougher question. And one he was determined to answer, for his sake if not Kurt's.

The crowd grew thicker as he approached the central atrium. Dave started scanning the shoppers looking for Kurt, nearly bumping into a woman and her child walking rapidly by, the adult's bag-laden arms barely holding onto the little girl's hand. "Sorry!" he managed to get out before they disappeared around the corner. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he should call Kurt to find out where he was, when he saw Puck walking by. Dave was opening his mouth to greet him when Puck hit a button on a set of music speaker/players standing rather incongruously by the escalators. A repetitive techno-like tune he didn't recognize began blasting through the mall.

Before Dave's mind could process this rather strange event, the theater of the absurd got even more so, as a double-line of young people rode the down escalator towards him, dancing along with the music. Right in the middle were Kurt and Rachel Berry; the latter was laughing in delighted shock. In moments, almost from the moment the group reached the bottom of the escalator, the two were surrounded by even more people peeling off from the crowd. Kurt ferried Rachel to the center of the atrium, where she was embraced by a double ring of dancers, amongst whom were way too many familiar faces to be any kind of coincidence.

Dave watched and listened, torn between utter confusion and laughter. What the fuck did Barbra Streisand have to do with any of this?

The song all too quickly ended with just Rachel and her fellow Glee Clubbers in the middle of the atrium. She hugged Kurt as the watching crowd burst into applause. As the two broke up their embrace, Kurt's eyes met Dave's; the former's eyes and face lit up in happiness in a way that never failed to tie Dave's stomach into all sorts of knots a dozen Boy Scouts could never untie. "Dave!" Kurt waved him over even as the audience and non-McKinley dancers dispersed. Rachel was now hugging Puck as their fellows offered more support and words of encouragement Dave couldn't hear over the surrounding tumult.

"Kurt!" Dave laughed. "Wh-what the fuck..."

"The power of the Internet. Can you believe we had all these strangers choreographed with just one text message? A challenge worthy of Edith Head when she was designing for A Place in the Sun."

"But what... what was...?"

"It's a long story. One I can tell you over lunch. Short version: Rachel needed a little support. Puck came to me, we arranged a flash mob. We wowed an entire mall. Curtain."

"I thought something was up." Dave's eyes twinkled. "And you didn't invite me to join in? I would've rocked that dance. Hell, I would've had all the lyrics to that song memorized before I even got here!"

There it was again: that flash of surprise coming over Kurt's face, as if his expectations were being defied. But that look seemed to becoming shorter and shorter each time, as if his expectations were beginning to shift. He laughed. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to see the look on your face when you walked into the middle of it. And my God, was it worth it! I made sure that Mercedes took pictures; you should see them on Facebook repeatedly in a few hours..."

Dave looked around with mock wildness. "Oh, so that's why she wasn't a part of it. What was her address again? I just want to... talk to her. Yeah, talk."

Kurt slapped his shoulder. "Quiet, you. Enjoy your public humiliation." He glanced over at the group of Glee Clubbers. "Can you excuse me for just a moment? Then you can buy me lunch while I fill you in. We can start the shopping afterward."

"No problem." Dave watched as Kurt left to approach his friends. He shook his head, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, trying to keep Kurt away from this, when it was so plain where he belonged. The old shame came over him again, which he quickly began pushing back on. He'd tried keeping Kurt at Dalton, but he'd failed, thank God, and that was in the past. It was done; nothing could change what happened, despite the time travel stories that Dave loved so much. The only thing that mattered now was how he dealt with it in the present, and how he'd keep himself from doing something so dumb in the future. Not to mention a whole lot of other things about the future that Dave found himself more and more determined each day to bring about.

On the other hand, Dave thought with a smile, Dalton might've kept Kurt a little saner. I mean, was it normal for a bunch of high school kids to start a flash mob set to music in the middle of a mall for a friend, for whatever reason? Then again, was it normal for an elite prep school to have a Glee Club that somehow managed to worm its way out of direct faculty supervision and shove canaries into its new members' hands? That was a comparison Dave wasn't entirely sure he'd win.

He returned his attention to Kurt's group. Among them was Santana Lopez; Dave couldn't help but wonder just how much she knew about her boyfriend. Kurt had told him what Anderson had said in their principal's office; that revelation sent his memory rocketing back to Sectionals, and that one odd conversation that was slowly becoming a little more comprehensible. Right now, however, she didn't seem like the confident, aggressive girl he'd met backstage. She was certainly putting up a good show, but Dave himself knew a thing or two about being emotionally guarded, and there was something there, something that was taking away a bit of the gleam in her eye and a bit of the smile on her lips.

Dave hoped that she had someone to help her, though given what he knew about the people in her life, he had no idea who that someone could possibly be...

"I need to punch something!"

"Santana?" Blaine's head snapped up from his book as she stormed into his bedroom without so much as a knock. He opened his mouth to ask her how she got into his house without him knowing, but a single look at her face killed the desire.

"Did I stutter, Brillo Head? I said, I literally need to punch something! Now, if you're volunteering..."

"Wait!" Blaine leaped to his feet. "I've got a better alternative!"

Both were standing in the "better alternative" in less than three minutes.

"A gym." Santana's voice was flat. "You have a gym in your fucking house."

Blaine shrugged. "My dad likes to keep in shape. Says it helps him with all those long plane trips and fancy meals he eats. Boo hoo, huh?" He showed his girlfriend a tall punching bag, briefly striking a sarcastic game show model-like pose. "Try this." Blaine plucked a pair of bag gloves from a nearby cabinet and handed it to Santana. "I think these should be around your size."

Santana stared at the bag in askance even as she pulled the gloves on. "You know, when I said I literally needed to punch something, I wasn't really being literal..."

"Go ahead. It'll make you feel better. I do it all the time; it really is a huge stress reliever. I think I would've gone batshit insane years ago if it weren't for this." A stillness between the two followed; Blaine almost began to wonder if time itself was catching its breath. "Try imagining someone's face on the bag, preferably not mine. Does that help?"

A wicked grin came over Santana's face. "Oh, yeah." She exploded with a sudden, vicious jab. Her gloved fist impacted with the muted bang of leather on leather, sending the bag jerking back, as if startled at her strength. Before it could recover, she let out another swing, forcing the bag to snap back even further.

Santana's strikes came faster and faster. Blaine watched with a critical eye; her punches were completely untrained, of course, with no sense or care for form, but that was natural, all things considered. Sweat began to trickle down Santana's face as she struck out with punch after punch, her teeth clenched; Blaine could imagine her knuckles as hard and white under the black gloves.

With every punch she threw, the speed of the next one increased, until, before Blaine knew it, Santana was covering the bag in a fusillade of blows. A scream of frustration and rage ripped out of her throat, startling her wide-eyed boyfriend into literally jumping back. Finally, she took one last blow, her right arm twisting far back and slamming into the punching bag with an impact that Blaine thought almost tore it from its moorings. For a long minute, Santana stood there, panting, her arms hanging like limp noodles at her sides. Her hair was mussed, the chest of her shirt dark with moisture, sweat running in rivulets like tears. Finally, she turned to Blaine with a weak smile.

"Thanks. I needed that."

"No shit," Blaine breathed. "I'm going to take a wild leap here and guess it had something to do with Brittany and/or Abrams?"

Santana could only respond with a nod; she didn't even bother to school her face into her usual disgusted sneer. It was as though she was simply too drained to do anything but stand, and even that was an obvious effort. Blaine gently led her to one of the weightlifting benches; she dropped gratefully into a seated position at once. "She actually took his side," she whispered.

Blaine paused; he felt as though he was taking his first step onto a minefield with nothing but a stick. An old stick that was stepped on by the OSU marching band and used to clean up dog poop. "What did you think she'd do?"

"I... I don't know. Why doesn't she love me?"

"Who says she doesn't?"

Santana turned on him with a glare; Blaine had to resist the urge to get up and run at that very moment. "If she did, she wouldn't be with him." Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and her face; her tears and her sweat had run together - it was impossible to tell which was which anymore. "I told her how I felt. And she still chose him. Why?"

"I don't know." Not only was it the safe response, it was the honest one. Blaine didn't quite know what to make of Brittany Pierce. She was an odd mix of book dumb and people smart, naive and ruthless, bubbly-sweet and a bitch on the same level as Quinn and Santana herself. He wasn't sure if she really was all those things all at once, or if her personality changed depending on who she was with. Either way, he himself had all sorts of opinions about loving someone like that, ones he wasn't about to share with Santana any time soon.

The thought startled him a little. I care. Fuck. Now I'm really screwed.

"I... What do we do now?" Santana asked despairingly.

Blaine reached around her shoulder, hugging her close. "What we do," he replied, "is get you elected Prom Queen. No sense giving up now, is there? Not when we've come all this way. And if we end up doing a little good along the way, so be it. You saw that audience at your concert, didn't you?"

"Yeah..." The reminder brought up all sorts of thoughts and feelings that Santana still wasn't sure she was equipped to deal with. Seeing all those people, all those grateful Bully Whips clients... Seeing them and knowing that she did that... It was the best thing she'd ever done in her life, maybe the best thing she'd ever do, and she started it to get a girl. She felt vaguely guilty about that, which was still more than she would've felt just a few months ago. Warm and fuzzy feelings. Fuck. Now I'm really screwed. She straightened her shoulders, sighing as she rose form the bench. "You're right. We have work to do."

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine snapped off a perfectly military salute.

"Hey, I like that. Keep that up. Maybe I'll make it policy for the others do it when we pass by in the halls." She started for the door, but stopped halfway there. Santana turned. "Blaine..."

"Yeah?"

Her face twitched, her lips pursed. "Nothing." She turned away.

Blaine nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "You're welcome."

Santana froze, but she quickly regained her composure and continued walking. "We still got a lot to do, Blaine. You'd better be able to keep up."

"Right behind you," he replied.

And he was.

Kurt was quite pleased at himself, and it wasn't just because of his triumphant return to McKinley. He was fully confident that he now had control back - control of himself and his own life, and damn if it didn't feel good.

It'd started on the Night of Neglect. He'd even amazed himself at how normally he treated and interacted with Dave after the two reunited, despite his mind churning, replaying that conversation in what seemed to be an infinite loop. Kurt was certain, certain, that Dave didn't suspect a thing, even now. Damn, Hummel, you are good! If they gave an Oscar for Best Illusion of Normalcy, you'd win for sure! After that, it just got easier to pretend, to be Kurt the unsuspecting friend, and not Kurt the Devastatingly Hopeful and Yet Hopelessly Confused.

Like now, for instance. It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and Dave was sitting on the living room couch (no "up in Kurt's room" for Dave, not since the aftermath of the RBHPTWE) finishing the last of Kurt's DVR'ed Style Channel shows for the week. Kurt remained impressed at how interested Dave presented himself as being (though he had a feeling that Dave's actual, genuine interest had been building with each viewing session, and that Dave himself may not have even realized this yet). But he was even more impressed at the way he didn't let on about the information that was currently on his computer screen upstairs, albeit hidden by the rather convenient Beyonce screen saver.

Ever since that little revelation before the Night of Neglect, Kurt had been keeping a close eye on the goings-on at Dalton. He felt like a bit of a creeper at first... No, that was inaccurate. He still felt like a bit of a creeper. However, if Dave was going to do anything else to fulfill his promise of change, Dalton was the next logical step after Blaine. Sure enough, in the bowels of the Dalton Academy website, he came across a page that, according to the time stamp information, had been created just a couple of weeks previous.

It was for the Dalton Academy Gay-Straight Alliance, formed in partnership with its sister organization at Crawford Country Day, "a true alliance of both schools and students of all sexualities." The listing of members included practically every, if not every, Warbler (Dave included, although his name was given no more emphasis or prominence than anyone else's), and an impressive array of other, unfamiliar names. He supposed that even in a place as apparently tolerant as Dalton, having a GSA couldn't hurt.

Now, Kurt was as certain as Jesse St. James was a douche that there hadn't been a GSA at Dalton while he was there. The page said nothing about when or how the GSA was formed, so a little test was in order, one that Kurt was unreasonably proud of. He caught David Thompson one evening on Facebook Chat and started a casual conversation. Kurt's own discussion with Blaine gave him a perfect excuse to bring up the GSA.

So I heard that Dalton has one too, Kurt had typed.

Yes, David had replied, though taking a lot longer than expected to write one three letter word.

Grinning evilly (why on Earth was he enjoying this so much? He would've been disturbed had he been not having so much fun), Kurt proceeded to the next, perfectly natural question. I don't remember there being one when I was there. It's a recent development, I assume? Who founded it?

This time, the wait was even longer. It took almost two minutes before the next words appeared in Kurt's chat window. I forget. Some new student, I think. Then, much too quickly to be casual: So how're you settling in back at McKinley?

And there it was. All the confirmation Kurt could possibly have asked for. Kurt mentally patted himself on the back for zeroing in on David as the one most likely to panic under direct questioning: loyal enough to his friends to take any promises made to them seriously, and probably unused to lying to people he liked.

Kurt was satisfied. He now knew beyond a reasonable doubt that a single particular person had been responsible for the interscholastic GSA, and what that single person had made his fellow students promise. After all, had not Kurt himself heard said person extract the same promise from someone else?

Kurt stole a look at Dave, who was still watching the TV. He wasn't 100% sure how Dave had concluded that this was what he had to do, but he could guess; Dave had once mentioned that his therapist said that he "lived in his own head" too much at times, which led to things like obsessing about the past and beating one's self up for no good reason. Besides, Kurt thought, how could doing something like this not improve one's self-esteem? In just his few days back at McKinley, Kurt himself had seen what founding the Bully Whips had done to Santana (although he was unsure if even she saw it yet), and her self-worth was hardly what one would call "damaged." And then there was the effect it seemed to have on Blaine Anderson...

Dave's trying. In a hundred little ways - and maybe a few big ones - he's trying. And it's... for me. Had anyone ever done something of that magnitude for him? His parents, who gave him life. The Glee Club, mostly as a collective unit. That was about all Kurt could come up with at the moment.

He almost had to slap himself to remember: there were still lingering issues, and it was too soon. Dave needed a little space to grow into what he was becoming, and Kurt was beginning to amply demonstrate just why Dave must have begged his friends not to let him into the loop. But really, who could blame him for being a little... fine, obsessed? Dave was actively fighting demons that had lived and thrived in his mind for who knows how long, and he's...

Talking. Startled, Kurt finally saw that the DVR had stopped its replay. Oh. I should probably start paying attention now.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Dave smiled a little, but repeated, "I said, you told me you were going to tell me about your latest Glee Club assignment...?"

"Oh! Right!" Kurt leaped to his feet, excited; he began describing the drama that had led up to Mr. Schue arranging the Lady Gaga performance. Dave sat on the couch, as if enraptured more by the speaker than by the words; Kurt tried very hard not to notice this. "...and we're wearing shirts that describe our flaws. So we can own them."

Dave nodded. "What's yours going to be?"

"I've already thought of it." He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it to his chest; two words in black Sharpie were written on it. "Ta da!"

There was a moment of silence. Kurt knew for a fact exactly what Dave was going to say next. This time, it wasn't really a surprise; Kurt had realized it himself not long ago, and knew he would've had the same question if their situations had been reversed. (Reversed... Dave Karofsky, the sensitive bullied gay kid, and Kurt Hummel, his private school friend with a painful past... It was a funny thing to think about.)

Sure enough, the words Kurt knew were coming emerged from Dave's lips, somewhat hesitant. "But Kurt... that's not a flaw."

"I know. It's just that... what else could I put? It is sort of the elephant in the room. Besides, I can choose to interpret the purpose of the shirt differently. I could have also approached it as something that I had to acknowledge about myself, or something I or others think is a flaw, but really isn't. That's where I'm going with this; I'm embracing something that the rest of the world perceives as a flaw."

Dave nodded slowly. "I think I see that," he said thoughtfully.

Kurt swallowed; was this really the time to ask this? Would it really be so bad if he never asked? Did he actually have to? "You... really don't mind Blaine escorting me as part of the Bully Whips?" Huh? When did I decide to actually say that? Bad brain! Bad!

Dave seemed startled at the sudden question, but soon nodded. "I don't. He... kinda needs someone like you. To keep him in line, I mean." He grinned. "And, well... If you trust him, then what choice do I have?"

Kurt halfway expected him to continue. "And I put myself in contact with him, someone I've hated for months, for your sake, so I know, like you do, that he may not be such a bad guy after all, if he could only overcome his own fear." But, of course, Dave didn't. So Kurt merely said, "Thanks. It... means a lot to me." That you're beginning to trust me to make my own decisions. That you're doing so much without expecting, or even hoping for, anything from me...

"No problem." He accompanied the casual statement with an equally casual shrug. Kurt's admiration was aroused once more, this time for Dave. He's just as good as I am at this whole deception thing. It's amazing to watch when it isn't directed at hiding something I actually need to know from me...

Funny how a single thought can splash cold water on one's soul. He hadn't intended to think such a thing, but he did. There it was: a single reminder of why both he and Dave needed to take the time. Stupid reality, he thought.

But then again: why not? Why couldn't he be patient? Dave was starting a laborious process of becoming the man he was truly meant to be; who was Kurt to stand in his way or try to hurry it along for his own selfish reasons? And didn't he now have the best of both worlds: the ability to sort out his own thoughts and feelings while still getting to watch Dave grow?

Kurt nodded to himself. His confidence restored, he sat back down on the couch. A good few feet separated the two, partly to keep a sense of personal space and partly to guard against the inevitable firestorm should his father happen to see them. But somehow, Kurt sensed that space would start getting narrower and narrower over time. "Well, you watched what I wanted you to watch, so it's your turn to decide on the movie this week."

Dave got a grin that chilled Kurt to the bone. "Excellent." He grabbed the remote and started flipping through the on demand menus. "There's this Japanese horror flick I read about online that I've been dying to see..."

"Am I going to need a blindfold and earmuffs?"

Dave shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "I think you've got the stomach for it."

"I can't wait," Kurt said wryly.

Blaine Anderson strolled out of the locker room, his Bully Whips suit neatly folded in his duffel bag. It had been another successful day, with few problems that needed to be dealt with - at least with bullies (he still hadn't been assigned to an escort with Kurt, though he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at that). When it came to his own girlfriend, well, that was another thing entirely.

The prom campaign season was in full swing. As he walked down the hall, mostly empty with the end of the school day over an hour gone, he examined the posters he passed by. There was one for Quinn and Hudson, right next to one of Lauren Zizes' "Lucy Caboosey" posters (he hadn't been surprised Lauren made that move, considering the two girls and their history, nor was he surprised when it seemed to backfire; he seriously doubted he and Quinn were the only people who reinvented themselves to become someone more popular). Speaking of Zizes, there was a poster for her and Puck, and right there was one for (surprise, surprise) Santana Lopez and Blaine Anderson. Both were photographed in their Bully Whips suits (Subtle, Lopez, he thought), standing back to back as they looked coolly at the camera. They cut a fine figure, of course; he expected nothing less. The polls provided by Jacob ben Israel, however, showed a much tighter race than Santana liked, which meant all sorts of yelling, followed by all sorts of orders, followed by all sorts of headaches for Roger Anderson's little boy.

Blaine sighed, rubbing his eyes as his duffel bag shifted on his shoulder. All he wanted to do was go home, maybe grab a nap, and just forget about...

"Hey."

Blaine almost fell over in surprise. Where the fuck did he come from? "Uh... hey, Chris." A pause. "What the fuck are you still doing here?"

Strando shrugged. "Was working out. Wanna make sure I'm still good enough for Beiste next year."

"Uh huh." He winced at all the doubt in those two short words; then again, when it came to his best friend Chris Strando, he'd long since lost a lot of the filter that he usually kept around most people. "So... what's up?"

Strando crossed his arms, looking at once comical and dead serious. "That's what I wanted to ask you."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, man, the other guys are talking." Blaine's gut turned to ice; he could already hear what they were probably saying. "Ever since this whole Bully Whips thing... I know Lopez is hot, and I know she puts out - that's what I've been telling the others. But now Hummel is back, and... Jesus, Blaine, what the fuck is going on? This is nothing like you..."

"Oh, yeah? And you know what I'm 'like,' huh?"

"Christ, man, of course I do. Me and the rest of the team have been your friends for fucking years now!"

And yet you still don't really know me... Then again, whose fault is that? At the same time, another part of him wondered: apart from Chris, who else on that goddamn football team who wasn't in the Glee Club would he actually consider friends? All of them, just a few months ago. But now? Whoever said "the truth hurts" sure knew what he was fucking talking about. "Right. And if you want to keep it that way, you'll stop asking me so many fucking stupid questions." Blaine winced inwardly; had he really just pulled the "I won't be your friend anymore" thing? What was he, eight?

His chagrin and guilt deepened at the hurt look that came over Strando's face. "Hey, man, I'm just asking. I mean, it's not just the Bully Whips. You... you've really changed a lot lately. The others have noticed too. And... I dunno... it's kind of freaking me out, y'know? When was the last time you hung out with anyone on the team? Do you even remember?"

"Of course I..." Blaine stopped, realization flooding over him, increasing the guilt. "I've been busy lately, Chris," he finished lamely.

"Too busy to answer my fucking texts and e-mails too." Strando began to glare. "If you think you're too good for us now that you got Lopez and your little Bully Whips, after we stuck our necks out for you dealing with the Glee Club, at least say so to our faces..."

"No! It's not that!" Memories ran through Blaine's head unbidden: the trips to Six Flags that summer after sixth grade, catching fireflies in his back yard, that hilariously disastrous double date with Jessica and Heidi during their freshman year. "Shit, man, you know we're friends."

"Hard to remember lately, dude," was the blunt reply. Almost immediately, Strando's face softened; Blaine had to wonder what his own expression had been. "Seriously, what the hell's up? You don't even have to tell me what's wrong; just at least say so if there is, so I got something to tell the guys the next time they ask me what's going on with you..."

Panic welled up in Blaine's chest. "Chris, I... gotta go. I'll text you later, I promise." He began walking rapidly down the hall.

"Blaine?"

"I'll talk to you later, I swear! I really gotta go!" The next thing he remembered, he was in his car. He was sniffling.

He hadn't been crying, though. Definitely not.

Dave wandered down the halls of McKinley, his memory of the route to the auditorium slowly returning. It was Kurt's first performance back with New Directions, so there was no way he was going to miss it, even with the land speed records he probably broke to make it in time.

As he entered, the auditorium was already half-full with chatting students. Not nearly as many as the Night of Neglect concert, of course, but still a healthy audience. Dave quietly slipped into an aisle seat just as the curtain rose.

Dave watched the performance in a bit of a daze. His eyes couldn't help follow Kurt as he strutted about the stage, LIKES BOYS emblazoned proudly on his chest. It was as though his ears were filtering out all the music; all he could hear was his heart pounding. The next thing he knew, the audience was applauding. Feeling foolish, Dave quickly joined in.

As people began filing out of the auditorium, Dave stepped into the stage left aisle, pressing his body against the wall to let others pass. He idly looked about; by sheer chance, he spotted Blaine and Santana. Huh, that's right; she wasn't performing. Wonder why...? She had a red jacket pulled tightly over her body, while Blaine had his arms crossed, his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. Both were staring at the now curtained stage, with strange expressions on their faces that Dave didn't dare speculate about. Finally, silently, the two got up and left out the back doors.

"Hey." Dave jumped; Kurt had teleported to his side, his face still shining with sweat. "Glad you could make it."

"Me too. You guys were great." You were great.

"Thanks. So you said you had a surprise for me...?"

"Well, kind of." Dave rubbed the back of his head, wondering for the thousandth time whether this was a good idea or not. He decided to commit himself before he chickened out. "I decided to get a shirt of my own."

"A shirt of your own? What do you...?" Kurt's face lit in comprehension. "Oh, really?" More than a little intrigue crept into his voice.

"Yeah. I was thinking about what you were saying about how maybe the shirts should maybe express something that I had to acknowledge about myself, or something I think is a flaw that really isn't, but I didn't mean it as an excuse or anything and I really hope it doesn't come off the wrong way, so..."

"Calm, Dave, calm." Kurt patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sure I'll take it in the spirit in which it was intended. Now show it to me before I kill you to relieve the suspense."

He nodded. "Okay." He loosened his Dalton tie and unbuttoned his white dress shirt as Kurt watched with an expression that was half-amused, half something else that Dave studiously ignored. Feeling foolishly like Superman, Dave pulled the open shirt apart, revealing the t-shirt underneath, and its message. Kurt stared. "Um... Kurt?"

Finally, the other boy nodded. "I think I see what you were getting at," he said softly.

"Yeah...?"

"And I like it." Kurt smiled gently. "Hell, maybe it should've been on all our shirts. It would've fit nicely." He paused. "I'm glad you're really thinking about this, Dave. I really am."

Dave sighed in relief. "Thanks. I... I'm trying."

"I know you are." God, do I know. "Come on, let's get some coffee."

"Okay. But remember, it's your turn to buy this week." Dave began buttoning up his shirt.

"Stop right there, Karofsky." Dave froze as Kurt smirked. "I think you should be showing off that shirt a little while longer."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"I never kid about something like this. This performance was about owning our so-called 'flaws', and since you went to the effort to join us, you have to reveal yourself along with the rest of us. And since you weren't on stage..."

Dave sighed in an exaggeratedly put-out huff. "Fine, if you insist."

"I do."

Grinning, the two left the auditorium - two teenage boys with large messages trumpeting something of themselves for the world to see.

LIKES BOYS

ONLY HUMAN